“What is this?” Henry crouched to pluck up the smaller paper. “A bank draft?”
“I shouldn’t have opened it except that it was mixed in with my letters. Sorry about that.”
“Wait. It’s for me?” Henry rose to his feet and squinted at the paper, wondering if the name was a mistake. “Someone has sent me a bank draft for a thousand pounds. This can’t be right. What on God’s green…”
Sussex. It came from Sussex, he noticed. “Was there a letter with this?”
Jem handed it over with a nod.
Dear Mr. Middlebrook,
It is my pleasure to send a portion of my daughter’s dowry to you, as a sign of my esteem for you and my faith in your honorable intentions. The remainder of the amount—a further eleven thousand pounds—I will gladly transfer to you upon receiving news of your marriage.
This amount has been set aside for Frances since the time of her birth, on the condition that she marry in accordance with my wishes. Please do not think ill of me for having withheld it from her at the time of her first marriage. I hope it can be of use to you as you build a new life together during what I hope will be many long years of peace.
All my best regards for your happiness.
Sincerely,
Sir Wallace Ward, Bart
P.S.—I should be pleased to receive a letter from Frances if she would care to write me.
“I say, Hal.” Jem had sidled over to read the letter over Henry’s shoulder. “A dowry for Frances. Who’d have thought you were marrying an heiress?”
Henry shook his head and folded the draft back inside the letter. “Not I.”
Well. First a father, now financial security. This was a very fine set of wedding presents for Frances.
For his part, he was happy enough just to have Frances.
***
Henry did not expect any further surprises that day. An enormous bank draft and a country household run by phantom mermaids were surely eventful enough.
Which was why, when he was sitting at the morning room’s desk practicing his penmanship in an endless string of AEIOUs and sometimes Ys too, he was only concerned with trying to ignore the feeling of being watched by the painted figures in the room’s mural. The goddess Athena had the look of a wretched termagant.
A tap at the door caught him unawares.
“Come,” he called. He sanded his paper, then turned to see who had entered.
“Bart.” Henry blinked. “You’re back in London? I thought you’d be shooting partridge around Beckworth by now.”
Bart held a high-crowned beaver hat behind his back, tapping its fashionably wide brim against the backs of his knees. “Oh, well. I wanted to see how things went with the letter. My letter. Ah, the one I wrote to Mrs. Whittier.”
“As well as you can imagine. We’re getting married in a few days. Maybe you didn’t know, since I sent word to Beckworth.”
“Are you? That’s excellent. Well done, Hal.” Tap, tap, tap, went the hat behind his back.
Henry’s brow furrowed. “Bart, you’ve never been a good liar. I can see you’ve heard the news already. And you’re going to mar the shape of what I’m sure is a very fashionable hat if you keep whacking at the brim. What’s going on?”
Bart stared at the floor, then said in a rush, “I understand if you don’t want me at your wedding—”
“What?”
“—because our friendship’s fallen by the wayside in recent years.”
Henry held up his hand. “Bart. Wait. I didn’t keep up any friendships in recent years. It just wasn’t possible while I was in the military. It had nothing to do with you or our friendship.”
The hat flipped in Bart’s hands, fumbled, fell to the ground. “Sorry,” Bart said in a tight voice as he bent and retrieved his hat. His face was redder when he stood than one might have expected, considering he’d only been bent over for a second or two.
As if he’d been rapped on the head with a candle, light dawned in Henry’s mind. Bart felt hurt. And if the situations were reversed, Henry might well have felt the same. How else would he react if an old friend returned after years of silence, let him learn of a serious injury by chance, then largely avoided his company in Town?
It had nothing to do with Bart, just as Henry had said. But maybe he understood his old friend better than ever now. Just as quiet Bart always had, Henry now knew the feeling of separation within a crowd, of light pleasantries weighing heavily on a mind distracted.
And Bart, like Jem and Emily, remembered Henry’s best self. He gave Henry another chance to reach out and remember it himself. Bart’s unquestioning loyalty meant all the more after Henry’s long separation from everyone he knew.
“Bart,” Henry said. His old friend had begun to turn toward the door. “Bart, to whom did I entrust the first letter to Frances?”
Bart turned back to Henry, looking puzzled.
“You, Bart. I trusted you. I knew Frances thought you a kind man, and she would value a letter from you. Your friendship is worth a great deal.” Henry smiled. “To me.”
Bart’s face reddened. “Oh, well. It was—I mean, I was happy to do it.”
“Thank you. I am very grateful for that.” Henry nodded. “For everything.”
It was not the most articulate thanks, but he hoped Bart would understand. If Henry was any more effusive, he would embarrass them both.
“I’m afraid,” Henry continued, idly straightening papers on the desk, “that I can’t hunt anymore. But I’d still be pleased to go to Beckworth next autumn.”
Bart scuffed a booted foot in the carpet and gave a rascally grin. “That’s no kind of a problem, Hal. You can help the hounds retrieve the game.”
Henry chuckled. “I’ve been a son of a bitch to you often enough. That might be the perfect way to repay me.”
Bart laughed, ducking his head. “Well. I’ll see you next hunting season then. I suppose you’re busy today.”
“Not so busy. Emily’s working herself into a frenzy over my wedding preparations and won’t allow me to do a thing. There’s nothing in the world that makes her happier than mild domestic chaos.” Henry motioned toward a chair. “Please, sit.”
With another tap of his hat against his legs, Bart sidled to a chair and perched at the edge of it.
“I’ll probably see you again long before next autumn,” Henry said. “In fact, if you don’t have to head to Beckworth immediately, I’d be honored if you’d stay in London to attend the wedding. It will be just for family, here at Tallant House.”
“Do you mean it?” Bart leaned forward. The chair tipped, upsetting his balance, and he spent a few chagrined seconds rearranging himself into a dignified posture.
“Yes, of course. Though I should warn you, Emily is determined that any gentleman who attends should wear a striped cravat. She insists they are—”
Together, Henry and Bart chorused, “All the crack.”
Bart laughed. “She’s right, you know.”
Henry raised his hand in a gesture of surrender. He didn’t know these things. But it didn’t matter. He’d relearn it all in time, as much as he needed to.
Bart twirled his hat on his forefinger. “Do you have time for one more ride in the curricle before you settle down?”
“I’m sure there’s time for that,” Henry said.
“Where shall we go?”
The old question. Henry remembered running free, not caring what the answer was.
He didn’t really care now. Anywhere would be just fine.
“I don’t know.” Henry let a grin spread across his face. “Where would you like to go? We’ll go anywhere you like.”