Page 118 of The Language of Love

Henry watched his wife as she gazed at the people and village. When Annis sat back in her seat, she was no longer smiling, and her eyes were creased with concern.

“Don’t worry, my dear. I won’t take out my anger on them. I’ve already instructed my steward to inspect the various tenant farms, as well as the buildings in the village that I own and lease—which is most of them. The people of Stokely will find me a beneficent lord.”

If he thought his snide assurance would ease her frown, he was sorely mistaken.

“What happened to you here, Henry?”

Henry set his elbows on his thighs and leaned toward her, suddenly furious at being back in this place that made him feel so small and powerless—even though it was his decision to return. “What happened?” He snorted. “I’m not sure where to start the litany of offenses, my lady. But language fascinates you—have you ever heard of lingchi, ordeath by a thousand cuts?”

She shook her head.

“It is a form of torture used in China. The victim is strapped to a wooden frame, placed in a public square, and cut dozens, if not hundreds, of times. Each cut, by itself, is never enough to kill. It is a punishment that is saved for the most heinous crimes, a slow, lingering torment that continues even after the victim is dead. That is what the villagers and my family engaged in for eleven years. Slight cuts administered as publicly as possible. If I had remained, I’m sure I would still be alive, crippled and beaten down but too much of an entertainment to ever be allowed the relief of death.”

She stared at him with eyes shimmering with tears. For him, he assumed.

Henry smiled and caught her hand. “Don’t waste tears on the past, Annis.”

“Will you ever be able to forgive the people in the village and your family?”

“I will use my money and power to ensure that life is happier and healthier for all who rely on me, Annis. Is my forgiveness really necessary?”

“Hate and anger and resentment are so… corrosive.” She laid her free hand over their joined ones. “Forgive them for you, Henry—it would be a kindness to yourself.”

Henry sat back on his bench, and their hands slid apart.

He turned to look out the window just as they passed through the gates that led to Stoke. When he’d been a boy, the gatehouse had been occupied. Now the small, quaint stone house was shuttered and lifeless, yet another casualty of his uncle and cousin’s mismanagement.

“Look,” he said, as they crested the slight rise.

She opened her mouth as if she might say something more, but then sighed and turned to look where he directed.

“Oh, my goodness, Henry. It is beautiful!” She was close enough to the glass that her breath fogged the window.

“Yes,” Henry agreed, looking at his kind, lovely wife rather than the building where he’d spent the worst years of his life. “Very beautiful.”

***

It was like a castle out of a fairytale—or so Annis believed until they came closer. Then it was impossible to ignore the neglect and decay: crumbling or missing chunks of stone and mortar, windows filled with brick or boards rather than glass, cracked and missing roof slates, and—most remarkably—what looked to be a small tree sprouting from one section of a moss-covered turret.

“Ah.”

She looked up at Henry’s soft exhalation and followed his line of vision.

Ah, indeed. While she had been looking at the structure, she’d missed the double line of servants that stretched out from the rather incongruous portico that had been built—unadvisedly, in her opinion—onto the original structure, probably in the last hundred years.

A woman emerged from beneath the portico. Annis was vaguely aware there was a man beside her, but she could not look away from the most beautiful female she had ever seen. She was tall and had an hourglass shape, with a headful of honey-blond hair with flashes of auburn glinting in the sun. She moved with a sinuous, sensual grace and her plain gray gown was a perfect foil for her almost shocking beauty.

Annis darted a look at Henry as the footman put down the steps and opened the door. Her husband was staring out at the pair who approached them, his smile sardonic, the unnerving, stony expression back in his eyes.

He opened the door and hopped out before the footman could assist them, helping Annis down before they both turned to face the approaching duo.

“Henry! How lovely to see you after so long,” the woman said, her hands held out in front of her in welcome, her dark blue eyes glittering with amusement, full ruby lips curved into a smile that looked almost… gleeful.

Henry ignored her hands, instead turning to Annis. “Annis, my dear—this is Julia, the Dowager Countess of Rotherhithe and my cousin Edmund Singleton.” His smile shifted into a faint sneer before he added, “also known as Viscount Singleton, my heir.” He nodded at the couple. “Julia, Edmund, this is my wife, Lady Rotherhithe.”

Without so much as a flicker of surprise, hurt, or annoyance, the dowager offered her hands to Annis, who was so mortified by Henry’s snub that she warmly took the other woman’s hands in her own.

“What a delight to meet you, my lady. And welcome to Stoke.” The dowager smiled down at her, making Annis aware of what a little dab of a female she must appear beside such an exquisite specimen.