19. “Without Me” - Halsey #2
Henry leans back in faux surprise. “I didn’t know you were into porn.”
I jab my elbow into his ribs. I’ve never before encountered such raw, powerful love. Nearly two hundred years later, it still has the power to change the atmosphere in the room.
“Maybe great love really does exist,” he says.
I sigh. “That doesn’t mean it’s sustainable or realistic.” But in the face of that impassioned letter, I might be forced to concede my stance. Those weren’t the words of a man infatuated. His love had withstood the test of time and harsh reality.
“Helena’s mysterious lover finally has a name,” Henry says.
“There must have been thousands of Philips living in Ireland in 1836.”
“Maybe the rest of the letters will tell us more.” He plucks the next one from the stack and reads it out loud, then we work our way through the rest of them.
From what we can surmise, Helena had been secretly engaged to Philip Anderson in 1833.
Her aristocratic family did not approve of the match and sent her to live with a family friend in Wesbourne, where she was introduced to Wesbournian society.
When she caught the eye of the future king of Wesbourne, William I, her father wouldn’t allow her to refuse him.
She was forced to marry William less than a year after her removal from Ireland.
Helena finally worked up the courage to write to Philip three years later, in 1836, asking his forgiveness and his correspondence if his feelings for her remained true.
Still madly in love, he started writing Helena letters but directed them to her lady’s maid, the same Margaret who had written the infamous diary.
Margaret would slip the letters to her mistress, who began putting together a plan to see her lover again. The two of them corresponded for nearly a year, arranging all the details for Philip to sail from Ireland to Wesbourne. Helena even sent him the money to purchase passage to Wesbourne.
Finally, in the spring of 1837, Philip wrote one final letter telling her his ship was set to sail on the third of May.
“I guess we know what happened next,” Henry says once we complete the stack.
“Just because they made plans to be together doesn’t mean they actually pulled it off.”
“Why are you so skeptical? We have the diary. Now we know that a lover did exist and that Helena made arrangements for him to meet her in Wesbourne.”
“So far it’s just a hypothesis. We can’t prove Philip ever left Ireland, let alone that he made it to Wesbourne. And even if he did, what proof is there that they had an affair?”
We’re still sitting on the floor, and my feet are falling asleep. Henry nudges me with his shoulder. “I can’t tell if you want it to be true or not.”
“I can’t either,” I say.
“Do you have doubts about being queen?”
I slide the tarnished claddagh ring over my finger. “You know I do.” It’s a whisper, echoing through the still room.
Slipping his arm behind me, he tugs me against him. He is familiar, warm, and solid—stability incarnate. It’s nothing but a facade, since he’s the most irresponsible human being I’ve ever met. Nonetheless, I allow myself to soak up his strength for just a moment.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” he asks, keeping his voice hushed. I guess neither of us is willing to disturb whatever ghosts might linger in this room.
“Tarring and feathering comes to mind.”
“Okay,” he says. “What’s the worst that could happen in this century?”
I attempt to shrug, but with my shoulders trapped under his arm, it comes out as more of a snuggle. “I go down in history as a terrible queen. I waste this opportunity.”
Henry is quiet for a moment, and I’m grateful that he doesn’t offer the glib response I expect. Finally, he rests his chin on my head and says softly, “C, you couldn’t be terrible if you tried.”
It’s so unexpected, and so sweet, that for a second I’m left spinning. He smells like a pine forest and soap, and I can’t help the way my head inclines toward him. I need to feel his warmth through the thin fabric of my robe. I need his reassurance that I can do this, that I have what it takes.
“How do I know this isn’t just a ploy to sabotage me?”
“You don’t,” he says. “Therein lies the fun.”
“The fun will have to wait.” I shift out of his embrace. “Right now, I need to get to bed before I fall asleep in a sitting position.” With my head on your shoulder.
He stands and grabs my hands to pull me up. Pins and needles torment my feet as blood returns to them. I stamp them on the floor and follow him out of the room.
When we reach the door of my suite, Henry waits while I unlock it. “Thank you,” I say, turning to face him. “You were right. No regrets.”
“You’re not alone in this, C. I hope you know that.” The look in his eyes converts my knees to Jell-O. He brushes a strand of hair from my face, and his fingers linger, tracing my neck and drawing goosebumps to the surface of my skin.
It’s a betrayal, the way my body responds to his touch, craving it while my mind screams “run.”
“Henry,” I whisper. It’s meant as a warning, to both of us, but comes out sounding like aching desire.
He understands it all the same and drops his hand. His eyes are laced with pain.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But I can’t handle it if you hurt me again.”
I manage to get inside and close the door before sinking to the floor and allowing my tears to fall. I am doing everything right, or bloody well trying to, but it still isn’t enough.
No matter how long I stay away or how well I avoid him, he can crumble my defenses in the space of an hour. He’s always had that ability, even when we were young. It’s what made him the best friend I’ve ever had. It’s also what destroyed my whole world.
Henry is my kryptonite. I know that. He knows that.
And for that reason, for my own safety and well-being, it’s imperative I stay away. If I don’t, the result will be a hurricane, destroying absolutely everything. Just like the first time.