Chapter 25

CHAPTER25

“Henry!” Isabella said his name sharply when he didn’t answer. He stilled, and he stared at her with a blank expression on his face. “Why did you never tell me?”

Slowly, he placed his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts before he raised his chin and looked at her again.

“Who told you?” he asked, his voice strangely quiet.

“Lady Paulbridge came to see me.” Isabella took a step forwards then one back, finding she couldn’t stay still. They were frantic movements, making her restless. “Oh, I do not doubt she came to tell me just to congratulate herself on hurting me.” She motioned towards the doorway, behind which was a corridor leading to the sitting room. “She sat before me as if she was mistress of this house and took pleasure in telling me you never wanted children. Can you imagine what that felt like? Hearing that from the woman who would be happy to be your mistress?”

“She’s not,” Henry reiterated, his voice firm. “Whatever pleasure she takes in being cruel, you must ignore it, Bella.”

“Then, is it untrue?” She flicked her head back round to face him fully. “Tell me once and for all now. Is it a lie she told just to cause trouble, or is it true?”

“It’s true.” He didn’t hesitate in his answer.

The suddenness of the words had Isabella backing up. Holding a hand over her mouth, she restrained herself from shouting, for that was what her heart wished to do.

There will never be a child. I shall never be a mother!

Any fleeting imagination she had ever had of being a mother now played out before her eyes. She saw herself with a young baby, kissing her on the forehead as she fell asleep, then she saw herself playing in the garden with a young boy who was hiding behind tall standing daisies, trying to play hide and seek.

None of that will ever be real.

The lump in her throat became so strong, and her eyes stung. She turned her back on Henry. She couldn’t face him, not at that moment, for he would see just how overwhelmed she was with this news.

“Children wasn’t something we ever discussed,” Henry said with a strangely measured tone. It wasn’t one she could copy.

“You could have told me!” she snapped. “Henry, you have robbed me of the chance of making such a choice.”

She turned back to face him as a tear rolled down her cheek. When he saw that tear, he stepped towards her, but she moved back, showing she could not bear to have him near her. She wiped the tear away quickly with the back of her hand.

“When you offered to marry me, you could have said this was the deal, that I would never be a mother.”

“I was saving your reputation.”

“I know!”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Henry was growing angry now too, holding his hands out questioningly. “I vowed long ago never to be a father. That had nothing to do with rescuing your reputation, did it?”

“It had everything to do with it!” She outmatched him in volume, making him fall still. “I had the choice of my reputation falling, but I haven’t expected to have to choose never to have children. You should have given me a choice.”

Henry stood stockstill. He was as unmovable as the suits of armor that surrounded them. Isabella’s breath hitched in her throat, and she couldn’t stand staring at him anymore. There was no emotion on his face, none. Her heartbreak was not mimicked by him, and his resolve on the matter showed he could not understand it either.

“Do you not see how this hurts? How it makes me ache?” Isabella asked, placing a hand on her chest.

“It was never about you, Bella.” Henry’s voice was quieter now but just as firm and resolute. “I made this vow long ago, and no matter what the temptation, it is a vow I intend to keep.”

He couldn’t understand her point of view, she saw that now. There was no apology for not having told her, and he made no effort to come towards her.

Feeling as if her heart was breaking in two, Isabella had to get away from him. Her breath hitched as another tear escaped. Turning, she fled the room. She ran hurriedly through the nearest door and at no point did Henry call out to her to stay. He let her go without a single word on the matter.

Isabella ran all the way to her chamber. Mrs. Walters passed her en route and called out to her, asking what was wrong. Isabella simply thanked her for her concern but gave no reason. She went all the way to her chamber and flung the door closed behind her.

She flung herself down on her bed, then she hid her face in the covers, trying to breathe deeply and stop her tears.

Life will never be what I thought it could be. Not now.

Any thought she might have had of raising her own children was now gone. She felt as if all the pictures she’d imagined over the last few days now turned to dust and slipped through her fingers, for she was unable to cling onto that dust.

“I cannot believe it has come to this,” she whispered through her tears and buried her face completely into the covers, wishing she could hide from the world.

* * *

Henry couldn’t move from the study. He’d retreated there after Isabella had run away from him and barely moved since. Sitting in his desk chair, he steepled his hands in front of him and stared across the room, into the eyes of his father. Sometimes, the paintwork felt too realistic for comfort. Gregory could have truly been in that room staring at Henry.

Henry didn’t doubt his father would be furious with the way he had run his life, but that was the whole idea. Henry wished for his father to be turning in his grave over all that had happened.

He would probably be delighted that I had at least married.

Huffing quietly, Henry bent forwards and rested his head against his steepled hands.

“Ah, Bella,” he murmured, disliking how she had run away from him.

There was much he wished to say to her and even more he longed to say about Mary and her interfering ways, but there was one thing in particular he knew he had to tell Isabella now if he ever had a chance of getting back the happy days they had spent together.

She needs to know the truth.

Henry was just debating ringing a bell and asking Hawkins where his wife was when there was a gentle tap at the door.

“Come in,” he called.

The door opened slowly, revealing a figure in the dark corridor. The candles Henry had lit the study with cast a white glow on the person, revealing Isabella’s face.

“Bella,” he said softly.

Isabella walked in and closed the door behind her, though she didn’t look at him as she turned and leaned against the wood, but stared down at the floor. Her eyes were red, as were her cheeks, showing she had been crying. To see he had been the cause of that pain had something tightening in his chest uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry for not telling you.” The words were out of his mouth before he had thought much about them. They had to be said. At last, her eyes flicked up towards him. “You’re right, I should have told you,” he whispered as he lowered his hands down to the desk. “I guess part of me was afraid.”

“Afraid?” she repeated, with her head tilted to the side as she stared at him. “What of?”

“Of this.” He motioned towards the distance between them. “We have been happy, haven’t we?” She nodded, but she didn’t smile. “I feared what you’d think if I told you the truth.” He angled his head, returning his eyes to his father’s painting.

“What exactly is the truth?” She stepped away from the door and moved towards the desk. “You have told me you made this vow long ago, but you have not told me the reason for it.” She placed a hand on the desk, capturing his attention. “Tell me why, please. Are you not fond of children?”

“I have nothing against them.” He shook his head and sat back in his chair. “On the contrary, a cousin of mine came with his son last year, and I had the most fun I’d had in months in this house playing with that boy.” At his words, Isabella’s lips flickered into the smallest of smiles, but it didn’t last long. “I’m good with children, I like them, but I cannot be a father.”

“Why not?” she asked, her voice quiet. “At least if I understand your resolution, Henry, then perhaps I can try to move past this.”

Can you?

Henry faltered, uncertain whether it was possible or not. He felt as if there was a chasm between him and Isabella now, and he was the one who had caused it.

I have to tell her.

He nodded his head at the painting, urging Isabella to turn her chin to look at it.

“Do you remember what I told you about my father?” he asked.

“Yes.” She rounded the desk and stood beside him, her eyes never leaving the painting. “I remember. You said he was cruel and unkind, both to you and your mother. He put an emphasis on duty and respectability but had a foul temper and belittled his wife.” She sighed. “Then, he did not tell you she was dying.” Isabella’s voice quietened with the words, betraying her horror.

“Precisely.” Henry moved to his feet so sharply that Isabella stood back in surprise. He turned to face her, waving a hand towards the painting. “That man put more stock in the dukedom than he did any human being. He did not see my mother as a wife to him, nor did he even see her as the mother of his son. He saw her only as someone who performed her ‘duty,’” he scoffed, recoiling at the idea. “Those were the very words he said.”

Henry went to stand in front of the painting. He placed a hand on the wall and leaned forwards, just beneath the painting.

“It was all that mattered to him, and why he had me, so that I could carry on the dukedom and be ‘respectable,’ be someone that made people revere our family name. God, even repeating his words makes me feel sick.” He shuddered and stepped back, gesturing towards the painting wildly. “Can you imagine hearing those words? What is worse, can you imagine hearing them after your mother has died?”

Isabella flinched at his words. She rested both hands on the desk, plainly needing it to support herself.

“My father clung to those words his entire existence, and when faced with death, even then his priorities did not change. He showed the true color of his heart, and it was as black as night.”

Henry felt a thick lump in his throat. He his back on Isabella, not wanting her to see his weakness. He glowered at his father’s painting instead, tightly folding his arms across his body as he breathed deeply.

Once that lump had dissipated a little, he continued. “I vowed the day my mother died that I wouldn’t let my father win. His focus on duty and respectability would all be for nothing.”

“You wanted vengeance,” Isabella muttered.

“Justice,” Henry corrected, then continued, “So, I made a vow to him. I told him that I would ruin the dukedom. I wished for the Sutterton name to be dragged through the mud.” The memory of their conversation flashed in his mind so strongly, Henry almost forgot where he stood in the study. He thought only of shouting at his father in that corridor outside of his mother’s bedchamber. “I vowed to ruin the dukedom’s name, and then let the line end.”

“Henry…” Isabella rounded the desk and hurried to his side, bringing him back to this moment. “Why? What purpose does it serve?”

“He was crippled by it. I achieved what I wished to,” Henry said in a rush, turning to face her. “Everything he ever wished for was gone. I acted out, became the rake that everyone talks about and writes about, all to humiliate him.” He thrust a finger at the painting.

Isabella’s lips parted, betraying her amazement. Her eyes were wet, but she didn’t let her tears drop this time.

“That’s why you became a rake? Out of no wish of your own, but just to take revenge?” She shuddered and stepped towards him. “That is no way to live, Henry!”

“It is my life,” Henry said simply, holding her gaze. “I have completed half my vow. By the time my father died, he was humiliated, and for all the belittlement and use he made of my mother, it came to nothing. He won nothing from it, thank God, but to continue my work, I must keep to the other half of my vow.” He paused, breathing deeply before he said the words. “The Dukedom of Sutterton dies with me.”

Isabella reached out a hand. It was the softest touch to his cheek. Henry leaned into it, longing for more.

“What pain you carry with you,” she whispered. Henry closed his eyes, fighting the tears that threatened to come at her words. “I understand why you did this.”

“You do?”

“How could I not after all that you have said? You wanted your justice, and you let your father die believing you had it,” she said. “He went to his grave seeing the dukedom stained by gossip and believing you would never continue the line, but what more purpose does your resolution serve now?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, opening his eyes.

“I mean he’s gone.” Her voice was light as she uttered the words. “He cannot see what happens now. All you’re doing is punishing yourself by holding onto vows that serve no purpose anymore. You had your revenge.”

“No, no.” Henry shook his head, just as her hand dropped away from his face. The loss of her touch made him ache, but he didn’t reach for her hand to have it back again. “It is not just about that. Do you remember when I said we may not be able to choose our fathers, but we can choose the paths of our lives?”

She nodded.

“This is the path I’m choosing.” He laid a hand on his chest in emphasis. “I will not lead the life my father wished but will carve my own.”

“I see.” Isabella looked away from him, down at the floor between them. Henry breathed deeply and blinked a few times, pushing away the tears that had threatened to fall. “Thank you for telling me, Henry.”

Her abrupt words drew a line under the conversation. It showed their discussion was at an end, no matter what more he could say on the subject to try and explain himself.

“Do you know what I think?” Isabella backed away from him as she lifted her head, meeting his gaze once again. “I think you are making yourself miserable, for no good reason.”

“I beg your pardon?” His head jerked back in surprise.

“You had your justice, as I said, he’s gone,” Isabella said slowly and quietly, reaching as far back as the door behind her. Her back pressed against it, and she took hold of the door handle. “Yet, why would you let the man’s shadow hang over you forever more?”

She motioned with a quick hand towards the painting that hung overhead.

“Why have him stare at you, watch you constantly?” she asked softly. “It does no good. The only thing it does is let him cast darkness over your life for the rest of your days.”

“I do not see it like that.” Henry’s voice was sharp as he shook his head, but Isabella didn’t rise to the argument. She opened the door and hovered in that space for a minute.

“The way I see it, you’re letting him win after all,” she murmured, casting a glance at the painting. “You say you’re choosing your own life, but you’re not really, are you? You’re letting it be dictated by his memory, even though he is long gone.” She backed out of the door. “Thank you for telling me, Henry. At least now I understand you better.”

She disappeared down the corridor, leaving the door open behind her. Henry moved forwards, for a second intent on following her, then he fell still. What she said made his heart pound. Looking back at the painting of his father, he no longer knew what to think or feel. His eyes analyzed the shape of his father’s face, the wrinkles, and the darkness of the eyes that met his keen and unyielding gaze.

“Is that what I have done?” he asked as if the painting would respond to him. “Have I narrowed my life and let you dictate it, after all?”