40. Three Women
Chapter forty
Three Women
Violet
“You have outdone yourself, Your Grace.”
Violet turned. Lady Cranbrook stood at her elbow in dark blue silk, her silver hair swept up, her eyes carrying the sharpness that Violet had learned to trust above all other qualities in a woman.
Cranbrook surveyed the room with unhurried attention. “Come. There are people you should meet.”
Violet followed.
They made a circuit of the room. Cranbrook introduced her to the Duchess of Banbury, who had been a patroness of Almack’s for thirty years and whose approval could open doors that a duchess’s title alone could not.
Banbury looked at Violet the way one looks at a piece of furniture one is not certain belongs in the room.
She offered a smile that did not reach past her teeth.
“How charming,” Banbury said. “And how brave of you to host so soon after… well.”
Violet smiled through her gritted teeth.
“Her Grace has been rather occupied,” Cranbrook said in a pleasant voice. “She has been saving her husband’s life.”
Banbury’s smile stiffened.
“I was there, you understand. I saw it myself.” Cranbrook raised her champagne glass as if to toast. “The duke was dying. The physicians had exhausted their remedies. Her Grace identified the poison, prepared the antidote, and administered it herself.” She paused.
“I use the word ‘antidote’ loosely. She brought him back from near death. It was the most remarkable thing I have witnessed, and I have witnessed a great deal.”
Banbury’s expression had rearranged itself considerably. “I see.”
“I thought you might,” Cranbrook said. “Shall we?”
They moved from group to group and circled back through the supper room and past the card tables. Violet was amazed that the whispers that followed her were no longer the hiss of suspicion but the murmur of curiosity.
Cranbrook leaned toward her, her fan covering her mouth. “This is precisely why a ball is a perfect place to influence opinions. We have planted the seed here, my dear. All we need to do is watch it grow and fruit.”
They found Lady Thornwick near the windows, standing alone.
“Mama,” Violet said.
Lady Thornwick turned. Her eyes went bright.
Cranbrook stepped forward and took Lady Thornwick’s hand. Then she took Violet’s in her other hand. The three women stood at the edge of the ballroom while the music played, and the candles blazed and the ton turned its circles around them.
The evening wore on. The candles burned lower. She went to find her husband who was sitting, at last, in a chair near the windows, his colour pale. He was holding the green book. She sat beside him and tucked her hand into his arm.
“I received Harris’s report a few minutes ago,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Sarah has been moved to Newgate. The indictment will go before the grand jury at the next sessions.”
“Any word on Edmund?”
He nodded. “He is settling with his boy in Hertfordshire. He is grateful for this time they have together.”
Violet kissed her husband’s cheek. Henry reached for her hand. She leaned her head against his shoulder. Through the tall windows, she could see the city, lamplit and indifferent.
She studied her Henry’s grey complexion. “Shall we go up?”
They climbed the stairs together, her arm around his waist, his hand on the banister. In her room, the fire had been built up. He closed the door behind them.
“I should tell you,” he began after settling in the chair. “I have instructed Brigg to find two neighbouring properties, one for us where there shall be no ghosts of the past and one for your mother and sisters.”
She held her breath, then her hand slowly went to her mouth. “Henry, I cannot believe it. You wonderful, thoughtful man!”
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. His arms came around her waist and held her there, and she felt him exhale against her mouth. She straightened up, smoothing out her bodice.
“You know my sisters will be at our door every morning. They will have opinions about everything.”
“I am aware. That is precisely what I would like to see happen. If and when the child comes, they will be there. You will not be alone in it. Not for a single day.”
She sat on his lap with her arms around his neck, and for a while neither of them spoke. The fire burned low. The sounds of the ball faded below them until the house was still.
His hand rested on the small of her back. His thumb moved in a slow arc against her spine, the absent, rhythmic motion that suggested he was not thinking about his in-laws and that his body had finally stopped thinking altogether.
“Henry.”
“Mm.”
“The connecting door.”
He opened one eye. “What of it?”
“I should like it removed.”
He looked at her. She watched the understanding arrive on his face.
“I shall have it seen to in the morning,” he said.
“Tonight it can stay open.”
“Is that an invitation, Duchess?” he drawled, his eyes sparkling.
They headed to their bedchambers, arm in arm, her husband smiling as though it had always been there.
In her bedchamber, they lay down together, Henry’s arm draped over her, his breaths warm on her cheek.
The house settled around them. No creak was unfamiliar now.
She knew which window rattled when the wind came from the east. She knew this house by sound, by smell, by the particular quality of its silence when it was asleep.
His breathing deepened against her hair. His arm grew heavier. She linked her fingers through his, smiling at the quiet, because it was no longer an absence but the quiet of a home where her husband slept.