Midnight Scandals

  She ran her hand through his hair, a gesture of sympathy and affection. He just stopped himself from taking her hand and pressing a kiss into the center of her palm.

  “Tell me about Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s comments. It will help you remember them better for the future.”

  “Ah…” He had never spoken to anyone about the map and particularly not the comments, holding them in the innermost sanctuary of his heart.

  “I am so sorry. What was I thinking? I was a newlywed once myself. Dare I assume her comments were quite naughty?”

  He felt his cheeks warming. “Quite.”

  “I’ll tell you a secret: During my honeymoon I wrote a limerick. I did it on the train as Captain Englewood and I left Rome, that beautiful city we never ventured out of our hotel to see.”

  Now he was warm everywhere. “I will not ask you what you were so busy doing in your hotel.”

  “And you will be wise not to.” She tittered. “My goodness, I am drunk. I am not the most close-lipped of women but I assure you I do not go about on a regular basis disclosing how I allocated my time during my honeymoon.”

  “Well, then, since you are already drunk, recite me that unforgettable masterpiece of yours.”

  “Well, bear in mind that I adored making love.”

  He sucked in a breath at a huge influx of lust.

  “Not to mention I found it wonderfully calming afterwards,” she went on. “I always felt invulnerable in the aftermath of the pleasure. My bridegroom was quite happy with how much I welcomed, indeed, demanded his advances.”

  He wished she would demand his advances.

  She cleared her throat. “There was once a young lady from Bembley, who learned to love married life quickly. Not again, her husband groaned; Yes again, our young lady moaned. So once more unto the breach, well and truly.”

  He burst out laughing. “My God! Did you share this with your husband?”

  “I did—in the dining car, and he spat out his coffee. Years later he would still lean over to me and whisper, Once more unto the breach, especially when we were at some interminable ceremony.” She laid her hand in his; he wrapped his fingers around hers. “It was times like those that I felt happiest, knowing that I was the only person who could understand the joke.”

  And now he, too, understood the secret joke. It had been so long since he felt such closeness, not only to another person, but to everything inside himself that had once made him relish the arrival of each new day.

  “Do you still want to know what Mrs. Fitzwilliam wrote on the map?”

  She sat up and gazed at him. “Of course.”

  He still needed a few moments to overcome his residual shyness. “About the gingerbread house she said, This is the house I earned by allowing my bridegroom to have his way with me on a desk.”

  She snorted with laughter. “Is that so? You would only draw part of the map if she agreed to a certain marital deed?”

  “No, I would have drawn the map for nothing. But it was more fun that way.” He smiled back. “Much more fun.”

  “What, may I ask, did she have to do for the dwarfs’ cottage?”

  “Take a turn in our hotel room—after I had disrobed her.”

  “Oh, my. Newlywed love games indeed.” She sighed. “Oh, to be a newlywed again.”

  And then, after a moment of silence. “Or even better, to be an old married woman, thumping her cane on the floor of the parlor, because her husband is making them late for church again.”

  “I am always late for church,” he said impulsively.

  She brushed her hand through his hair again. “And how fortunate the lady who would be thumping her cane at you someday, my dear Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

  “WILL YOU COME BACK and bring your children here?”

  Isabelle opened her eyes, surprised that she’d almost fallen asleep. “I haven’t thought about it yet.”

  When Fitz had decided that his future lay elsewhere, she’d been sure she never wanted to set foot in Doyle’s Grange again. But now the place held good memories. Wonderful memories.

  “What is next for you then?”

  “Back to my sister’s place in Aberdeen. My children are still with her and I miss them.”

  “Bring them here. Winters are harsh in Scotland.”

  “Aberdeen’s is milder than one would expect for a city so far north, or so my sister assures me.”

  “Still, it will be cold and dreary. Bring them here. They will thank you.”

  But if she were to set up household at Doyle’s Grange, soon her entire family would come by to visit. There would be calls on the neighbors, afternoon tea parties, and dinners to make sure that she was surrounded by kind people. And when they saw Mr. Fitzwilliam, after picking their jaws up from the floor, they would immediately assume that she’d decided to come back to Doyle’s Grange because she wanted to be close to Fitz’s lookalike.

  It would be impossible to make them see otherwise. And should word get back to Fitz, she would die of mortification, to have him believe that she wanted to hold on to him so badly anyone who looked like him would do.

  And it would be a tremendous insult to Mr. Fitzwilliam too, to have everyone assume he was but a replica of Fitz, when nothing could be further from the truth.

  “Let me think about it,” she murmured, the wine and the lateness of the hour making her drowsy again.

  “Yes, think about it,” he said softly.

  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.

  In my original plans, by now the children and I would be at Doyle’s Grange, and not tagging along to the Lake District, where Fitz and his wife had honeymooned years ago. My sister had offered to change the destination, but I told her it did not matter—and I did not feel myself to be lying outright. Lying somewhat, but not lying outright.

  Yours truly,

  Isabelle Englewood

  P.S. Country gossip is delightful. A sleepwalking gentleman? Can a sleepdancing one be far behind?

  P.P.S. I have yet to tell anyone about you, lest they think I have made you up out of whole cloth. Do reply, dear friend, and reassure me again that you are not imaginary.

  P.P.P.S. I
made a mistake of sitting down to read your letter with a cup of tea. When I reached Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s comment—well, let’s just say that the entire letter is tea-stained and I very nearly killed myself laughing. What I pity she and I never met. We’d have been such a pair of mischief-makers.

  P.P.P.P.S. I know my curiosity is unseemly, yet I must ask, were there only three locations on that map? Or were there more that you have not divulged yet?

  My Dear Mrs. Englewood,

  You are hereby assured that I am not imaginary, but very much real—and deeply curious about where in the Lake District you are headed.

  I write to you from a hill overlooking Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s final resting place in Dorset. I visit the area every time I return to England, walking through the village, and perhaps venturing as far as the gate of the churchyard. But today marks the first time since her interment that I have touched her tombstone with my own hand, and traced the letters and numbers that mark her all-too-brief life.

  And wept as I was never able to, all those years ago, at the sight of her casket being lowered into the ground.

  Now I sit here, upon this familiar hill, overcome by an entirely unfamiliar lightness of being, as if I am closer to the clouds than to the ground.

  Thank you, once again.

  Your devoted servant,

  Ralston Fitzwilliam

  P.S. On the map you would have also found the house in which Goldilocks becomes an intruder.

  P.P.S. Mrs. Fitzwilliam would have enjoyed your friendship enormously. That her words have made someone spew tea years after her passing is no doubt delighting her in the hereafter.

  “WHY ARE YOU CARESSING THAT LETTER?” asked Louise, Isabelle’s sister.

  Isabelle stilled abruptly. Was that what she had been doing, stroking Mr. Fitzwilliam’s words? She set down the letter. “Hastings wrote again.”

  It was not a lie. Hastings had written again—he was Fitz’s best friend and was no doubt writing at the latter’s behest.

  “But that is not Lord Hastings’s letter, is it?” said Louise, ever astute.