“Oh?”
“Sarah has been moved to Newgate. The indictment will go before the grand jury at the next sessions.”
“Any word on Edmund?”
He nodded. “He is settling with his boy in Hertfordshire. He is grateful for this time they have together.”
Violet kissed her husband’s cheek. Henry reached for her hand. She leaned her head against his shoulder. Through the tall windows, she could see the city, lamplit and indifferent.
She studied her Henry’s grey complexion. “Shall we go up?”
They climbed the stairs together, her arm around his waist, his hand on the banister. In her room, the fire had been built up. He closed the door behind them.
“I should tell you,” he began after settling in the chair. “I have instructed Brigg to find two neighbouring properties, one for us where there shall be no ghosts of the past and one for your mother and sisters.”
She held her breath, then her hand slowly went to her mouth. “Henry, I cannot believe it. You wonderful, thoughtful man!”
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. His arms came around her waist and held her there, and she felt him exhale against her mouth. She straightened up, smoothing out her bodice.
“You know my sisters will be at our door every morning. They will have opinions about everything.”
“I am aware. That is precisely what I would like to see happen. If and when the child comes, they will be there. You will not be alone in it. Not for a single day.”
She sat on his lap with her arms around his neck, and for a while neither of them spoke. The fire burned low. The sounds of the ball faded below them until the house was still.
His hand rested on the small of her back. His thumb moved in a slow arc against her spine, the absent, rhythmic motion that suggested he was not thinking about his in-laws and that his body had finally stopped thinking altogether.
“Henry.”
“Mm.”
“The connecting door.”
He opened one eye. “What of it?”
“I should like it removed.”
He looked at her. She watched the understanding arrive on his face.
“I shall have it seen to in the morning,” he said.
“Tonight it can stay open.”
“Is that an invitation, Duchess?” he drawled, his eyes sparkling.
They headed to their bedchambers, arm in arm, her husband smiling as though it had always been there.
In her bedchamber, they lay down together, Henry’s arm draped over her, his breaths warm on her cheek. The house settled around them. No creak was unfamiliar now. She knew which window rattled when the wind came from the east. She knew this house by sound, by smell, by the particular quality of its silence when it was asleep.
His breathing deepened against her hair. His arm grew heavier. She linked her fingers through his, smiling at the quiet, because it was no longer an absence but the quiet of a home where her husband slept.
Epilogue
What Takes in New Ground
Henry
Strawberry Hill, June 1831
