19. “Without Me” - Halsey
“Without Me” - Halsey
Our wedding night is as anticlimactic as one might expect from an arranged marriage in which both parties can barely hold a civil conversation that isn’t full of snide comments and deranged looks.
I retreat to my suite soon after dinner.
Henry does whatever he normally does, which is to say, I don’t have a bloody clue.
I’m brushing my teeth when my maid, Daphne, knocks on the bathroom door. “There is someone who wishes to see you, ma’am,” she says.
“Who is it?” I mumble through a mouthful of toothpaste.
“It’s your husband.”
I nearly choke. Henry may legally be my husband, but that doesn’t mean he should be referred to as such. I spit into the sink. “Tell him I’ve gone to bed, please.”
She returns a few minutes later. “He says it’s important that he speak with you.”
I smirk at my reflection in the mirror. If Henry thinks I’m going to be duped into believing a word out of his mouth after everything he’s done, he’s about to be sorely disappointed. “I’ll talk to him soon. Thank you, Daphne.”
Tonight is the perfect night to do an advanced skin care routine, I decide. Cleanser, face mask, rinse, toner, every jar of anti-aging cream in my bathroom, facial serums, moisturizers, massage, gua sha, and finally a jade roller. By the time I’m done, my skin has never felt better.
After spending some quality time with my cuticles and nails and moisturizing my whole body, I finally approach the connecting door between Henry’s and my suites, which I’m tolerating only because it can be locked. Without opening it, I say, “Henry?”
“Congratulations, I’m an old man.”
I bite my lip as it curls into a grin. Victory tastes sweet. “What do you want?”
“Open the door, and I’ll tell you.”
No way is he regaining the upper hand. I won it fair and square. “I’m tired. I was just going to bed.”
“Fine, I’ll go without you then.”
“Go where?” I ask before I can stop myself. There’s no answer. “Henry?”
He’s hoping my curiosity will get the best of me, but there is nowhere to go this late, and certainly no place I’ll go with him. It’s nothing but a trap.
I know this, I swear I do, but I still knock. “Henry, answer me.”
Only silence greets me. I take a few steps away back, but the niggling fear of missing out does an annoying rat-a-tat-tat on my shoulder.
I let out a frustrated huff and turn toward the door again.
Unlocking it, I swing it open to reveal Henry propped against the frame, a devilish grin stretching across his face.
“You infuriating prick.” I grab the folds of my dressing robe and pull them a little tighter.
He slips his fingers into my tied sash and tugs me toward him. “Let’s go.” He walks toward the double doors leading to the hallway.
“Excuse me? I’m not going anywhere like this.”
He throws a glance over his shoulder. “You look fine. Come on.”
“Not until you tell me where we’re going. And probably not even then.”
“It’s our wedding night—humor me. Unless you’d rather go in there?” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his suite.
“Sure, let me just stab a fork in my throat first. If you think I’m following you anywhere without more information, you are grossly mistaken.”
“Always with your need to know everything.” He sighs, as if that’s somehow an obnoxious request. “Trust me, you will want to see this.”
“Trust you? Because you’re such a trustworthy person?”
“Despite what you may think, I actually do know you pretty well. You won’t regret this, I promise.”
“Do you give that caveat every time you make a move on a woman?”
The hint of a smile dances on his lips. “You don’t regret that kiss as much as you wish you did.”
I hate that he’s right. That kiss has had me lying awake for hours and woken me in a tangle of sheets and sweat. I hate that in spite of everything, sparring with Henry is actually a great distraction from what has become of my life.
“Fine. I will go with you on whatever evil errand you’re on, but I must remind you that I am perfectly capable of removing your favorite appendage if you try anything.”
This elicits a chuckle, the kind that warms your insides just listening to it.
I stick close to him as we make our way to the opposite end of the palace. I’ve never been in many of these rooms before, and given the map in his hand, I don’t think Henry has spent much time in them either.
We stop outside a set of doors, not unlike the hundreds of others we passed on the way here. He opens them, then steps inside to flick on the light. I walk in after him, still unsure what to expect.
Yellow silk damask covers the walls of the large bedchamber, which evidently hasn’t been redecorated since the nineteenth century.
A massive, curtained bed dominates the room.
Several pieces of antique furniture, including a hand-painted French armoire and a Victorian dressing table with a curved mirror, seem to hint that the room once belonged to a woman.
There’s a stale, forgotten odor in the air, reminding me of the archive room of the Historical Society.
“Why are we here, Henry?” I move closer to the armoire with its exquisite floral designs.
“This,” he says, sweeping an arm around the room like a showman, “was Queen Helena’s bedchamber.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. This is where my great-great-great-grandfather was conceived.”
“Just the mental image I wanted.”
“I thought you might want to look around. I know you’ve always been interested in Helena.”
The room does hold a certain appeal, not the least of which is the fact that my personal hero and ancestor spent considerable time in it. When will I get another opportunity like this?
“That’s a nice way of putting it,” I say.
“You’re right. Borderline obsessed would have been more accurate.”
I narrow my eyes at him before continuing my exploration of the armoire, but there’s nothing inside, other than some old linens that have yellowed with time.
“The craftsmanship on this is incredible.” I rub my hand over the intricate carvings in the corners. “It looks mid-eighteenth century. It was probably made right before all the forest fires in 1761.”
“Should I get your laptop so you can write a blog post?” My face heats, but Henry’s smiling. “Come here,” he says.
I brush the dust from my hands onto my silk robe. The whole time I’ve been inspecting the armoire, he’s been fiddling with the dressing table between the two windows on the east-facing wall.
“See how this part seems too wide?” Sitting back on his heels, he looks up at me as I join him.
He reaches inside the open drawer, and there’s a faint click. The back panel releases to reveal a hidden compartment.
A stack of papers bundled together with ribbon is nestled in the opening.
“Are those letters?” I say as he sticks his hand in and tugs them out.
“Looks like it.” He offers them to me.
I run my hands over the thick stack. My fingers are trembling like I’ve just had an entire pot of coffee. “They’ve got to be hers, right?”
Henry grins, and my heart jolts. When did his smile start doing that to me? “Only one way to find out,” he says.
We settle on the floor against the foot of the bed. The bed itself would have been more comfortable, but I trust a used car salesman more than I trust myself on a bed with Henry right now.
I pick up the bundle of letters, but his hand stops me. He touches the silver ring threaded onto the ribbon binding them together, then reaches for my wrist. “Isn’t that the same thing as your bracelet?”
“Yeah, it’s a claddagh,” I say. “They’re Irish.”
His fingers sear my skin, and I hope he can’t feel my pulse snag. I gently tug my hand free, then carefully open the first envelope and begin reading aloud.
18 July 1836
My dearest Helena,
You cannot know how I felt upon receiving your letter.
After all, it has been three years since you left, since I saw your face for the very last time.
I never thought I would see or hear from you again, and even though my heart has hardly beat since the day I heard the news, I did not dare believe it could really be from you.
But how could I live with myself if I did not respond, even if it turns out to be nothing but an evil trick designed by a cold heart? I will take this risk and face the consequences, come what may. My body may be in Ireland, but my heart will always be in Wesbourne with you.
You do not know me if you think I do not forgive you for the vows you have spoken to one who is not me. We swore our love to one another, and whilst a woman’s heart is a fickle thing, you have never had the heart of a woman but of an angel.
Not a day has gone by that I have not thought of you, my love. How could I not, when you are my entire world, everything I long for? A singular hope has kept me alive these years, and it is this: that your heart remains as true to me as mine does to you.
A great, churning sea lies between us, my dear Helena, but it is nothing in the face of the love we share.
I would cross it today to come to you, but I would rather walk through the depths of hell itself than to put you in danger.
We may be parted in life, but we shall never be parted in spirit.
It will take more than mere mortals to destroy what we have.
I can hardly bear the danger you are inviting upon yourself in writing to me, but I do not think I can suffer the silence a minute longer.
My heart beats for you and you alone. I can only trust that you have taken care to conceal all traces that could lead back to you, and I truly hope your maid can be trusted.
I will do as you ask and direct my letters to Margaret Smith, trusting they will find their way into your hands.
I am alive and well, with the exception of the gaping hole in my chest that once held my heart, which flew across the ocean with you when you left.
I am yours for all of this life and the next.
Your dear Philip
I refold the letter and place it with the others. “I wish I could have seen their reunion,” I whisper.