A Dance in Moonlight (The Fitzhugh Trilogy) (7 page)

WHEN MRS. ENGLEWOOD’S BREATHS had become soft and even, he lifted her into his arms.

“Careful, old widower,” she mumbled, her words slow and sleepy.

“Ha,” he countered. “This grandpa still has a spring in his step.”

He carried her into the house, up the stairs, and back into her bedroom. She thanked him indistinctly as he set her down on the bed. He took off her slippers, straightened the hem of her nightgown, and covered her with a blanket.

She sighed softly and slept on.

Light from the oil lamp still flickered. Her hair had tumbled loose in the course of the evening. Now midnight black strands of it streaked across the pillow.

But as he looked closer, he realized that not every strand of her hair was the same vibrant raven hue. His dear Mrs. Englewood had a few white hairs that gleamed silver in the lamplight.

He wondered if premature graying ran in her family. If by the time she was forty, she would have a head of snow-white hair.

He wanted to see it. He wanted to be the one to brush her hair and jokingly count her last few remaining black strands. And then to kiss her upon her silver head.

“Come back,” he murmured. “And soon.”

Chapter Five

IN THE MORNING, IT TOOK ISABELLE a minute to realize where she was.

She yawned, sat up, and walked about. The house was empty, Mr. Fitzwilliam nowhere to be seen. And he was thorough in removing the evidence of his presence: The wine bottle, wine glasses and corkscrew had all been removed, as well as his hand candle. Even that consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would be hard pressed to conclude that anyone other than Isabelle had been in the house the previous night.

What of their rapport? Had it too wilted in the harsh light of the day? The next time she saw Mr. Fitzwilliam, if she ever did, would she be obliged to pretend that theirs was the most incidental of acquaintances, rather than the sublime friendship it had been, however briefly?

She sat on the swing seat for a few minutes, gazing at the rowan. Its season of flowering had passed; now hundreds of clusters of berries hung from the branches, some still pale gold, others already turning a riotous red.

Slowly she returned to the house. Just as slowly, she made her way upstairs. But as she reentered the bedroom to gather her belongings, she saw an envelope addressed to her on the nightstand. She snatched it up and tore the seal.

My Dear Mrs. Englewood,

I hope you have slept well. And I hope now that you have awakened, you still think upon last night with as much wonder and fondness as I do. If not, allow me to assure you that I will have exited Doyle’s Grange with the utmost care and will not speak a word of our friendship to anyone.

But if you do not regret our hours together, I shall be delighted to hear from you, as frequently as you’d care to write, and follow your progress through the sometimes treacherous shoals of life.

Your devoted servant,

Ralston Fitzwilliam

P.S. You may post your letters to Stanton House, Up Aubry, and they will reach me anywhere.

P.P.S. As an inducement, I dangle before you the late Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s comment on Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s cottage.

She touched his letter to her cheek and smiled. So it
was
reciprocal, this camaraderie of theirs, and not a figment of her imagination.

She hummed those most famous bars of
The Blue Danube,
twirled about the room, and began packing.

TWENTY MILES AWAY, at the manor in Henley Park, Lord Fitzhugh, Fitz to his friends, gazed down on his sleeping wife, who, presently, without opening her eyes, reached up and rubbed the palm of her hand against his stubbles.

“You haven’t gone for your ride?” she murmured.

He loved the sight of her unbound hair. For so long he’d only seen her hair properly coiffed. The sensuality of her hair—of her person—was still a revelation. “I can’t tear myself away from you.”

She was trying not to smile too widely, holding on to her bottom lip with her teeth. “Exactly what an old married lady wants to hear from her husband when she wakes up in the morning.”

She was only twenty-four years of age. And although they’d been married since she was sixteen, they had not consummated their marriage until recently. The consummation had made a difference, naturally. But the real difference had been made through almost eight years of affection, friendship, and common purpose.

He had loved her long before he realized he had also fallen in love in with her.

Now she opened her eyes and regarded him teasingly. “Get up, sir. You are the master of this house, sir. Duties await.”

He was a most dutiful man, but on the first day of the rest of their lives, he was not about to let drainage, roofing, or factory reports get in the way. “And duties can wait a little longer.”

She twirled a strand of her hair and peered at him from beneath her eyelashes. “Oh, so you mean it is time for
marital
duties again?”

“It is always time for marital duties around here,” he teased her back, enjoying the flush in her cheeks. “But actually, my dear, I propose to whisk you away on holiday—a proper honeymoon.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? Where?”

“Shall we go back to Italy?” They’d once had a lovely, if platonic holiday on Lake Como.

“We should. But we can’t afford to be gone that long—the Season isn’t finished and we still have to chaperone your sister.”

“In that case, how about a quick jaunt to the Lake District?” They’d spent several weeks there after their wedding, but they’d been strangers with almost nothing to say to each other. “This time I will be a most solicitous bridegroom.”

She wrapped her arms about him. “Yes, I adore the idea.”

Then, after a moment, “I only wish Mrs. Englewood can be as happy as we are.”

Another woman would little concern herself with the happiness of a rival who almost made away with her husband, but Millie, he knew, had always felt guilty for the pain she had caused Isabelle, even though she herself had never had a say in the selection of her bridegroom.

“Hastings has promised to write her every other day. I cabled her sister yesterday, asking her to keep me informed of Mrs. Englewood’s welfare.” He wanted the very same, a sunny future for Isabelle, but there wasn’t much more he could do now without making an intrusive nuisance of himself.

Millie sighed softly. “In that case, let me begin packing.”

“Later,” he said, pulling away the sheets that covered her person. “Marital duties first.”

“Yes, of course.” She wrapped one leg about his middle. “Marital duties always come first.”

MY DEAR MR. FITZWILLIAM,

I was not so drunk last night as to wake up this morning with rue and self-loathing. In fact, though the sight of the bright sun streaming into the house reminded me anew of the hopes I’d nurtured as little as twenty-four hours ago, I am in far less despair than I could have believed as little as twelve hours ago.

I am grateful for your kindness and friendship, sir. And I can only hope that I will not flood your desk too liberally with missives. For in my relentless need to hold on to everything old, I have forgotten the joy of making new friends. And a friend of your caliber—I could live another fifty years and encounter none finer.

Yours,

Isabelle Englewood

P.S. I anxiously await the disclosure of Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s very private message.

P.P.S. Am about to detrain in Aberdeen. The thought of holding my children in my arms again warms me. You, sir, I hold firmly in my affection and my esteem.

P.P.P.S. I would have posted this from the rail station itself, but I was met by my sister and our five children—what joy! In addition, the sight of my twin nieces made me realize that I still had a few more words to write. Namely that except for the very first time I met them, I have never mistaken the twins for each other. Despite their almost disorienting resemblance, each girl is resolutely her own person.

My Dear Mrs. Englewood,

I take pleasure in your reunion with your children. And I rejoice in your compliment. It is decided then: We are friends and nothing shall stand in the way of our friendship.

Your mysterious comings and goings have become a topic of much interest in the vicinity. I have disavowed any knowledge of your schedule or your intentions. Not as easy a feat as I first imagined: I was interrogated by Mrs. Beauregard, proprietress of the farm next to Doyle’s Grange who saw me out of her window, making my way to my house, when she got up for a glass of water in the middle of the night. Rest assured, however, I divulged nothing. On the other hand, now I have a reputation for sleepwalking. All in your honor, lady!

I hope you find Scotland fair and the company of all the children bracing.

Your devoted servant,

Ralston Fitzwilliam

P.S. Thank you for your reassurance that I am not a mere stand-in for Lord Fitzhugh. Allow me to assure you in return that I have never been made to feel as one. Even when you didn’t know who I was, you knew very well who I wasn’t.

P.P.S. Mrs. Fitzwilliam, bless her memory, wrote, “My own Big Bad Wolf ate me—and I dare say I liked it.”

My Dear Mr. Fitzwilliam,

Scotland is indeed fair, though we are shortly departing for the Lake District—my sister had made plans before my return to the country. The company of all the children is beyond bracing. Hyacinth, my daughter, is a most mischievous girl. My sister loves to point out how similar she is to me as a child. I look at her and marvel that I was ever so rowdy and fearless.

My sister worries that losing Fitz again is too heavy a blow for me. I will not pretend it does not hurt, but part of me wonders if it isn’t a blessing in disguise, a failure that forces me to look forward to see what the future holds, rather than backward, trying to recreate a past that never was.