Chapter Thirty #2
Brady glanced from Rose to Henry and inclined his head. “Your Grace, Mr. Wilke was just looking for you.”
Wilke exclaimed, “I turned around, and it was as if you’d vanished into thin air! Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”
Henry gave him a chiding look. “You may not be a man of science, as I am, Wilke, but I am sure you are aware that men do not vanish. All of you, come into my drawing room at once.”
It was only steps away, as his rooms were at the heart of the great house. The room’s red Persian carpet, olive-green walls, and ornamental gilding struck him as foolishly opulent now.
“Sit down, sit down,” he urged them, gesturing to the elegant chairs and settees. Rose, who’d flitted over to the window, looked over at him. “Not you—you do as you like,” he told her with a wave of his hand. “Kirchhoff, at the table. I have a number of items to attend to.”
With alacrity, his solicitor sat down and drew paper, ink, a pen, and a notary seal from his attaché case.
Brady asked, “Shall I ring for tea, sir?”
“No, sit down,” Henry said. Brady raised his eyebrows, but obeyed.
Henry walked over to the table. “First things first. I am going to write a letter, which you all may witness, and Kirchhoff will notarize.” He took a leaf of paper, dipped a pen in the ink, and they all stared at him as he bent over, scrawled out a few lines, and signed it with a flourish.
Then he straightened again. “It says, To whom it may concern, I, Henry Horatio Leighton-Lyons have on this day of May first, 1818, fallen in love with an American lady. My title and estate may be transferred at once, with the small amendments I make today, for I am leaving England forever.”
“What!” Kirchhoff demanded, as Rose drifted over to a seat, a delighted smile on her face.
Brady leaned forward in his chair. “Your Grace, are you quite well?”
“Never better.” Henry looked fondly at the older man. “I will miss you, Brady.” Then he turned to Kirchhoff. “From my estate, Brady’s only daughter, Mary Brady, is to be bequeathed five thousand a year.”
Brady looked as though he might pass out. Henry hoped not; he had neither smelling salts nor Malort handy.
“I do not hear your pen scratching, Kirchhoff,” Henry said to his solicitor.
“Five hundred, surely,” Kirchhoff said in a weak voice.
“I am certain I did not stutter. Five thousand a year for Mary Brady, and…well, let’s say, a ten thousand lump sum for Brady himself, toward his retirement.” Kirchoff was scribbling furiously now.
Brady rose to his feet. “Your Grace, I can hardly find the words to—”
“Not at all. Please sit,” Henry said quickly, finding the gratitude embarrassing. “Five thousand pounds for Mr. Quentin Dunton, for his excellent instruction.” Dunton’s eyebrows raised and he flashed a smile. “A thousand pounds for Wilke, I suppose, since he happens to be here,” Henry added.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Wilke said. “I am very sorry I will not be able to finish the portrait.”
Henry regretted that, too. But the artist could hardly finish the painting before the full moon set.
And if he and Rose stayed in the past until the next full moon, he felt sure that she would grow anxious about being away from her brother, her friends, and her work—even though in their year, no time would pass at all.
“Never mind that,” he told the artist. “I believe the painting already captured my essence very well.”
“But Your Grace, you are not even there.”
“Indeed.” Henry’s gaze drifted to Rose. “In my heart, I was always and only with my beloved.” Rose pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes sparkling.
Dunton folded his arms across his chest with the air of a man who was enjoying a show. “You met her a while back, then.”
“Yes. Although since it is 1818, I suppose that in another sense, I have not yet had the pleasure of—”
“Oh!” Rose said, jumping out of her chair. “I just remembered! I think I can help.” She went over to Wilke, pulling a piece of paper out of her purse, and held it up. It was a color photo of the finished painting. “Can you copy this, maybe?”
Wilke’s jaw dropped. “Where did you get that?”
Rose threw her hands in the air. “It’s too hard to explain.”
The artist took the paper from her and stared at it. “Yes, I can recreate this. But what kind of sorcery—”
“Very good,” Henry said crisply. “When the painting is finished, please give it to the World Astronomical Society.”
He added to Kirchhoff, “See that they get their portion, as enumerated in my will.”
Rose was raising her hand in the air. “What about the rest of the servants?”
“Ah yes. A hundred pounds apiece for them, along with letters of recommendation from me. Brady can tell you what to write for each of them,” he added with a wave of his hand.
Henry’s solicitor had often written letters on his behalf.
“Oh, and a thousand for you as well, Kirchhoff—do make a note of that.”
The solicitor did, but he looked pained. “Your Grace, with these amendments, and the money settled on your sisters, not to mention your excellent society, the next Duke of Beresford…that is to say, your cousin…may struggle to manage Everly Park.”
“He’ll figure it out. He’s a clever fellow,” Henry said, leaning over and taking the pen from Kirchhoff.
Then he paused. “No. I have only met him twice, and he is a dullard, and very disagreeable besides.” He shrugged.
“Perhaps it may pass into the National Trust.” He and Rose exchanged a knowing glance.
He was aware of Brady and Dunton conducting a quiet, pleased conversation as he dipped the pen in ink, then signed and dated the bottom of his paper with the amendments. “Notarize that, Kirchhoff, if you please.”
His solicitor took the paper and inserted it into the notary seal stamper. Looking warily up at Henry, he pressed the lever to emboss the paper with the seal.
Henry clapped his hands. “I believe that is all. Rose and I will leave today for America.” He looked around at their astonished faces. “Yes, well. Do enjoy the rest of your lives.”
After they filed out, Rose came and threw her arms around him. “That was amazing. You made a real difference for a lot of people.”
“You liked that, did you?” he murmured, looking down at her. Christ, she felt good, pressed up next to him, reminding every inch of his body that he was alive. “Shall we tour the rest of the house?”
She quirked her mouth to the side, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “I thought I would want to, but now I just want to see the bedroom.”
He hauled her up more tightly against him, locking her hips to his, as if she didn’t already know the effect she had on him. “I must warn you, a tour of the bedroom will take a while.”
“Really?” Her eyes widened in feigned astonishment. “Why is that?”
“Well, as you may recall, in addition to a four-poster bed, there is a large gilded mirror, and a very propitiously angled French chaise longue—”
“I vaguely remember those,” she said, urging him toward the bedroom door, “but I do want to see them one more time.”
—
Perhaps two hours later, Henry got up from the bed and looked down at Rose.
She lay with her eyes closed on top of his tangled sheets, her arms flung above her head, her wild curls spilling out around her, the sunlight through the leaded glass windows casting little rainbows on her creamy naked body.
His sleeping duchess. It was a picture so unreal and lovely that no artist, not even Walter Wilke, could have captured it.
He moved quietly to his mahogany dresser, took a small lacquered box out of the top drawer, and put it in his messenger bag—Jason’s bag, actually, but the man might not want it back, as it had gotten soaked and was streaked with mud.
The box contained his wedding ring and Charlotte’s, along with a rose quartz and diamond pendant he’d given her on their first anniversary, designed especially for her.
When he proposed to Rose in the future, he would want a new ring in some twenty-first-century style.
He’d make discreet inquiries beforehand, to learn what was appropriate.
But she might like to have these as well.
Then he returned to the bed, leaned over, and kissed her on the cheek. “Wake up, my love,” he murmured, when she stirred.
“Mmmm.” She stretched and sat up.
“I have a question for you, but I do not know if you will remember.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “When you gave me the astrolabe, in another life…did you know it could be used for time travel?”
“I overheard a rumor at the auction house, but I didn’t know if it was true. I knew you’d think it was silly if I told you.” She smiled softly. “But I thought you might figure it out, with enough time.”
Once they were dressed, they left the house and, pulling their suitcases behind them, walked to the secret garden with the Venus.
They wouldn’t be disturbed there as they made the return trip.
He cast a backward glance at Everly Park and felt no desire to ever return.
He continued forward with her, away from certainty, superiority, and everything else that, in the end, had never served him well.
He still had no idea who he would be or what he would do in her time. The one thing he knew for sure was that she was his miracle, now more than ever. He would never let her forget it.