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And as for the other problem… No, she emphatically did not need to talk about it. All she had to do was banish any thoughts of bright blue eyes, a flash of blond hair, that panty-melting smile, those wickedly clever fingers—
Alice dashed into the bathroom, turned the shower full blast onto cold, ripped her clothes off and ducked under the jets.
Sometimes extreme problems required extreme solutions.
An hour later she sat sipping a glass of sparkling mineral water at the hotel bar. In her pocket was Henry’s letter, which she’d more or less pleated into a fan the amount of times she’d folded it. It was short, succinct, beautiful prose that highlighted his surprise and delight at finding out he was a father. He’d said that despite teaching the written word for more than a quarter of a century, all words had utterly deserted him at the gravity and honour of the role he now found himself in. Her eyes filled up every time she read it.
What if she disappointed him? If they had nothing to say to each other?
And then she lifted her head and there he was.
Small, neat, with a purposeful stride, making his way across the marbled floor. His posture was upright, and yet… that slight downward tilt of his chin belied his step, as if Henry Beacham-Brown was both sure of his place in the world and wanted to escape from it.
Her heart felt almost painful with the emotions swirling around.
This perfect stranger who, in some place deep inside her, she’d known her whole life.
Alice stood up and reached out her hand as he reached out his. A warm firm grasp slid over hers and there was a moment of self-deprecating laughter from both of them, then Henry’s head bobbed forward and he kissed her cheek.
She’d wondered earlier if he would hug her, should she hug him, but as he stood back and smiled, this felt enough. Enough for now, anyhow.
“Alice.” The way he said her name made it sound almost like “Ell-iss”. “Shall we sit?” Henry waved a hand at the chairs in a sweeping motion. She noticed the wedding band on his left hand and thought of Gabe—her stepfather, she guessed. There was so much new information to take in her brain resembled a super-charged bouncy ball. Her search on Gabe had been much less extensive, but quite exciting. She hadn’t realised he’d had a part inDownton Abbeyand she was planning on a rerun binge just to watch him.
Henry flicked back his jacket as he sat, his movements neat and measured. She wondered if his knees were okay. They seemed to be as he crossed them with ease and then said, “Where to begin?”
Alice picked up her glass and mumbled something about a whole lifetime being a long time to catch up on.
The waiter came and Henry ordered a gin and tonic and asked her what she would like, but she stuck with her mineral water, for now. She couldn’t afford to go fuzzy and miss a beat of what they shared.
“I think you do resemble me,” Henry said after a long moment, his eyes behind his glasses searching her face. “As much as one can tell how one looks, of course, which is always difficult. The mirror only reflects so much.” He made a face, his mouth turned down self-deprecatingly. “Ah, my dear, I’m at risk of talking gibberish. It’s not every day a man gets to meet the daughter he never knew he had.” He leaned back in his chair. “How have you been all this time? Seems woefully inadequate, doesn’t it?”
Alice smiled so hard her jaw hurt. “Maybe we should start with something current, like your keynote address, and work our way backwards. Oscar Wilde, I love Oscar Wilde.” She was gushing, but that was to be expected. Henry was so amazingly clever. “Tell me about that?”
Henry looked relieved. “Yes. A man ahead of his time.”
“Aren’t you writing his biography at present?” If she pretended she was discussing books with a customer, she could do this just fine.
“Indeed. It has been a labour of love.” He looked like he’d be quite happy to dive into this subject, then pulled himself up short. “No, Alice. Don’t start me on Oscar Wilde. He can wait. This is about you and I, and we must not waste a precious moment of it.” Alice’s heart melted at the warmth in his voice. “Your mother says you have a passion for English literature. You studied it at university? First-class honours I believe?”
She nodded, feeling herself growing rosy-cheeked with pride.
“A woman after my own heart, what a delightful coincidence!” When he laughed, his laugh had a lovely warm timbre and an infectious undertone, like he could be quite mischievous once you got to know him.
Henry’s drink arrived. He stirred it gently with the swizzle stick and picked it up. His hands, fine-boned and long-fingered, shook noticeably as he put the glass to his lips.
Did Henry have an anxiety problem? Surely not. He gave lectures to hundreds of students, spoke at conferences around the world. Stood up at gay rights rallies, had been interviewed on television and radio, even made regular appearances on a British book review program. No, he couldn’t have.
“Have you ever had a panic attack?” The words blurted out of her mouth before she could stop them.
Henry drew the glass from his lips, his expression surprised… and then, relieved.
“Oh, yes, they’ve plagued me for years.”
“Do you still?”
Henry put his glass down. “Not exactly. I can get palpitations when I’m nervous.”
“Feeling like your heart is tripping over itself?”
