Her future husband broke into her thoughts. “You should be addressed how you wish to be addressed.”
“If it doesn’t bother you, I wish to be Mrs. Hartwell, Oliver,” she said slowly, savoring his name, loving how thevmade her upper teeth touch her lower lip for just a moment. “And you must call me by my given name.”
“Henrietta.”
“Yes.” She smiled, feeling a bit better. “Yes, I like that very much. What do you want your son to call me?”
“Nathaniel is three years of age.”
She laughed. “He must call me something.”
“Whatever you prefer.”
“Perhaps Nathaniel might come to call me Mama?”
His face became granite, his voice harsh. “No. Not that. You are not his mother.”
Oafish, blundering Henrietta. She had overstepped. “Of course. Yes.”
“I do not expect you to mother Nathaniel. You have no obligation towards him. You are only sixteen years older than he is. You could be . . .”
Had he been about to saysister and brother? And he could be her father? Henrietta already had a father; she didn’t want another one.
She took a deep breath. This was of the utmost importance, and she must say it now.
“I will be married to Nathaniel’s father. Of course, I have an obligation to your child.”
And to be a stepmother would besomething.
He nodded once—a reluctant concession, she thought—but said nothing. Even after all these years, his face was still unreadable to her. What was he thinking?
If only she could come to know his thoughts, then she might learn what made him happy. And then she could do or arrange or be whatever that was. She could become of value to him that way.
That was it. She must solve the mystery that was Mr. Oliver Hartwell. After all, she would have endless opportunities now. No more waiting outside her father’s study, sneaking glances at a dark curl. She would have so much time to discover . . . him.
Like her mother, she would make a thorough study of the subject and unravel it, bit by bit, until it became clear. But, unlike her mother, Henrietta’s subject would not be Bede orBeowulfor Brunanburh. It would be her husband.
Part Two
A Study in Oliver
Seven
The Lake District.
Henrietta had not been able to stop herself from gasping and cooing and exclaiming in admiration at the passing scenery as they came closer and closer to their destination.
What a beautiful place. All lakes and green fields and hills and mountains. No, hills and mountains weren’t right. They were fells, Oliver had said. And the lakes were meres.
From time to time, she looked over at him to see if she was bothering him with her outbursts. She was studying him, as she had promised herself she would.
But Oliver did not appear irritated. True, she had not even known hecouldbe irritated until yesterday when she had seen a bit of temper—a raised voice, the twitch of a muscle in his jaw, his eyebrows in a darkV—when he thought one of the ostlers at an inn was not gentle enough in his handling of Zephyr.
It had delighted her.
But there was no evidence of disapproval at the moment. True, it was too much to hope for him to smile back at her, but his gray eyes were calm and peaceful.
“This place is lovely,” she ventured.
