He set down his book, dug his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a—
“Is that a dormouse?”
He nodded. “This is Alice.”
Alice was tiny, with lovely golden brown fur and curious black eyes. He gave her a piece of hazelnut, which she nibbled with great enthusiasm.
“She’s getting chubby,” he said. “Probably will start hibernating within the week.”
“Is she yours? I haven’t seen her before.”
“I’ve had her for three years. Hastings has been taking care of her recently. I just got her back.”
Millie was enchanted. “Did you find her yourself?”
“No, she was a present from Miss Pelham.”
Isabelle Pelham. Millie’s smile froze. Fortunately he was not looking at her, his attention wholly occupied by Alice.
No wonder he had not brought Alice on their honeymoon.
“She looks darling,” Millie managed.
He stroked the fur atop Alice’s head. “She’s perfect.”
He did not offer Alice for Millie to hold. And she did not ask.
It was not easy, remaining sober.
Some nights, when he could not sleep, when he missed Isabelle so much he could scarcely breathe, Fitz thought of things that might help him: whisky, laudanum, morphia. He thought especially hard of morphia, of the lovely torpor it would bring, the long forgetfulness.
The house had such things—he’d seen them when he’d first inspected Henley Park. So he left the house, to walk and run—mostly run—until he was overcome with exhaustion.
He also, once he put his mind to it, realized that there was an easier way of alleviating his loneliness: naked women. He took up with one of his new neighbors, a widow five or six years older than him, who was more than glad to have him service her repeatedly.
Alice began her hibernation. He kept her in a padded, ventilated box and checked on her twice a day. Everything had changed. Alice remained the one familiar touchstone, a link to life as he’d known it.
Two weeks after they arrived at Henley Park, his wife sent him a message, wishing to see him in the library. Except at dinner each night, he hardly saw her at all, though he knew she kept herself busy during the day, as he did, with matters concerning the house and the estate.
The library, dour and smelly, was in the north wing, the worst part of the house. She was examining books for damage. He was surprised to see her in a day dress of russet silk. Since Mr. Townsend’s death, she’d worn mourning colors, a silent, somber ghost at the periphery of his awareness. But today the vibrant, autumnal hue of her dress made her the brightest object in the room.
“Good morning,” he said.
She turned around. “Good morning.”
For a moment he was struck by how young she looked without a dark, drab garment to age her. Had he passed her on the street, he might have thought her fifteen.
Had the Graves lied about her age? “Excuse me, but how old are you again?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen? Since when?”
She lowered her gaze, as if embarrassed. “Since today.”
Now he was equally embarrassed. He’d had no idea. “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.”
An awkward silence fell. He cleared his throat. “I don’t have a present for you. Is there anything you’d like—and can be found in the village?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “A birthday is just another day. I think it’s terribly silly that people make such a to-do about it. Besides, your sisters have already sent books and a pretty box of new handkerchiefs.”
“If Venetia, with all her troubles, can remember, then I have no excuse—except that I didn’t know the date at all.”
“Please don’t worry about it—there’s always next year. Now, would you mind looking at some of the rooms with me?”
He’d already seen all the rooms, but since it was her birthday…“Lead the way,” he said.
She’d obviously examined each room multiple times, and had taken copious notes of all the damages. It was a guided tour of the north wing’s failings. As they walked on, she reported an ever rising estimate of how much it would cost to repair everything.
They were only on the third room of the next floor when he said, “We should dynamite this entire house.”
“That would be rather an extreme course of action,” said his wife. “But I would have no objection to getting rid of this wing.”
He stopped cold. “What did you say?”
“According to the ledgers and the plans, this wing was an addition undertaken at the beginning of the century—the original house’s wall, if I’m not mistaken, would have been right there. From what I can tell, there was no particular reason for the addition, except that the then-earl was jealous of his cousin’s newer, better house and wished to compete.”
And the family had been in debt ever since.
“I know you were jesting when you said to dynamite the house, but I’d like to submit for your sober consideration the idea of not renovating the north wing. It was poorly conceived and even more poorly built. Even if we patch everything today, we’d still need to be constantly vigilant against new leaks, rots, and cracks.”
The north wing was two-fifths of the manor. He stared at her a moment—she was perfectly serious. The girl had audacity. But of course she did: She’d singlehandedly pulled him back from the brink of a precipice.
“All right. Let’s do it.”
At his assent, she was the one who was taken aback. “Do you think we might need to petition parliament for something like this?”
He thought for a moment. “One doesn’t petition parliament before an accident takes place, does one?”
She smiled. “No, indeed one doesn’t. And our discussion never happened.”
He smiled back.
She dipped her head. “Now if you will excuse me, I must decide whether any of the books are worth keeping.”
It was only later in his room, gazing at a peacefully slumbering Alice, that Fitz realized he and his wife had just made their first joint decision as a married couple.
That evening Millie dined alone. Lord Fitzhugh sent a note saying he would take his supper at the village pub. Supper was probably a euphemism for a woman. Not that she begrudged him a little pleasurable distraction, but she wished—
No, she did not wish that he’d come to her instead. She did not want to be used for only that purpose. But she could not help envying his lovers. She, too, would like to know what it was like to be touched and kissed by him—when he was sober. There was a physical grace to him, a manner of movement that was swift and easy. She could not help imagining what it would be like, someday, for him to suddenly notice her not merely as his wife, but as a woman, a desirable one.
But she always cut those reveries short, whenever she discovered herself in the middle of one. Perhaps there was nothing she could do about hope springing eternal, but she would not water or tend it. She would prune it harshly, ruthlessly, the way she would a weed in the garden.
After dinner, she sat in the drawing room, studying. She’d decided to take her mother’s advice and create a beautiful garden. But the pleasure garden would have to wait until she had first restored the more utilitarian kitchen garden. The estate had one such, but with the departure of the head gardener nearly a decade ago, it had grown wild.
She pored over an old diagram for the walled garden, consulting her handbook on horticulture. Salsify she’d eaten. Celeriac she hadn’t, but had at least heard of. But what in the world was a scorzonera? Or a skirret? Or a cardoon, for that matter?