Rakes and Radishes (26 page)

The man under the telescope leaned back and shook his head. Nothing there.

Kesseley’s gaze shot to Henrietta. For a moment they locked eyes, and he could see fear tensing her features.

Van Heerlen took the page from Mr. Watson’s hand and spoke to the assistant himself. The poor assistant appealed to Pond. The astronomer nodded his head. An adjustment was made to the telescope and the previous exercise was performed again.

Nothing.

Damn it.

Kesseley was furious. Why did Henrietta have to get hurt again?

She had left her chair and came to stand beside her father. His eyes seemed to lose focus, like he was receding into himself. She was whispering to him, holding his hand so tight her knuckles were white.

Van Heerlen brushed aside the assistant, who flung up his hands and gave Pond a disparaging eye. Van Heerlen used his persuasive powers on the man under the telescope. He flattened his palm at an angle to demonstrate what he needed.

The man removed himself from under the telescope and conferred with Pond. The Royal Astronomer considered.

Do it, man!
Kesseley was beginning to share Van Heerlen’s view of England’s premier astronomer.

Pond flicked his wrist dismissively. The assistant, sensing his superior’s disapproval, nervously shifted the angle of the telescope to Van Heerlen’s specifications.

Still nothing. For thirty minutes, the beautiful instrument searched the skies.

Mr. Watson peered up beyond the telescope to the night sky, his eyes wide and desperate. Henrietta clung to him, murmuring soothing words. Her gaze drifted across the audience, finding Kesseley. He could see the tears rimming her eyes. She was trying so hard to be strong.

Van Heerlen reached to adjust the telescope himself, but Pond interceded. “That will not be necessary. Might I remind you, the Royal Observatory is for the advancement of His Majesty’s science, not the frivolities of amateurs.”

Van Heerlen’s face whitened with rage. His voice was a constrained whisper. “The planet is there. Our math supports it. Perhaps you English astronomers—”

“Is that what it is? The inferior English astronomers? Perhaps you can use your influence to better effect with the German astronomers. Good night, sir.”

Henrietta stepped forward, putting her hand on Mr. Pond’s arm. “Please try again. I’m sure the planet is there. I have checked the numbers myself.”

Pond smiled condescendingly. “I am sure you have,” he said, as if he were talking to a child.

The audience snickered. They didn’t know how close they were to being beaten to a bloody pulp.

“But they’ve worked so hard, perhaps a few more degrees,” she begged.

“As much as I like to please a lovely lady, I feel Mr. Van Heerlen has wasted my time, as usual. I beg you would excuse me—we must repair the telescope and close the ceiling.” He removed Henrietta’s hand and strode from the room, leaving his assistants to do all the said chores.

***

Mr. Van Heerlen followed him out. Their heated exchange echoed up in the domed ceiling.

Her father’s brows furrowed as if he were puzzled. “Where is she?” he asked his daughter.

“Who?”

There was a small pause, then it seemed like her father mentally exploded. Words flew out of his mouth, incoherent numbers, terms, places. He flourished his hand about in the air as if he were writing.

Oh God! She looked for Kesseley, but she couldn’t find him. Where was he? Was she alone?

Frantically, she searched inside herself to find some thread of strength, something she could hold to as she had to be the strongest she had ever been in her life.

The audience members began gathering their notebooks and other belongings, silent and embarrassed. Careful not to watch her father go mad.

A firm, warm hand clasped her shoulder. Kesseley’s familiar scent of apple and leather filled her nose.

“Come,” he whispered.

He took her father’s arm, wrapped it around his shoulder and led him to the door. Papa shuffled like a feeble old man, his eyes vacant, as if he had retreated completely into his mind. He continued to mutter, having some fierce debate with an imaginary foe. He looked so old and broken. Would she lose him too?

Kesseley assisted her father through the courtyard to the entrance gate where his footman waited. He whistled to the man and ordered him to bring Henrietta’s carriage. A single torchlight burned by the gate and the tree boughs shadowed the drive. He led Henrietta’s father to a bench by the stone wall that ran the perimeter of the observatory. She sat next to her father and he slumped against her shoulder. She could feel his heartbeat pounding in his sagging body. His fingers quivered, still trying to write.

“She isn’t in her place in heaven,” he said.

“Hush, Papa. You’ll find that planet,” Henrietta quietly assured him, brushing the loose hair from his eyes.

“I charted the entire sky to find Imogen again. She is lost in the heavens.”

Her throat tightened. She couldn’t talk or cry, stuck in that suspended breathless state before one breaks down.

She felt Kesseley’s hand on her shoulder. “Henrietta,” he whispered.

“Don’t touch her.” Mr. Van Heerlen had caught up. She could feel his anger as he glared at Kesseley. Kesseley stepped away, fading into the shadows under the arching branches.

“No—” she began, then fell silent.

Mr. Van Heerlen knelt before Henrietta’s father and herself. Finding her hand, he squeezed it. His palm was warm, his voice reassuring. “We will take our case to Germany to real astronomers who will listen to reason, who recognize genius. Don’t worry, our work will be heard by the world.”

Henrietta embraced Mr. Van Heerlen and cried, so grateful that he believed in her father. She was glad Mr. Van Heerlen had yelled at that contemptible Mr. Pond for calling her father an amateur, for caring so little about his life’s work. Mr. Van Heerlen was right—English astronomers such as Mr. Pond were inferior.

“There now, Miss Watson,” he said soothingly, running his hand up and down her back. When she had collected herself, he rose.

“Come, Lord Kesseley,” he said darkly.

Henrietta interrupted. “Mr. Van Heerlen, I’m indebted that Lord Kesseley came. Don’t be angry.”

“Hush, dearest, don’t upset yourself anymore.”

The two men walked a little way down the steep road running along the stone fence. She could just hear their terse voices, but couldn’t make out the words for the rattle of their carriage rolling up the hill.

“Come, Papa,” she said, helping him into the carriage, then sitting beside him. He leaned his head against hers and curled his fingers in her hair. “You’re all I have,” he said, over and over.

Mr. Van Heerlen stepped up and swung into the seat. He handed Henrietta a flat rectangular box as the carriage lurched forward. “This is your mother’s necklace. Lord Kesseley won’t be bothering you again.”

Henrietta peered out the window, but she couldn’t see Kesseley in the darkness of the park.

***

Mr. Van Heerlen helped her father to his bed at The Green Man Inn and then procured some laudanum from the innkeeper. Her father drank it without protest, seeking relief from his relentless mind. Mr. Van Heerlen kissed Henrietta’s cheek when he left, promising he would make everything better once they arrived in Germany.

Henrietta wet a cloth in the water pitcher and wiped her father’s forehead. “What did I do wrong?” he asked her.

“Nothing, Papa, nothing.”

He shook his head, his features contorted in pain. He didn’t speak again until a little after nine, when he closed his eyes and whispered, “Imogen.” Then he drifted mercifully into sleep.

Alone in the silence, warm tears slid down her cheeks. How cruel the world was! Henrietta wasn’t innocent—she had been foolish and careless with the hearts of others. She’d received only what she deserved. But her father? What had he done? He’d cared for his dying wife and chased phantom planets in the heavens, but he hadn’t hurt anyone. She watched his face relax with sleep, hoping her mother found him in his dreams.

Sitting on her father’s bedside table was the unopened box containing her mother’s pendant. Dear Kesseley. She had never loved him so much as when he’d taken her arm that evening. She wished London hadn’t happened. That they could meet again at the Great Ouse River in that lovely hour before dusk, when the golden light sparkled on the water. The boughs on the towering oak trees would sway from the breeze blowing in from the sea and across his fields. She wished she could hold him again, all the fear and anger gone, just the strength of his arms around her, keeping her safe.

She picked up the box and lifted the lid. Her mother’s tiny ruby sparkled in the candlelight.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Henrietta whispered.

She lifted the necklace and saw that its clasp was broken. As she returned it to the box, she noticed that a letter had rested underneath. She lifted the missive, opened it and held the page to the light.

23
^rd
of April, 1819

Which day appeared personally the Earl of Kesseley and made an Oath that he is of the County of Norfolk aged upwards of Twenty-Five Years and a Bachelor and alleged that he intended to intermarry with Henrietta Watson of same county.

She clamped her palm to her mouth, trying to calm the emotions whirling inside her. He wanted to marry her. Marry her! She had to get back to Curzon Street.

Then the realization sunk in. Of course, he was asking for her hand—out of honor. Why else would he have relented so easily when Mr. Van Heerlen asked him to leave? He escaped, leaving her with evidence of his honorable intentions. Now he could return to Lady Sara with a clean conscience.

His hurtful words came back:
I don’t love you, Henrietta. Understand. I will never love you again.

Henrietta gathered the letter, necklace, box and candle, then tiptoed across the hall to her dark, cramped chamber. She laid the marriage license on the bed and ran her fingers across the words wanting so much to be with Kesseley, to marry him, love him. But she couldn’t consent to such an unequal marriage born from honor and duty. He didn’t love her, and she couldn’t bear any more of his coldness, knowing he would find his comfort with beautiful ladies in places she didn’t know about.

She replaced the license to its box, where she would keep it forever. Maybe knowing she could have married him was enough. Yet another letter waited in the very bottom of the box, sealed with a green K.

Were these his marriage terms? She looked warily at the letter, afraid of what she might find inside. She couldn’t bear any more heartbreak, any more hurtful words. Taking the letter to the fireplace, she knelt down by the coals and broke the seal.

Dear Henrietta,

I have attempted this letter many times this afternoon, but my words can’t broach the truth. I can write that I have always loved you, but it will not capture the depth of my passions or my fears. I lied every time I said I didn’t love you. I pushed you away to keep you safe from what I’ve become. I told you my old life was a lie. And it is—my gardens, my fields, all the things I made around me, tried to nurture, bring to life—all so that I might bring myself to life from the shambles of my father.

You have been the truest part of me. I cannot relinquish you from my heart, even as I stumble in my weakness and failings. You have always been my hope. You taught me to dream when I was afraid of the world. You’ve been beside me in the darkest moments of my life and given me comfort. You believed I was capable of goodness when all I knew was darkness and hurt. When I am with you, I am the man I want to be, in my heart, because of your faith in me. Yet, I have failed you.

Let me unburden you of any guilt or obligation you may feel towards me. You are innocent. I threw my sins and the sins of my father at your feet. They are not yours to bear. Please forgive me.

I want to marry you and spend my life with you, but I fear you will not have me. I fear I have passed any hope of your redemption and forgiveness, but I love you, dearest Henrietta. I will always love you.

Your faithful servant,

Thomas

Kesseley slipped inside the house on Curzon Street. All evening he had walked up and down the Strand, listening to the quiet water, wishing he could sink into the current and let it carry him away.

He stood at the doorframe of the parlor where his mama and Lord Damien sat on the sofa, their fingers entwined. They looked up with expectant, smiling faces, waiting for good news.

“I’ve lost her,” he said.

“Oh no,” his mother whispered.

Kesseley bit down on his lip, feeling tears well up again. He let out a hiss, blowing his eyes dry.

His mother rose and embraced him. “I’m so sorry.” Her body trembled on his shoulder.

She led him to one of the rosewood chairs. He just wanted the solitude of his chamber, but hadn’t the energy to resist.

“Danny was telling me about his journey to the Americas.” Mama shot Lord Damien a pleading look.

The man made a weak stab at conversation, mumbling of flint, arrows and poison.

Kesseley didn’t listen. His insides ached. He couldn’t even think about the next moment, let alone the Americas. All he knew was pain. Damien had told him to fight for Henrietta, for himself, but he had lost.

He held up his hand, halting Damien’s words. “Pardon,” he said, his voice a tired whisper. “I must go.”

He rose, wearily, just as a carriage rattled to a stop before the front door.

“That must be Lady Winslow and that Mr. Watson. She said they are coming by after a dinner party. I will tell them to leave,” his mother assured him.

“No, don’t, but please excuse my company.” Kesseley quitted the room and started up the stairs before he could be seen.

“Kesseley,” Henrietta called softly.

He shot around, stumbling on the steps. He grabbed the railing to right himself.