Later, he was pleased to see the dinner table boasted more dishes than it had the night before, and Henrietta again ate well.
But she asked about Nathaniel. When he had first walked, first spoken. What he liked to do. Where and when and how he took his meals. And what did the doctor say about his health?
Oliver was embarrassed how little he knew about his son. Distress crept over him. He didn’t need this girl-wife to point out what an inadequate father he was. He knew it already.
He was vastly relieved when the meal was over. He stood, and she looked up.
“Oh, won’t you have pudding?”
Her expression was distraught, her voice pleading, her strong emotion incongruous with the subject matter of her request.
He sat. If it was important to her, it was important to him.
“I will stay while you eat your pudding.”
“You won’t have any?”
“A small portion,” he told Pearson.
He didn’t even look at what was put in front of him. Out of a desire to please his new wife, he took a bite of something he didn’t want. But as the rich creaminess spread across his tongue, he looked at the plate.
This was a custard of the same ilk he was always served at Bexton Manor.
Exactly the same.
Henrietta must have gotten the receipt from the Bexton Manor cook and given it to Mrs. Nixon.
“This is very good,” he said, clicking his spoon against the plate. He turned to Pearson. “I’ll have another bit, I think. A big bit.”
He couldn’t help but notice Henrietta watching him eat every spoonful.
“Tell me, Henrietta.” He paused. It was the first time he had ever addressed her without the attachedLady, and he saw her take note of it. A small swallow, a bit more pink in her cheeks. “Tell me, do you like flowers?”
Nine
October. 1817.
In only a month, Crossthwaite had changed.
Oliver no longer ate alone, unless he chose to. But he never chose to, even coming back to the house at midday to join Henrietta for luncheon, a meal he had never made a habit of eating before.
There was more noise about the house now. Henrietta gaily talking to the servants, running up and down the stairs, humming to herself as she tended to some task, coaxing Nathaniel into a game or a song or a walk.
And, every few days, there was custard.
Henrietta gave up the pretense of reading in the evenings. Instead, she plied her needle. He saw her squinting, trying to angle her hoop towards the fire. He got up and moved a small table to one of her elbows and lit and placed an additional lamp.
“Oh, thank you,” she said, looking up at him with shining eyes and a wide smile, far too grateful for something that had only taken him a few moments. He must do more for her.
“You have given up reading,” he observed as he took his seat again.
“I’ve never been much of a reader, but I wanted to sit with you, so I made do with a book. But Lucy brought my embroidery with the rest of my things, so I have it now.”
Shewantedto sit with him. She wanted to sit withhim. He ignored the knot that had just tied itself around his heart and squeezed. Instead, he said stiffly, “You must always tell me if there is something you want or need.”
“Oh. Yes. But I have it now.” She flourished her hoop at him. “I hope you don’t think it silly.”
“Silly?”
