“Will you play another, Jo?” his mother asked.
Josephine thought for a moment, then played the first few bars of a simple nursery song. Henry smiled. It was a tune that he had helped Josephine compose when she was very small, as a present for their mother’s feast day.
“My mother cradled me as a babe,” Josephine began, singing sweetly, if not well. “And sang lullabies to sooth my cries.”
She paused and gestured for him to join her in harmony.
* * *
She was gentle to me when I was afraid
Oh mama, my dearest, my dear”
* * *
His mother, beside him, dabbed at her eyes and reached out to hold his hand.
“Oh Henry,” she said quietly. “I’m so glad you’ve come home.”
He leaned over and kissed her soft, full cheek. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of blue.
Alice, running from the room.
Josephine stopped playing abruptly. “Oh dear. Is something wrong?”
Yes, something certainly was wrong. With him. He was an insensitive lout.
“Her mother is ailing quite severely,” he said, already moving to follow her. “I should have realized the song would upset her. Excuse me.”
He rushed out of the room and down the corridor. Alice was already on the staircase. He called her name.
She turned around, her eyes glistening.
“Forgive me—” she said in a husky voice. “I did not mean to disturb your family, only to—”
He climbed up to the landing where she stood and took her hand. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
She shook her head. “I’m being so foolish. It’s just a song.”
He moved closer, for he hated how she admonished herself for a natural thing like grief. He tipped up her chin and saw she was not crying. She would not let the tears that so clearly stood in her eyes emerge.
She was so tough, this strange, small person, who rose only to his breastbone.
“Alice, I’ll get you home to her,” he said. “I promise.”
She closed her eyes and nodded, pressing her knuckle against her lips.
Wordlessly they stood in the dark hall. Wordlessly, he bore witness as she did not shed a tear. It was the kind of grief that was beyond tears. There was nothing he could say to help her.
Except, perhaps, a blessing.
“Alice,” he said softly. “Pray with me.”
“I told you,” she said, her breath ragged. “I’m not the type to pray.”
“Prayer is just being alone with your thoughts and God. You needn’t be a type.”
She said nothing but she stood there, searching his eyes.
“May I?” he asked.
She did not object, and so he took her hands in his and bowed his head.
“Dear Lord, please grant peace and comfort to Alice’s mother. Please let her know her daughter shines with love for her, and is doing everything she can to return to her side. Please bless her with comfort and your grace. Let her know that she is loved and cherished. And bless us, Lord, with better weather, so we may reach her soon. Amen.”
As he’d prayed, Alice had leaned closer to him, so that her head was nearly resting on his chest.
He held himself very still, worried she bowed so low because he’d upset her. But then, in a faint voice she said, “Amen.”
Help this child, Lord, he beseeched. Help her find solace. Help me get her home. Help me lead her back to you.
And forgive me. Forgive me because despite the solemnity of this moment, despite the urgency of my prayer to you, despite the sadness of this woman you have put in my path only so I might shelter her and lead her toward your grace, her nearness stirs me.
“Thank you,” she whispered. In the dimness of the landing, with only a single flickering lamp for light, he could not make out her expression.
“Get some sleep,” he said, forcing himself to release her hand and move away. “With any luck, the snow will stop, and I can drive you on to Fleetwend in the morning.”
She nodded. “Good night, Henry.”
He watched her ascend the stairs and disappear down the corridor.
And as he watched her, in that blue dress, all he could think was that it was not the Olivia Bradley-Houghs of the world who were made of the stuff he hoped for in a wife.
(It was the Alice Hulls he wanted.)
Chapter 12
Alice closed the door to her room, reproaching herself for the scene she’d made. Henry clearly had enough to worry about without her adding hysterics to his family’s midst.
But. She did not regret his hands on hers.
He had such good, strong, hands. Square and big and warm and applying just the right amount of pressure. Gentle despite his size. Tender, even.
And then there was the rest of his body.
She should not have leaned on him like that—out there on the staircase, where anyone could have seen them. But for a moment she’d forgotten who he was, and where they were.
He was just a man, and a kind one. And she had wanted to be in his arms.
A knock sounded at the door. She hoped it was him. If it was, perhaps she could ask him to pray with her again, if only to eke out a little more of the comfort of his lovely arms.
But it was Baxter.
“Help with your gown, madam?” she asked, sailing inside without waiting for an answer.
Alice was quite capable of undressing herself, but it was nice to have Baxter’s efficient ministrations distracting her from sorrowful thoughts. It reminded her of helping her sisters dress on cold mornings at home in Fleetwend.
I’m coming, she tried to signal to them with her mind. I will be there soon, and I will take care of you.
Somehow.
The obvious answer was by marrying William Thatcher. William had been her father’s apprentice and had taken over Papa’s business making organs. Her mother considered him as good as a son, her sisters adored him, and he’d made it known that Alice, with her musical skill and knowledge of the organ trade, would make him the perfect wife.
But not unlike the country maiden in the song she’d sung tonight, she knew what that life would be like. And she didn’t want it.
She’d let Henry think she had been upset purely over his sister’s sweet tribute to maternal love. But the song would not have made her so upset had it not been for the other song that came before it. She’d played the maiden with aplomb because she felt like her. She’d always felt like her.
When Baxter left, Alice crawled into the enormous bed and closed her eyes. But sleep did not come. Her thoughts kept returning to the dreadful question of what she would do when she got home.
What she would find there.
Or wouldn’t.
She didn’t want to think of this. She wouldn’t. She refused.
She got up and found the journal she’d been reading the night before. She opened it to a random page and soothed herself with dull passages detailing the diarist’s life.
He had a small garden in the plot of land behind his rooming house, and he scrupulously recorded what he planted, and how his plants were growing. He was quite proud of his lettuces, it seemed, and irritable with his mange tout, which was plagued by an infestation of hungry green caterpillars upon whom he fervently wished death, and just as fervently apologized to God for hating. She laughed as, day by day, his blistering asides about the pests became more vitriolic, and his apologies to his maker less and less sincere.