Chapter 29
It’s early evening as I walk up to the row house.
Light shines invitingly through the windows.
I unlock the door, and the warm, caramelized scent of blueberry pie wafts through the parlor. As I remove my mud-crusted boots,
Ms. Fernsby’s soft laughter rings out from the kitchen. Lucy steps gingerly around Heathcliff’s LEGOs and several Nerf gun
bullets. A new wooden block Windsor Castle sits half-assembled on the floor surrounded by a pile of wooden soldiers. I smile,
thinking about how Heathcliff’s been spoiled in my absence.
I might be flying home in three days, but I feel like I’m home now.
Ms. Fernsby rushes through the kitchen doorway, wiping flour on her apron.
“Oh . . . you’re back, Lizzie. You look wonderful!” She kisses my cheek lightly.
She leads me into the kitchen, where Dad sits at the island sipping a brandy snifter while Heathcliff plays on his tablet. Dad looks good. He looks happy. His expression changes when he sees me, and I almost cry, because he suddenly looks proud.
“Dad . . .”
“Hello, Lizzie.” He tilts his nose up a bit, as if to see me better through his lenses. “You seem better.” A touch of professorlike
scrutiny, his voice soft: “Are you?”
“I am.”
Ms. Fernsby dabs the corner of her eye before pulling the pie out of the oven. With her cheeks flushed, her energy seems even
more vibrant than when I left. It’s obvious she and Dad have been enjoying each other’s company.
“You’re back,” Heathcliff says drolly without looking up from his screen, his Batman mask pushed up on his head so his thick
blond hair sticks out behind. A brand-new high-powered Batman Nerf gun lies on the table in front of him.
I kiss his head, inhaling his sweaty little boy scent.
“Hey, Lizzie.”
“Henry?”
He stands on the bottom step of the staircase just off the kitchen, smiling. I blink a few times to be sure he’s really here.
He seems out of place in this cozy, frilly London row house. And I don’t know what to say. I was hoping to come up with something
beautiful and articulate when I got home. I was banking on the plane ride to sort it all out.
He grins. “Seemed like you didn’t have enough folks crashing the place, so I needed to fly in.”
“You know there’s always room for you, Henry,” Ms. Fernsby says firmly as she inspects her pie, blueberry syrup and steam
oozing out through the slits.
“It’s been a good time. I’ve learned loads about American transcendentalists and Batman.”
“I’ve enjoyed getting to know Philip’s friend, Lizzie,” Dad says with formality. “I’ve learned about South Carolina legal history and the art of fly-fishing.”
Heathcliff interrupts, chattering about something on his tablet and shoving the screen forcefully in Dad’s face. I hear something
about a cat and Mickey Mouse, but I can’t focus. I can’t take my eyes off Henry, and he looks like he wants to say something.
“Hey, ummm . . . can we chat for a minute, Lizzie?”
“Sure.”
As soon as we’re in the parlor, Ms. Fernsby soundlessly kicks the kitchen doorstop away to give us some privacy.
I sit on the sofa.
With the curtains shut, we’re bathed in semidarkness. The cobblestone street is quiet outside; the little cuckoo clock ticks
away rhythmically. With the exception of Henry’s modern clothes, my scandalous bare ankles, and a dangerous amount of LEGO,
Nerf bullets, and wooden toy soldiers strewn about, we could be in a Rossetti poem. I half expect to hear the clacking of
carriage wheels on the stones outside.
“Are you mad?” he asks, sheepishly.
“No.”
He exhales. “Whew. Good. You weren’t very happy with me the other night when I bared my soul.”
“I mean, I was mad—but it was more about me, and I had to figure myself out.”
“Did you?”
“I think so. As much as I can. It’s been quite a journey . . . in a lot of ways.”
“What happened?” He nods at my bandaged palm as he sits down next to me.
“I had a run-in with Yorkshire’s largest ram.”
“Huh?”
“Long story.”
We sit in silence for a few moments. Spoons and dessert plates clatter from the kitchen as Ms. Fernsby dishes out the pie. I hear Dad’s measured voice and Heathcliff’s insistent demands for soy ice cream. Neither Henry nor I is brave enough to say what we both want to say.
“That Ms. Fernsby,” Henry says, chuckling. “She looks like she stepped out of one of those PBS shows you like to watch. I’m
never sure whether she’s going to bring me a ‘biscuit’ as they call them over here or accuse me of murdering the rector.”
“She’s kind of magical. I think she’s charmed even Dad.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Silence again.
“So . . . someone needs to talk to Miss Mirabel,” he says, still evading.
“Ugh.”
“If you’d like, I can go.”
“No. She’s going to be a real pill, but I need to talk to her myself. Or at least I need to talk to her first.”
More awkward silence.
Henry clears his throat. “You look good now. Really good. But I was kind of worried about you when we hung up the other night.”
“So you flew all the way here to check on me?”
“I guess so, and for another reason . . .” He reddens, rubs his beard.
“What?”
“There was this new exhibit at the Tate Modern I wanted to see.”
“Which one?”
“Ummm . . .” He squirms on the cushion beside me. “You know, that newly discovered Shakespeare play. Supposedly, it’s even
signed by him.”
“What? That would be incredible! But it would also be all over the news.” I’m smirking and kind of enjoying this. “Besides, something like that wouldn’t be on display at the Tate Modern.”
He grins. “Okay, fine. I’m clearly the world’s worst damn liar.”
He takes a deep breath, exhales. “I came here to tell you I love you.”
“You do?” I stutter, my heart pounding.
“I fought it hard. I mean, I’m just coming out of a divorce from a decade-long marriage. And it seemed weird—you were his
wife. And I didn’t want you or anyone else thinking I was taking advantage of you. Like I said, I wanted to kiss you that
evening, and my feelings for you have just grown.”
My bandaged hand rests on my knee, so close to him our fingertips almost touch.
“After we talked the other night, it kept gnawing at me: what I wanted—you—versus what I thought I was supposed to want—anyone but you. I wanted to drop it, to ‘move on’ and just be your attorney. I went upstate with Bonnie and did a lot of
fishing in Philip’s favorite spot. I finished Wuthering Heights, and dang—those people are nutjobs, tearing up coffin sides so they can decompose with each other, howling at the wind . . .”
“Hey—watch it!” I joke.
He chuckles. “I guess they inspired me to do something nutty like fly all the way here to show you that you’re not filling
a void. I miss Philip so much it hurts. I’m sad my marriage didn’t work out. But I love you apart from all of that. In such
a short time, you’ve challenged me in so many ways. You’re just wonderful, Lizzie.”
I stare at him stupidly in the semidarkness. I never expected Henry of all people to be so romantic.
He blushes. “Come on, say something, Lizzie. I’m really stepping out of a limb here . . .”
We jump at a loud knock on the front door.
Flustered, I get up to open it.
“August?”
He’s standing in the doorway, disheveled hair, face blanched white in the parlor’s dimness. He reeks of scotch. Red streaks
ghoulishly from his mouth. Heathcliff would think he’s the Joker.
“God, August—are you hurt?”
“What? Oh . . . no . . .” And then as he wipes it—ah, lipstick, not blood—irritation flares up in me from the other night.
“What are you doing here?”
“You never returned my texts.”
“That’s because I blocked you.”
“Gosh, you look bloody ravishing, Elizabeth.”
“Why. Are. You. Here?”
“I’m truly sorry about the other night . . .”
He glances at Henry. “Who’s he?”
“Henry Lawton,” Henry says, standing up politely and putting out his hand as he walks toward us.
August ignores the gesture. “Henry? Wait . . . he’s the Southern chap you were on the phone with that night after the Jack
the Ripper tour.”
Henry glances at me quizzically, before it clicks. “Hemmings?”
August sizes Henry up, looking over his rolled-up shirtsleeves and khakis. “Nice accent. It’s like you’ve stepped out of a
bloody Tennessee Williams play.”
“I think you should leave,” I say.
“Can we have some privacy, Elizabeth?”
“No.”
“Fine.”
Henry shuffles his feet awkwardly beside me.
“Elizabeth, before you disappear forever, I want you to know I’ve been beastly.
It was a lapse in judgment. Her name was Alice.
It’s over now. I’m just under so much pressure from my publisher, my agent, and then there’s the Netflix series.
I was telling my therapist today how stressful the success has been.
I mean, Brad Pitt and I have become such good chaps, and I don’t know what to do with all the money in my bank account. ”
“Do you know what you sound like?” I snap.
Evidently not, because he leans in close enough to kiss me. God, he is drunk.
“Whoa! Hey there!” Henry says, stepping forward as I shove August away.
“What are you thinking?” I yell.
Suddenly, the kitchen door bursts open.
“Don’t worry, Mom! I got him. Die, Joker!” Brandishing the high-powered Nerf gun, Heathcliff promptly shoots A.D. Hemmings in the privates.
“Owwwwwwwwww!!!!!” August doubles over in pain.
“Heathcliff, what have I told you about shooting that in the house . . . ?” And then Ms. Fernsby freezes in the doorway, one
hand clapped over her mouth.
“But he’s the Joker, and he was going after Mom, so I shot him in the nuts!”
Henry and I stare at August, tears in his eyes, voice barely audible. “Buggers. I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Mr. Dansworth?” Heathcliff narrows his eyes, confused.
Dansworth gives a pathetic little wave to Heathcliff while still doubled over, face twisted in pain.
Dad appears silently behind Ms. Fernsby, taking in the scene.
“Mr. Dansworth was just leaving,” I say firmly.
“Come along, Heathie,” Ms. Fernsby says, shooing him away. “It’s past your bedtime.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“No. But your mum can take care of herself.”