Chapter 9

Nine

October. 1817.

I n only a month, Crossthwaite had changed.

Oliver no longer ate alone, unless he chose to. But he never chose to, even coming back to the house at midday to join Henrietta for luncheon, a meal he had never made a habit of eating before.

There was more noise about the house now. Henrietta gaily talking to the servants, running up and down the stairs, humming to herself as she tended to some task, coaxing Nathaniel into a game or a song or a walk.

And, every few days, there was custard.

Henrietta gave up the pretense of reading in the evenings. Instead, she plied her needle. He saw her squinting, trying to angle her hoop towards the fire. He got up and moved a small table to one of her elbows and lit and placed an additional lamp.

"Oh, thank you," she said, looking up at him with shining eyes and a wide smile, far too grateful for something that had only taken him a few moments. He must do more for her.

"You have given up reading," he observed as he took his seat again.

"I've never been much of a reader, but I wanted to sit with you, so I made do with a book. But Lucy brought my embroidery with the rest of my things, so I have it now."

She wanted to sit with him. She wanted to sit with him . He ignored the knot that had just tied itself around his heart and squeezed. Instead, he said stiffly, "You must always tell me if there is something you want or need."

"Oh. Yes. But I have it now." She flourished her hoop at him. "I hope you don't think it silly."

"Silly?"

She blushed. "Gentlemen sometimes think feminine pursuits foolish."

"I'll remind you that I'm a farmer who draws maps."

"Oh, but maps are meant to be useful, aren't they?"

"Mine aren't."

"What are they for?"

There was only one answer for that. "Me."

They gazed at each other. Finally, she bent her head again to her stitching, and he went back behind his newspaper.

Minutes later, he heard her murmur, "I'm glad you have something for yourself."

An afternoon came when he stayed home because it had begun to rain during luncheon. He retired to his study, meaning to work on his map, but the house was too quiet, and he didn't like it. He had become used to a bit of hubbub.

No. It wasn't the quiet that was bothering him. He craved her . Not in the carnal way he usually did. He just wanted to see her. Hear her. Smell her. Something.

He went in search of his wife and found her in the nursery. The curtains had been drawn and the room was dark, but he could make her out, kneeling by the side of Nathaniel's low bed.

"Close your eyes," she crooned. "If you close your eyes, I'll tell you a story."

"Caterpillar?" his son asked.

"Yes, one about a caterpillar."

Her hand moved and did something. Was she stroking Nathaniel's forehead?

"You have a curl here when it rains. Like your father."

"Caterpillar," Nathaniel demanded.

A soft laugh from her. "You haven't closed your eyes yet."

His son must then have closed his eyes.

"Once there was a green caterpillar who lived in the garden. His name was Crawley."

"Crawley." Was that a note of amusement in his son's voice?

"Keep your eyes closed," she said and there was a pause before her melodious, soothing voice went on. "He liked to crawl. He liked to creep. He was very good at doing both things. But his favorite thing was to find a thick stem of a nice, sturdy plant. And then he would climb. He would climb and climb and climb and climb?.?.?."

As she went on, talking about the climbing caterpillar and the broad, green leaves he would take shelter under when it rained, Oliver thought his own eyes might close. Finally, she stopped speaking. He waited, thinking she would get up now, leave the room and join him in the hallway, let Nathaniel sleep.

But she didn't. She stayed by the side of the bed, her hand moving slowly, stroking Nathaniel's forehead.

What would it be like to go to sleep to Henrietta's voice and her hand stroking his forehead? Oh, how he envied his son.

She turned her head towards the door and whispered, "I promised Nathaniel I'd stay while he slept."

So, she knew Oliver was there.

He retreated quietly down the hallway and the stairs and went to his own bedchamber to seek out a looking glass. Did he really have a curl on his forehead when it rained? Yes, indeed, the mirror revealed a dangling lock. He pushed the hair back, but a moment later, it fell down again. Perhaps some pomade could fix it in place or he should have his hair cut shorter.

But did Henrietta like the curl? As a rule, she seemed far more concerned with cleanliness than tidiness, and in the course of a day, a few of her own curls would often fly loose from her pins. And he liked to see her that way, her hair a bit mussed. As unguarded with her appearance as she was with everything else.

Perhaps, then, she also liked his curl.

He wouldn't have his hair cut or buy any pomade. Just yet.