Midnight Scandals (36 page)

She twirled a strand of her hair and peered at him from beneath her eyelashes. “Oh, so you mean it is time for
marital
duties again?”

“It is always time for marital duties around here,” he teased her back, enjoying the flush in her cheeks. “But actually, my dear, I propose to whisk you away on holiday—a proper honeymoon.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? Where?”

“Shall we go back to Italy?” They’d once had a lovely, if platonic holiday on Lake Como.

“We should. But we can’t afford to be gone that long—the Season isn’t finished and we still have to chaperone your sister.”

“In that case, how about a quick jaunt to the Lake District?” They’d spent several weeks there after their wedding, but they’d been strangers with almost nothing to say to each other. “This time I will be a most solicitous bridegroom.”

She wrapped her arms about him. “Yes, I adore the idea.”

Then, after a moment, “I only wish Mrs. Englewood can be as happy as we are.”

Another woman would little concern herself with the happiness of a rival who almost made away with her husband, but Millie, he knew, had always felt guilty for the pain she had caused Isabelle, even though she herself had never had a say in the selection of her bridegroom.

“Hastings has promised to write her every other day. I cabled her sister yesterday, asking her to keep me informed of Mrs. Englewood’s welfare.” He wanted the very same, a sunny future for Isabelle, but there wasn’t much more he could do now without making an intrusive nuisance of himself.

Millie sighed softly. “In that case, let me begin packing.”

“Later,” he said, pulling away the sheets that covered her person. “Marital duties first.”

“Yes, of course.” She wrapped one leg about his middle. “Marital duties always come first.”

M
Y DEAR
M
R.
F
ITZWILLIAM
,

I was not so drunk last night as to wake up this morning with rue and self-loathing. In fact, though the sight of the bright sun streaming into the house reminded me anew of the hopes I’d nurtured as little as twenty-four hours ago, I am in far less despair than I could have believed as little as twelve hours ago.

I am grateful for your kindness and friendship, sir. And I can only hope that I will not flood your desk too liberally with missives. For in my relentless need to hold on to everything old, I have forgotten the joy of making new friends. And a friend of your caliber—I could live another fifty years and encounter none finer.

Yours,

Isabelle Englewood

P.S. I anxiously await the disclosure of Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s very private message.

P.P.S. Am about to detrain in Aberdeen. The thought of holding my children in my arms again warms me. You, sir, I hold firmly in my affection and my esteem.

P.P.P.S. I would have posted this from the rail station itself, but I was met by my sister and our five children—what joy! In addition, the sight of my twin nieces made me realize that I still had a few more words to write. Namely that except for the very first time I met them, I have never mistaken the twins for each other. Despite their almost disorienting resemblance, each girl is resolutely her own person.

My Dear Mrs. Englewood,

I take pleasure in your reunion with your children. And I rejoice in your compliment. It is decided then: We are friends and nothing shall stand in the way of our friendship.

Your mysterious comings and goings have become a topic of much interest in the vicinity. I have disavowed any knowledge of your schedule or your intentions. Not as easy a feat as I first imagined: I was interrogated by Mrs. Beauregard, proprietress of the farm next to Doyle’s Grange who saw me out of her window, making my way to my house, when she got up for a glass of water in the middle of the night. Rest assured, however, I divulged nothing. On the other hand, now I have a reputation for sleepwalking. All in your honor, lady!

I hope you find Scotland fair and the company of all the children bracing.

Your devoted servant,

Ralston Fitzwilliam

P.S. Thank you for your reassurance that I am not a mere stand-in for Lord Fitzhugh. Allow me to assure you in return that I have never been made to feel as one. Even when you didn’t know who I was, you knew very well who I wasn’t.

P.P.S. Mrs. Fitzwilliam, bless her memory, wrote, “My own Big Bad Wolf ate me—and I dare say I liked it.”

My Dear Mr. Fitzwilliam,

Scotland is indeed fair, though we are shortly departing for the Lake District—my sister had made plans before my return to the country. The company of all the children is beyond bracing. Hyacinth, my daughter, is a most mischievous girl. My sister loves to point out how similar she is to me as a child. I look at her and marvel that I was ever so rowdy and fearless.

My sister worries that losing Fitz again is too heavy a blow for me. I will not pretend it does not hurt, but part of me wonders if it isn’t a blessing in disguise, a failure that forces me to look forward to see what the future holds, rather than backward, trying to recreate a past that never was.

In my original plans, by now the children and I would be at Doyle’s Grange, and not tagging along to the Lake District, where Fitz and his wife had honeymooned years ago. My sister had offered to change the destination, but I told her it did not matter—and I did not feel myself to be lying outright. Lying somewhat, but not lying outright.

Yours truly,

Isabelle Englewood

P.S. Country gossip is delightful. A sleepwalking gentleman? Can a sleepdancing one be far behind?

P.P.S. I have yet to tell anyone about you, lest they think I have made you up out of whole cloth. Do reply, dear friend, and reassure me again that you are not imaginary.

P.P.P.S. I made a mistake of sitting down to read your letter with a cup of tea. When I reached Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s comment—well, let’s just say that the entire letter is tea-stained and I very nearly killed myself laughing. What I pity she and I never met. We’d have been such a pair of mischief-makers.

P.P.P.P.S. I know my curiosity is unseemly, yet I must ask, were there only three locations on that map? Or were there more that you have not divulged yet?

My Dear Mrs. Englewood,

You are hereby assured that I am not imaginary, but very much real—and deeply curious about where in the Lake District you are headed.

I write to you from a hill overlooking Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s final resting place in Dorset. I visit the area every time I return to England, walking through the village, and perhaps venturing as far as the gate of the churchyard. But today marks the first time since her interment that I have touched her tombstone with my own hand, and traced the letters and numbers that mark her all-too-brief life.

And wept as I was never able to, all those years ago, at the sight of her casket being lowered into the ground.

Now I sit here, upon this familiar hill, overcome by an entirely unfamiliar lightness of being, as if I am closer to the clouds than to the ground.

Thank you, once again.

Your devoted servant,

Ralston Fitzwilliam

P.S. On the map you would have also found the house in which Goldilocks becomes an intruder.

P.P.S. Mrs. Fitzwilliam would have enjoyed your friendship enormously. That her words have made someone spew tea years after her passing is no doubt delighting her in the hereafter.

“W
HY ARE YOU CARESSING THAT LETTER?
” asked Louise, Isabelle’s sister.

Isabelle stilled abruptly. Was that what she had been doing, stroking Mr. Fitzwilliam’s words? She set down the letter. “Hastings wrote again.”

It was not a lie. Hastings
had
written again—he was Fitz’s best friend and was no doubt writing at the latter’s behest.

“But that is not Lord Hastings’s letter, is it?” said Louise, ever astute.

Isabelle considered the question and realized that she had no desire to lie to Louise, or even to fudge her answer. She
wanted
to talk about her wonderful friend.

“The letter is from Mr. Fitzwilliam, my neighbor at Doyle’s Grange.”

“A very enthusiastic neighbor,” pronounced Louise, “considering that his letters arrive with the regularity of sunrises.”

“I encouraged it.”

Louise chewed her toast contemplatively. “And is Mr. Fitzwilliam the reason you are not as distressed by Fitz’s decision as I was afraid you might be?”

“Yes.” A lovely, clean answer for all the lovely, unmistakable feelings inside her.

Louise’s mouth was wide with both surprise and joy. “Isabelle. Oh,
Isabelle
.”

Isabelle felt a similar warmth welling inside her—and a great relief, like stepping on solid ground after days on a choppy sea. Now Louise no longer needed to worry about her. “Don’t say anything to Fitz yet. I know you have been writing to him.”

“No, no, my lips are sealed. Now tell me more about your Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

But before Isabelle could say anything, Louise frowned, as if remembering something. “He doesn’t go by Fitz, does he?”

Isabelle’s pleasure faded. She had not even brought up the resemblance, and already Louise wondered whether her preference for Mr. Fitzwilliam had something to do with Fitz. “No, he does not. And what do you wish to know about him?”

M
Y DEAR
M
R.
F
ITZWILLIAM
,

We shall be staying at the Lakehead Hotel in Ambleside.

I cannot take credit for your lightness of being, but sometimes I feel as if I share in it.

I was drafted into a game of hide-and-seek yesterday afternoon. But I was not an unwilling participant and it was quite good fun hiding under a bed with my daughter, trying not to giggle audibly when her cousin’s feet appeared right before our eyes.

After we’d been spotted, Hyacinth leaned into me and said, “I like it when you laugh, Mama, even if Victoria also heard you.”

A lightness-of-being moment, without a doubt.

Yours truly,

Isabelle Englewood

P.S. I hesitate to say this, for fear of how preposterous it would sound. But I wish I had been there with you at the churchyard. Not by Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s headstone—I would not dream of such an intrusion into your privacy—but by the gate, perhaps, for when you came out.

P.P.S. I cannot wait to learn Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s remarks concerning the Three Bears’ house.

P.P.P.S. You are no longer a secret. I have confessed to my sister that my well-traveled, well-connected neighbor from Somerset has been heroically lifting my spirits. I have even described you as handsome—“at least as handsome as Fitz” might have been my exact words. Whether out of prudence or cowardice, however, I have not mentioned The Resemblance. But now, having lied by omission, I fear I might have made that particular subject more difficult for the future.