Quietness stole over the house as the storm continued to blow outside. Darkness had fallen on Williamsburg hours before, but the wind and rain had not died down. It blew around the eaves and rattled the windowpanes, like a thief trying to find entry. But I was safe, dry, and warm, sitting close to the hearth with Phyllis Wheatley’s book,Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral.
Mama had gone to bed at the same time as the girls, complaining of a sick headache. I hadn’t told her Henry was coming, though I wasn’t sure why. Part of me wanted the rare chanceto be alone with him. But that wouldn’t bother Mama. She often scoffed at the practice of chaperones, telling me that not only had she been free to be alone with gentlemen in the 1990s, but it was socially acceptable. She said women should be allowed to be their own masters.
It didn’t really matter what Mama thought, though. If anyone else knew that Henry and I were alone, the gossip would ruin my reputation and could affect our business.
But it was late and stormy. The chances of someone seeing Henry arrive or leave were minuscule. Besides, even if they did, they would have no way of knowing we were alone.
The real reason I didn’t want Mama to know was because I wasn’t sure of her feelings toward Henry. She had always liked him, but she was leery of him. Both for me and for our family. She had been hurt when his parents snubbed us and she lost her dearest friend, Henry’s mother. I was certain she worried I would be hurt by him too, but Henry could never hurt me.
The fire had started to dim, so I rose to put on another log and rearrange the embers. Smoke puffed out of the fireplace, and I fanned it away from my face with my hand. It burned my eyes, which were already tired from the late hour.
It was past midnight. If I went to sleep now, I would return to 1914. I had almost forgotten my troubles with Lord Cumberland in the rush of today’s excitement. If he arrived at the townhouse in the morning, as I was certain he would, Mother would set in motion a betrothal. No matter what happened, I would not agree to marry him, and she would have to suffer the consequences. I had told her what I intended to do, and she should not be surprised.
My dogged determination gave me reason to hope, but I usually felt most confident about my path in 1914 when I was in 1774. As soon as I opened my eyes in the townhouse on Berkeley Square, I would probably be a puddle of nerves and uncertainty again.
A light rapping noise at the front door made my heart do a little flip.
Henry.
I left the sitting room and entered the hall to open the door, all thoughts of 1914 slipping away.
He stood with his hat under his arm, his blue overcoat speckled with rain spots, a myriad of emotions playing behind his eyes. “Good evening, Libby.”
“Good evening.” I opened the door wider. “Come in out of the rain.”
He entered the dim hallway. “I hope ’tis not too late. I almost went home—but I didn’t want to break my promise.”
“Nay.” I closed the door to the storm and moved around him, conscious of his nearness, and entered the sitting room. “I would have waited all night.”
He followed me, and his gaze swept the sitting room. “Are we alone?”
My heart was still pounding a bit too hard. “Mama had a sick headache and went to bed hours ago.”
He was serious as he regarded me. “Would you prefer I leave?”
I shook my head. “I would prefer you stay.”
“Does your mother know I am here?”
I clasped my hands as I glanced behind me, toward the hall and the stairs that led up to our bedchambers. “Nay.” I looked back at him, afraid he would be a gentleman and leave. “But she wouldn’t mind.”
He gave me a look that suggested he didn’t believe me.
I closed the door, hoping not to wake Mama or the girls. The shutters were closed, and the only light in the room came from the hearth. It offered a soft and intimate glow.
“Are you not afraid to be alone with me, Libby?” His voice was low, and his presence overwhelmed me in the most delightful way, filling up every corner of both the room and my heart.
In answer to his question, I moved across the room andpulled a chair up beside the one I had used earlier. He did not move out of my way but allowed me to draw close to him, close enough to smell the scents that were uniquely his. Without facing him, I said, “I could never be afraid of you.”
He did not speak for a moment, and I could not seem to form a coherent thought with him this close. He had always been a gentleman, never overstepping the bounds of propriety—but for once I wished he would. My heart was so raw from what I was experiencing in 1914, and I longed to be loved—truly loved—by someone who valued me for who I was. Henry understood me, as much as he could, and had always taken pleasure in my company. We were like-minded in all the ways that mattered, and he had no wish to change me.
“’Tis glad I am to hear it,” he said quietly.
I turned my head and met his clear, steady gaze. I wished I knew what he was thinking. I longed for him to give me a sign that he cared for me, even a little. I could see yearning in his eyes—at least, I believed I could. There was a connection and a bond between us that I did not feel with anyone else. Surely that meant something.
A sad smile lifted his lips as he motioned to the chair. “’Tis getting late. I should tell you what I’ve come to say.”
If there was ever a time Henry would share his heart with me, surely it would be now, while we were alone. Yet he took a step away from the chairs so I could move around them and take a seat. I tried not to feel frustrated or disappointed.
