Chapter 10

Ten

December. 1817.

O liver was long past due for a trip to London.

His journeys had been needlessly frequent before, motivated by the desire to have an excuse to spend time at Bexton Manor on the way there and back.

But now?.?.?.?well, he was not sure of his welcome with the Staffords. He and Crispin had resumed their usual correspondence, but things might be different in person. And even if the duke and duchess exhibited perfect cordiality towards their new son-in-law, Oliver knew himself. His remorse would create a distance where there had been none, introduce an awkwardness where all had been ease before.

And for the first time in years, he had no desire to leave Crossthwaite. It was a pity to have to tear himself away just now when there was such bustling hope and lightheartedness all around him, when he had a piece of Bexton Manor in his own house. But his inherited business concerns had pressing matters requiring his presence in London.

On the morning he planned to set out, he gazed over the rim of his teacup at Henrietta. She was picking at her food, stealing glances at him but then looking away when he met her eyes. She was dressed for riding but apparently had not yet taken her giant gelding out this morning.

Could this delay in her usual exercise mean she had not wanted to risk missing his departure? Oh, no. Was she going to inflict some maudlin leave-taking on her husband-in-name?

He couldn't allow that.

He wouldn't survive it.

Oliver stood abruptly. She started to stand, too, but he stayed her with a gesture of his hand.

"There's no need to neglect your breakfast. I will say my farewells here. I will be back before the new year."

She nodded and kept her seat. Good, he would be spared. And he had been a fool to think she would display emotion at his leaving. It wasn't as if she had married him by choice or she had any true attachment to him.

But as he went to exit the room, she cried "Oliver!" and threw herself out of her chair and hugged him, just as she had in her father's study. This time, she wrapped her arms around his neck instead of his sides, leaving his arms free to embrace her in return. Unbidden, his arms came up and went around her as she pressed into him.

Their first embrace since that fateful one. The kiss—that unconscionable, ruinous kiss—came into his mind. A tender moment suddenly turned into something dark and guilty, stained by his own depravity. He stepped away from her, taking her arms from his neck, averting his eyes.

"Did you put the list of things you want from London in my satchel?" he asked, trying to inject something proper and pragmatic into this exchange.

"Yes," she said, and he could hear the tears in her voice.

He nodded and left the room without looking at or speaking to her again. He couldn't.

In front of the house, he supervised the loading of his trunk and discussed the first part of the journey with his coachman. As he was about to get into the carriage, he heard, "Wait, wait, wait! Oliver!"

Henrietta flew out the door, holding his son in her arms.

"Nathaniel did not get a chance to say goodbye to you," she gasped, her warm breath making white puffs in the chilly air.

Oliver had never bid farewell to his own son before. He had always been too apprehensive. Irrationally fearful. He had not wanted the sickly boy to receive a goodbye from his father when there was a very real chance it might be a final adieu and Nathaniel would succumb to an illness while Oliver was away.

But Nathaniel did not look sickly right now. He hadn't looked sickly in weeks. His cheeks were pink and slightly rounded and his arms were fiercely clinging to his stepmother's neck.

"Do you want to hug your father goodbye?" Henrietta asked him.

Nathaniel just held on tighter to her and turned his head away from Oliver.

"It's all right," Oliver said. But he could tell Henrietta was distressed. "We could shake hands like men do," he offered.

"Yes." Henrietta sounded relieved. "Nathaniel, please do shake hands with your father."

The boy looked first at Henrietta and then tilted his head to look at Oliver out of the corner of his eye. After several seconds consideration, he thrust out his hand. Oliver took it and gravely shook it.

"Nicely done, darling," Henrietta breathed.

Oliver let himself, for a moment, imagine the darling was for him.

He got into the carriage and when it turned at the end of the drive and he dared look back, he saw Henrietta still standing out in the cold, Nathaniel held on her hip, her other arm above her head, sweeping back and forth in large arcs like she was a castaway hailing a passing ship.

Over the next three weeks, a waking hour did not go by in which he didn't conjure the feel of her body against his, the sound of his name on her lips, the sight of her holding his son and waving farewell to him.

These reveries made him hurry through his meetings surrounding the shipping interests and the brewery left to him by his deceased father. The unexpected expiry of Mr. Oliver Hartwell's ataraxy likely provoked some head-scratching among his solicitors and men of business. He was impatient, short-tempered, demanding. Issues must be resolved immediately, and the new contracts written out and signed without delay. He could not linger. The new year was much too distant. He must be back at Crossthwaite by Christmas Day.

On the morning of his last day in London, he finally took out Henrietta's list. He had held the shopping back as a treat for himself, looking forward to spending uninterrupted hours thinking of her, searching out and procuring things she wanted for herself. He expected the list to include some bolts of cloth to be made into dresses at a future time. Would she describe exactly what she wanted, or would she leave the color and pattern of the fabric to his taste? Would she want some luxurious, scented soap or expensive perfume? Ribbons or threads for her embroidery? Would she allow him the latitude to select a bonnet for her? Might a husband be allowed to purchase stockings for his wife?

But when he unfolded the list, he found:

Top, brightly colored. Red or yellow?

Ball, a good sized one, for you and N. to throw about and kick.

Bilbocatch.

Hobbyhorse, if not too dear.

Shuttlecock/Battledores.

Books (simple) about insects, butterflies, spiders, worms, &c (with illustrated plates, please) for you to read to N. (again, if not too dear).

His hand swept over the foolscap, smoothing it, over and over. For an hour, he sat and smoothed the piece of paper. He considered the list. He considered his son. He considered his own miserable and half-hearted efforts at paternity. And, most of all, he considered Henrietta, his polestar, and how she was showing him the path forward in the kindest way possible.

The path of play.

Finally, he folded the page, tucked it into the tailcoat pocket closest to his heart, and set out, determined to get everything on the list and a few more things, besides.

When he disembarked in front of Crossthwaite on Christmas Eve, his legs stiff and creaking from too many days in his carriage without respite, the front door banged open and Henrietta ran out.

He was ready for her. He held his arms open and she ran into them.

"You're home! Welcome home, Oliver," she said into his chest.

He bent his head down and smelled her hair. Juniper and burnt sugar.

"Happy Christmas, Henrietta," he said, his voice choking only a little on her name. In that moment, he decided he would sell the London businesses. He didn't want them. He didn't need them. And he never wanted to travel away from here again.

Far too soon, she was releasing him, turning towards the house and crouching down.

"Come down, too," she whispered, tugging on his hand. Mystified, he crouched with her, not wanting to release her hand.

Nathaniel, looking impossibly well and surely half a stone heavier in weight and an inch taller in height, came out the front door now, almost as fast as Henrietta had, bolting right towards his father.

Then and there, Oliver received his very first hug, ever, from his son. It lasted only a second, if that—Nathaniel's slender arms around Oliver's neck, warm cheek against his cold one, his own hand coming up to touch his son's narrow back, so like his own—before Nathaniel squirmed away.

Thank God, the embrace had been short and Oliver could stand and busy himself with removing parcels from the carriage. He was almost completely recovered when he turned back to Henrietta who took his arm, hugging it against herself and her breasts as she led him into the house, burbling about Christmas and the greenery she and Nathaniel had collected and Mrs. Nixon's ginger cake in the oven and could he smell it?

It was the finest homecoming a man could ask for and a far better one than he deserved.