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“I’m sorry,” he said, and he truly meant it.
She stared at him, saying nothing.
“I—I shan’t make excuses for my behavior,” he continued, struggling for composure. She began to back away, and he panicked. “No, Harriett, please. I must—”
But it was too late. In a flash, she’d turned and fled.
He could go after her, but it would likely result in a scene and lead to embarrassment for them both. Besides, he didn’t have any solutions to offer for a problem he was only now realizing existed. An odd sensation flooded him as he watched her run, a sort of tearing deep inside, followed by yawning emptiness.
As she vanished from sight, all of his strength bled out. Bending over, he gulped air as though there were not enough of it in the world to fill his lungs. A stone bench beckoned in the shadows. He sat and waited until his heart had slowed, hoping his thoughts would settle themselves along with it. They didn’t.
When he at last rose, the moon was a good deal higher in the sky than it had been when he’d come out with Harriett. He was stiff and had no idea how long he’d sat there staring into the night.
Going into the house, he could not help looking for her. His eyes sought her out, but found no trace. He had to leave and quickly, but wanted to see her beforehand—had to see her—if only to assure himself she was well. It was a shallow excuse for his need to lay eyes on her again, and he knew it.
Though it made him grind his teeth, he began searching for the bright red head of Lord Russell. He found it quickly and sure enough, there she was with him. She looked a bit wan and her smile appeared brittle, but at least she was still here and not in tears. The solicitous Russell bent to offer her a glass of punch and she took it.
It galled him to admit it, but Russell was one of the few decent men he knew in a city all too ready to indulge a man’s vices. The fellow was a bit prone to emotional displays, b
ut that was just the way of some men. But did he love her?
Love.
Roland stood and stared at her, heedless of the crowd flowing around him, their grumbling only faintly registering. Is that what this is? He hardly knew, seeing as he’d never felt anything like it before. It wasn’t anything like the sentimental drivel Rich and his players acted out on the stage. The longing looks, the burst of song flowing from a heart too full to contain its joy.
This was nothing like that. This was painful. Unpleasant. It couldn’t be...that.
Guilt. That’s what caused this constriction, this feeling of there not being enough air in the room. Someone bumped into him, breaking his reverie. Chest tight, Roland turned away and entered the flow of the passing crowd, determined to leave before he did anything stupid—or rather anything else stupid.
The ride home passed in a blur, London’s dark streets going by unnoticed while he was lost in thought. Upon arriving, he went straight to his office and reached automatically for the comfort of the brandy decanter. Up on the mantelpiece, a long flat box caught his eye. He took it down. The items within shifted and rattled against the sides as he turned it over.
He’d avoided opening it for almost two years. He knew what was inside. Had his brother left behind more than just admonishments and pleas to live a more respectable life? Had he perhaps written of Harriett?
Possessed by a burning need to know everything there was to know about her, even if it meant reading every harsh, critical word his brother had written, Roland carried the box over to the desk. He turned up the lamp until the flame was bright enough to read by and opened the lid.
The stack of letters stared back at him. He picked them up and turned them over to see William’s neat script dating each. The oldest had been written just before their father’s death. He broke the seal, and several bank notes fell out as he unfolded the parchment.
Roland,
Please use the enclosed to pay the debt owed to Munthorpe, after which I implore you to come home. Do not allow your pride to keep you from...
Sighing, he put it aside and moved to another which, according to its date, was written after he’d met Harriett. He scanned the lines, and at last her name jumped out at him.
...Lady Harriett Dunhaven, the daughter of one of Hogarth’s friends, has captured my interest. By lucky chance, her father hosted our Hospital planning committee meeting last month. She attended as an observer and afterward privately offered several very logical suggestions for improvement. Not only were her ideas practical and worthy of serious consideration, but I also quite enjoyed her company. We have since become good friends, such that I have spoken with Lord Dunhaven and received his blessing to pay her court. She is both pleasant in demeanor and wise for her years, and I believe she will make a fine duchess...
The letter went on to again ask him to return home. There was nothing more about Harriett. He took up another that had been written several months later. Frustration mounted as he skimmed through several pages of Hospital-related rubbish. Just as he was about to give up, there it was:
...and I am also delighted to inform you that Lady Harriett has agreed to marry me. The wedding will take place next spring. I would very much like to have you at my side...
Roland laughed in disbelief. His brother had written three pages about the damned Hospital before mentioning his bloody engagement. It certainly showed where his priorities had lain. He resumed reading.
...happy to say that Father is quite satisfied with my choice. Unfortunately, I do not think he will live to see the ceremony. If you are ever to mend matters between you, I advise you to come soon...
He tossed the letter onto the growing pile and went to fetch himself a glass of brandy. By George, he needed it.
Eventually, William had been forced to come and find him to tell him about their father’s deteriorating condition. Under heavy pressure, Roland had at last capitulated and agreed to come home. The visit had not gone well.
He downed half the brandy in his glass and returned to the letters, determined to read them all. There were eighteen of them, and to his disappointment most contained nothing of consequence. But one was quite different—William’s last.
