“It’s not so improper,” ventured Mr. Fisk, “for a husband to make certain his wife will be provided for when he is away.”
“But he will not be my husband,” said Willow, “not really—not in the way you suppose. And Aunt Mary is family to me, this is true, but she will also be my employer. I’ve told her by letter than Cassin and I had ‘an arrangement’ but that he would not be part of our lives. What impression is left when he turns up to pass judgment on her home and occupation? After she’s already been so generous, taking me in—and my friends too?” She made the palm-up gesture ofwhy. In her peripheral vision, she saw Perry’s newly pinned ribbon quiver and toss, cascading from her head like a purple waterfall.
Willow snapped, “Absolutely not, Perry. I resemble a kite.”
“But this is the way all the ladies will be wearing their hair in London.” Perry rummaged in her basket again and produced a fashion plate.
“I don’t care about all the ladies in London. Either cut the ribbons, or take them out.” She gathered the loose ends in two hands and began to pull.
“No, you mustn’t pull, my lady!” pleaded Perry, rummaging again. “I will cut them to your shoulders, but no shorter.”
The carriage hit a rut in the road, and the three of them were jolted with a shout. The tangled end of the uncut ribbon flew from the seat and unraveled into flying burgundy tentacles. Perry dropped the scissors and they stuck, points down, into the floorboard of the carriage. The maid screamed, diving for the scissors, while Mr. Fisk held his hat out the window, shaking off more rainwater.
Willow closed her eyes, trying to imagine the conversation between her aunt and Cassin.
“It is natural to be riddled with a few troublesome nerves on your wedding day, my lady,” said Mr. Fisk.
“I’m not nervous,” said Willow, not opening her eyes. “I’m . . . I’m . . . losing control. He made no mention of a call to Belgravia. He barely told me he would leave Surrey.”
But then she did open one eye and looked at Mr. Fisk over Perry’s head. For once the maid was wisely silent, carefully trimming the ribbons. “Were you nervous, Mr. Fisk, on your wedding day?” she asked.
Mr. Fisk looked wistful. “Oh, not a bit, my lady. But I have it on good authority that Mrs. Fisk was eaten up with nerves.” He winked, and Willow laughed. Mrs. Fisk had been a verbose, jovial woman who hadn’t the slightest proclivity for nervousness.
“I am glad that you’ve made it back in time for the ceremony. Even if it isn’t a real wedding.”
Mr. Fisk looked at the passing parkland outside the window. “Oh, are we ever truly certain what is real and what is not?” He looked back at Willow. “You haven’t forgotten what I said to you the day when you and I became such good friends, have you, my lady?”
Wordlessly, Willow shook her head—no, she hadn’t forgotten.
She had been eight years old and finally permitted out of bed after months of battling the illness that nearly killed her. Although the infection had gone, the doctor’s visits had not, and she’d just learned from a new doctor about the future limitations of her body.
Willow had passed a week thinking about the new term,barren, and what it would mean. She thought about why the doctor had been so very grave when he’d explained it and why her mother had refused to discuss it. On the seventh day out of bed, she had requested that a large, empty trunk be delivered to the nursery, where she studied her lessons and played.
Two footmen promptly complied, and Willow had carefully, tearfully begun to pack up her vast collection of beloved baby dolls and doll dresses, their small cradles and prams. Carefully, stoically, she laid their pliable bodies into the trunk, arranged their copious curls and braids, so similar to her own, and tried not to look at their pert faces and long-lashed, unblinking eyes.
Before she’d finished the task, her father’s valet—cold, brittle Mr. Fisk—had strode down the corridor just outside the door. She had been mortified to be discovered by a servant in such a private moment, but when she saw that it was only Mr. Fisk—the most aloof and dismissive of Leland Park’s staff—she had assumed he would not notice her and would carry on.
To her great horror, he had not carried on; instead, she’d heard his footsteps stop, pivot, and return to the nursery door. Willow had wiped her eyes and held her breath, praying that he would not address her.
“And what are your plans for this lot, my lady?” he had asked, his voice surprisingly gentle, from the doorway.
Willow had looked up, and he had smiled, perhaps his first ever smile for her. For some reason, Willow had found herself wanting to answer that smile.
“No plans, Mr. Fisk,” she had said. “I’m packing them away. Perhaps Abbott can send them to another girl who might enjoy them.”
“Butyouenjoy them, don’t you, my lady? Why should you send them away?”
Willow had sat back on her heels and considered him. His voice was kinder than she had remembered. And certainly he showed more interest in her than anyone else in the household, her parents included. Finally she had said, “Oh, but perhaps you don’t know. I’ve only just learned. The doctor says that I was so very sick that my body will never be able to make a baby. When I’m older. That part of me is broken. This is what the doctors say.”
“Perhaps I did hear something about it,” Mr. Fisk had said. He had paused then, and Willow remembered wanting desperately to hear what else he might say on the matter. He lingered a moment more, looking as if he could not decide whether he should come in or go out. Finally, he’d taken a step inside the nursery. “But I don’t rightly see how your sickness has anything to do with these dollies,” he had said.
“Well, I thought,” she had said, “why should I play with dolls if I will not one day grow up to be a mother? Or to have a family of my own?”
“Because it is a jolly fun thing to do, isn’t it?” Mr. Fisk had answered. “There is fun in make-believe, Lady Willow.”
And Willow had said, “No, Mr. Fisk. There is not. Not to me. Make-believe for something that will not happen is no fun at all. And that is why I shall pack away these dolls and discover something else I might do. Instead of being a mother.”
And then—Willow would never forget what came next—Mr. Fisk had not objected again. Instead, he’d said, “Very well, my lady. If that is what you wish. And I shall help you. I will even tell Abbott to send these to another young lady who might enjoy them, just as you have suggested.
