A knock sounded at the bedchamber door, and Hettie absently called out to the intruder whilst scratching out the final words of her sentence.
A maid stepped inside with a bob and said, “Madam, you have a visitor.”
Hettie frowned and glanced at the small pocket watch resting on the edge of her desk. “At this hour?”
Moving forward, Sally handed over a calling card from Mr. H. Baxter. “I told him the family is out, but he said he needed to speak with you. Urgently.”
Rising to her feet, she brushed her skirts down and raised a hand to her hair, stopping just shy of touching it when she spied the ink staining her fingers. With a quick swipe of her handkerchief, she cleaned her hands while her thoughts whirled about, trying to decipher the reason for this visit. Thank heavens she was still dressed, though her afternoon gown was hardly fit to be seen in the evening.
With a final glance at the looking glass, Hettie swept out of the room, following after Sally. The pair walked quietly to the parlor, and once she stepped inside, the maid closed the door behind her, leaving Hettie alone with Mr. Baxter. Despite being in her fifties and well past the age when chaperones were required, she couldn’t help but feel a little discomposed. Which was ridiculous; no one could conceive of a gentleman having designs on an aged spinster, making such strictures unnecessary.
Hettie gave herself a mental shake, barely containing the eye-roll she wished to direct at herself. Meanwhile, Mr. Baxter stood by the fireplace like a statue, staring at her as she spent far too much time lost in her thoughts.
“Good evening, Mr. Baxter,” she said, motioning toward the sofa as she took a seat opposite. But the gentleman didn’t move from his place. His hands were tucked behind him, and as she took in the whole of him, Hettie couldn’t help but fidget in her seat; he was dressed in the finest, looking the best she’d ever seen him, which made her plain muslin gown seem all the poorer.
Cocking her head ever so slightly, she studied him for a moment, and though she couldn’t put her finger on the source, there was something odd about his appearance. More than simply outshining her.
“Good evening, Miss Stillwell,” he replied, but Mr. Baxter did not move to sit or speak further.
“Is something amiss?” she asked, her brows pulling tight together.
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. Then he paused and amended. “Yes. No. Nothing is amiss per se.” Shifting in place, Mr. Baxter cleared his throat as his gaze darted about the room. “I—You—This afternoon—”
Had the gentleman managed more than two words together, perhaps Hettie might’ve understood him, but as he strung seemingly random words into a sentence, she found herself quite unable to discern his meaning.
“Peace, Mr. Baxter,” she said with a slight laugh. The gentleman’s gaze snapped to her and then away again as he continued to fidget. “Come, sit, and tell me what has you so overwrought this evening.”
Hettie patted the seat beside her, and though she had anticipated a touch more coaxing, Mr. Baxter did as bidden and slid onto the sofa cushion beside her. The movement forced his hands to the front, revealing a narrow paper box. Pushing it toward her, Mr. Baxter stared at Hettie until she opened it to find a selection of the most beautiful marzipan shaped in a variety of blossoms.
“I wanted to bring you flowers, but they are difficult to find this time of year,” he mumbled. “But there is a sweet shop down by the theater that is still open, and you said you love marzipan.”
Blinking at the array of sweets that looked like a veritable garden, she tried to recall when she might’ve said that, but their conversations were far too varied.
“I do love marzipan—” Reaching into the box, she freed a single lemon drop nestled among the confectionaries. With a wide smile, she turned to say something to Mr. Baxter, though the minute she met his eyes, all words fled her. It was the gaze of a starving man upon spying a feast, his gaze boring into hers with such want and need that it felt as though he had swept her into his arms.
“I care for you, Miss Stillwell. Deeply.”
Chapter 13
The words were blunt but no less beautiful for their brevity. The edges of the box bent beneath her fingers, and Hettie forced herself to relax her hold, though she couldn’t muster the same control over her breathing. It felt as though her heart were beating against her ribs, threatening to burst if she didn’t let it fly free.
Matters weren’t helped when Mr. Baxter continued, “I don’t know how to go about this precisely, as you are far beyond the age of requiring consent, so I will simply say that I want to court you. What are your thoughts?”
Hettie’s jaw slackened as she stared at him. Perhaps she ought to have foreseen that confession, given what had preceded it, but hearing him speak the words proved far too surprising for her to comprehend them. And hadn’t she just finished convincing herself that this was far from his mind?
Her eyelids started blinking rapidly once more, and her gaze drifted from his face. In an odd turn of clarity, her jumbled thoughts realized the difference in his appearance today. Mr. Baxter had forgone the black band on his arm, leaving the line of his green jacket untouched.
“Your mourning?” she murmured. It was not foremost on her thoughts, yet she couldn’t help but ask—though Hettie regretted it the moment the words left her lips.
Mr. Baxter shifted in his seat, his gaze dropping to the ground in that beaten posture he so often employed. Impulse pulled her hand forward, and she rested it on his forearm with a gentle squeeze.
“I didn't mean it as a condemnation,” she said. “I am merely surprised—”
“I did not love my wife.” Mr. Baxter winced at the words, his head lowering. He shifted as though to leave, but Hettie held him in place. With effort, he swallowed, though he did not meet her gaze as he continued, “I may have felt some inkling of it when we were courting, but that was mostly infatuation and died quickly after our marriage.”
Swallowing, though it seemed to take him a few tries, Mr. Baxter added, “I have worn the mourning colors out of respect for her, but it is nothing but a lie. I do not lament the loss.”
Mr. Baxter jerked to his feet and strode back to the fireplace. “No doubt, you think it’s disgusting that a man would say such a thing, and believe you me, I hate myself for it. I tried to love her. I did. And I tried to feel sorrow at her passing, but she was not a…kind lady.”
