Chapter 14
Fourteen
Harry found her new life to her liking. She still thought breakfast very difficult, wanting only her coffee.
She tried to persuade Smythe to eat the breakfast—toast and eggs and ham and kidneys and porridge—brought to her in bed on a large tray.
Harry could not believe the amount of food she was expected to eat.
There was enough for a farmer’s family. But Smythe wouldn’t touch it, saying Harry had to eat it all, Smythe had already eaten her own breakfast, which had been twice the size of Harry’s breakfast, and his lordship would have her head if he found out she was eating Lady Drake’s portions.
When Thomas was at Sommerleigh and Harry tried to scrimp on breakfast, he would, without fail, eat luncheon with her and encourage the footmen to bring her dish after dish.
He didn’t insist so much as promote. He would smack his lips over a meat pie or a wedge of cheese or a bowl of raspberries, telling Harry the food was succulent and Dr. Andrews had said meat pie or cheese or whatever he was eating at that moment was vital for health.
From this, she suspected he inspected her morning tray after it left her bedchamber, and she did not want to disappoint him with a poor showing at breakfast. Her husband had helped her find her aerie and had sent the money to Dean Haddington’s widow; she must show him she was making an effort.
So Harry ate as much of each breakfast as she could. In time, she found eggs could be agreeable to her if the white and yellow were mixed together before cooking so both the color and texture were uniform. She told Smythe this, and her eggs came to her that way every morning thereafter.
After breakfast, there was walking. On fine days, it must be outside in the gardens so she could have the sun on her face.
On wet days, she walked in the gallery, up and down, up and down.
Many fine mornings, the doctor would happen past Sommerleigh to check on his patient, and he would join her for her walk on the grounds.
They talked mathematics frequently, or rather, Harry talked mathematics.
Specifically, theories about the natural numbers.
The doctor, Harry felt, did his best to ask intelligent questions, but often he fell silent until the conversation was steered by her to a topic of more general interest. Like celestial mechanics.
Sometimes, during her walks in the gallery, Thomas would join Harry if he was at home.
He might offer his arm and be close to her as they walked.
In this way, she could feel a bit of his heat.
He would explain the provenance of the pictures if she asked.
But, usually, they lapsed into silence. If the day was more than wet, if it was storming, Thomas would stand on the landing of the imperial staircase and watch out the window and wait.
When the storm stopped, even if it was time for luncheon, he would go out and ride Octavius.
Harry was in her aerie before and after luncheon, before and after dinner.
Thomas had arranged for a lock to be fitted to the door of the room, and she wore the key on a chain round her neck, where it joined a sister key, the one to her room in London.
The aerie was now filled with her books and stacks of paper and an assortment of inkpots and quills.
It smelled of ink and old leather bindings and dust. Harry thought the smell, the view, and the aerie itself were all extremely conducive to hard work.
And perhaps her morning exercise helped her to sit quietly for longer periods of time in the afternoon. She certainly felt less agitated.
The hours in the aerie flew by in a way they had not in London. Harry relished her life of no balls, no calls.
Thomas would ride Octavius in the afternoon.
She would often look out from her aerie as the sun was descending in the western sky and search for a horse and rider coming back to the house for dinner.
And when she would spot him, knowing she would soon be joining him in the dining room, she had the most peculiar feelings in her stomach.
She didn’t tell anyone, and certainly not Thomas, about those peculiar feelings. It turned out there were some secrets one should keep from one’s husband, after all.
It was not going well. It was very much not going well. It could not be going any worse. Why couldn’t she see? Why wasn’t the path clear? How could she fail at this?
Thump, thump, thump, thump. Head on wall. Get it clear. Thump, thump, thump. Not any clearer but her head hurt, and that was clear.
Blast Fermat. Damn him to hell. And Diophantus, too.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. Almost uncontainable.
A knocking that sounded different from her head knocking and “Harry, Harry, Harry.” A man’s voice.
And “Let me in, damn it!”
Thump, thump, thump.
And “I’ll break this precious lock if you don’t let me in!”
Thump.
Harry walked to the door and unlocked it. “Come in.” The two words were a struggle. She could feel herself on the verge. She walked back to the wall where she had been thumping her head. Thump, thump, thump.
Thomas was in her aerie. “See here, Harry, stop that, you’re scaring everyone, what is wrong with you?”
Harry stopped thumping her head and held still. But Thomas said, “Be quiet, stop it!”
Only then did Harry realize she had been keening. With enormous effort, she quieted her voice. She went back to thumping her head.
Thomas grabbed her by her shoulders. “Stop doing that. You’re hurting yourself.”
Close, so close. Harry slid out of his grasp and collapsed onto her knees and rocked back and forth, bending down so her head almost touched the floor.
Thomas crouched down next to her. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
Smythe in the doorway. “She’s upset, my lord. She’s not ill, she’s not mad. She’s just trying to feel better.”
Yes. She agreed with Smythe. Just trying to feel better. No. Just trying to think better. She cared nothing about feeling.
“Well, there has to be a way for her to feel better without pounding her head to a pulp and howling like a banshee!”
Smythe’s voice again. “Her stepmother had a way. You must ask her if you can help her.”
“Can I help you, Harry?” Thomas seemed very far away.
Harry bobbed and bowed and rocked and nodded yes. Could she manage to speak? She squeaked out a single word. “Yes.”
Smythe said, “Kneel behind her. Now, wrap your arms around her waist.”
Harry felt the warmth of Thomas behind her and then the tentative touch of his hands. Oh, that heat. His scent.
“No, no, my lord, you must wrap your arms very tightly. You must restrain her so she can’t move.”
His arms tightened. A cinch around her waist, holding her. She tried to rock, and she could not. She was stuck fast. Yes.
“Are you sure?” His voice came from behind her. “Harry, is this right?”
Harry nodded and leaned back into his chest and then pushed her body forwards, trying as hard as she could to break his grip. But she could not. He was much stronger than Catherine, so she could push with all her might. His grip did not break. It would not break.
Her breathing slowed. She felt her muscles start to relax. She was safe with him. Safe with his arms around her, holding her here, keeping her compressed so she did not break off into a million spinning pieces and crumble into dust.
“Don’t let go yet, my lord,” Smythe said.
The overwhelming need to thump and keen and rock was dissipating.
And yes, there it was, how Euler’s totient function might be of use.
She went to get up, but Thomas’ arms still held her to him.
She thought it might be agreeable to have him do this sometime when she didn’t have an urgent mathematical coup de ma?tre to unleash on the world, but she had no time right now.
“You can let go,” Harry said, voice hoarse. There was a silence, and she suspected Thomas was looking to Smythe.
“Yes, my lady,” Smythe said. Thomas let go. Harry got up and went right to the desk and dipped her pen in the ink and began writing. She must get this down.
Thomas didn’t know what to make of the episode. Harry’s eyes had been so wild, so desperate. Almost mad. But Smythe said it was not madness.
“How often does this happen, Smythe? You seem to know all about it.”
They had come down the stairs, away from the aerie.
“Not often, my lord. Maybe once every six months. More often when she was younger and more subject to frustration.”
Thomas took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Harry had been so tense, vibrating in his arms, putting him in mind of a frightened, unbroken filly.
“I think her stepmother tried to warn me. I’ve never seen a fit like that.”
“My lord, it is not a fit. She is trying to calm a strong emotion. Some people cry, some people drink wine, some people strike others. Harry hits her own head and howls.”
“I am surprised she allowed me to hold her. She does not like touch, she says.”
“No, she does not.”
“Well.” He shook his head. “I thank you, Smythe.”
She curtsied, and he turned to go, but not before he heard her say in a low voice, “I am surprised she let you in the room at all.”