Oliver let himself, for a moment, imagine thedarlingwas for him.
He got into the carriage and when it turned at the end of the drive and he dared look back, he saw Henrietta still standing out in the cold, Nathaniel held on her hip, her other arm aboveher head, sweeping back and forth in large arcs like she was a castaway hailing a passing ship.
Over the next three weeks, a waking hour did not go by in which he didn’t conjure the feel of her body against his, the sound of his name on her lips, the sight of her holding his son and waving farewell to him.
These reveries made him hurry through his meetings surrounding the shipping interests and the brewery left to him by his deceased father. The unexpected expiry of Mr. Oliver Hartwell’s ataraxy likely provoked some head-scratching among his solicitors and men of business. He was impatient, short-tempered, demanding. Issues must be resolved immediately, and the new contracts written out and signed without delay. He could not linger. The new year was much too distant. He must be back at Crossthwaite by Christmas Day.
On the morning of his last day in London, he finally took out Henrietta’s list. He had held the shopping back as a treat for himself, looking forward to spending uninterrupted hours thinking of her, searching out and procuring things she wanted for herself. He expected the list to include some bolts of cloth to be made into dresses at a future time. Would she describe exactly what she wanted, or would she leave the color and pattern of the fabric to his taste? Would she want some luxurious, scented soap or expensive perfume? Ribbons or threads for her embroidery? Would she allow him the latitude to select a bonnet for her? Might a husband be allowed to purchase stockings for his wife?
But when he unfolded the list, he found:
Top, brightly colored. Red or yellow?
Ball, a good sized one, for you and N. to throw about and kick.
Bilbocatch.
Hobbyhorse, if not too dear.
Shuttlecock/Battledores.
Books (simple) about insects, butterflies, spiders, worms, &c (with illustrated plates, please) for you to read to N. (again, if not too dear).
His hand swept over the foolscap, smoothing it, over and over. For an hour, he sat and smoothed the piece of paper. He considered the list. He considered his son. He considered his own miserable and half-hearted efforts at paternity. And, most of all, he considered Henrietta, his polestar, and how she was showing him the path forward in the kindest way possible.
The path of play.
Finally, he folded the page, tucked it into the tailcoat pocket closest to his heart, and set out, determined to get everything on the list and a few more things, besides.
When he disembarked in front of Crossthwaite on Christmas Eve, his legs stiff and creaking from too many days in his carriage without respite, the front door banged open and Henrietta ran out.
He was ready for her. He held his arms open and she ran into them.
“You’re home! Welcome home, Oliver,” she said into his chest.
