“My apologies, sir,” Henry said to the offended man. “It’s only we’ve encountered a great deal of inconvenience on this journey, and my sister is amused by our poor fortune. We’ll make do with whatever room you have. Thank you.”
He took the key that was offered and shepherded Alice toward the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still chuckling. “It’s just … Oh, Henry. Your face. What a misfortunate pair we are.”
He imagined his face looked even more chagrined when he opened the door to their room to find it was no larger than a pantry.
If he was to sleep on the floor, he was not sure where. Perhaps half under the cot, half in the drawers of the cupboard.
“You stay here and take the room for yourself,” he said immediately. “I’ll go on and find other lodgings.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “You may not find anywhere for miles, and it’s already dark. You can have the bed and I’ll take the floor.”
“Of course not. I can’t have you sleeping on the floor.”
She looked at him up and down. “Well you will never fit,” she laughed.
He felt his cheeks flame. In this tiny room, he could physically feel the imposition of his ungainly stature. He felt enormous, hulking.
Alice winced. “Oh, no—I only meant that with your height there’s scarcely any room for you. Not that I don’t like your size.”
He felt even worse at her cognizance of his discomfort.
“Henry,” she said with a frank stare that made him uncomfortable in an entirely different way. “Can you really have any doubt that I find you attractive? I think you’re perhaps the most appealing man I’ve ever had the misfortune of being stranded with. It’s narrow in this room. That’s all I meant.”
Her concern for his feelings touched him. As did her avowal that she liked the way he looked.
But that did nothing to solve the predicament about the bed.
He heard Alice’s stomach make a noise of hunger.
“Let’s have supper,” he said, relieved at the reprieve. “I’ll leave you to freshen up. Meet me in the dining room.”
He went downstairs and paced, unsure of how this had happened once again. It was like God was pushing them together. But why, when their proximity only ever seemed to lead to sin? Could he survive another night in such close quarters? Would he embarrass himself again, with the memory of her kiss so fresh on his body?
“There you are,” Alice called.
She smiled at him, and he felt like he was breaking open. An involuntary grin gashed across his face, as quick as a heartbeat. He saw her notice and look at him more closely.
He lifted up a hand in greeting and pretended like he did not have to brace his knees to keep them from buckling at the sight her.
Evidently he was not effective, for her brow knit in concern as soon as she came near enough to see his face.
“Are you all right, Henry? You look ill.”
Did she really not know the effect she had on him? Could she not see that he felt like he’d been cut open? That he needed her to sew his heart back up? That even if she did it wouldn’t work, because he was different now, in a way he could not understand, but only feel?
“Just hungry. Shall we sit down to eat?”
They found a quiet table near the fireplace, and a waitress brought them bread and took down their orders for supper.
As soon as she was gone, Alice frowned at him. “You seem perturbed.”
He sighed. “You are kind to worry after me given the trouble with your family. I hope you aren’t too terribly upset.”
“Will it sound too odd if I admit I count myself relieved?”
“Of course you are,” he murmured, feeling foolish. “Whatever your mother may be guilty of, ‘tis certainly preferable to losing her. I apologize.”
“Yes, but that isn’t what I meant. I was going to do it, you see. I think I really was.”
“Do what?”
“Marry William.”
Henry’s shirt felt too tight at the thought of Alice marrying William, or anyone at all. (Except for … Henry.)
(Which, of course, was absurd, as that could never be.)
(Unless … But no, no, what was he thinking?)
But William! William. Alice Hull—who played music like she played for God himself, who frightened men double her in size, who kissed him like she wanted to sear herself inside his body—deserved better than the likes of William, who considered her a shop window and an inherited one at that.
“You care for him?” he forced himself to ask.
He went weak with relief when she sputtered out a mouthful of ale at the very notion of it.
“No. William’s a kind man, but I have more of a spark with Vicar Helmsley, if I’m honest. I considered it because we would not have been able to keep the house without my mother’s widow’s income, and I can’t very well bring Liza and Sally to Charlotte Street. I’ve been so sad thinking about the life I would have, married to him. So in a way, I am glad this happened. Because now my family know everything, and I’m free to do whatever I like.”
She slathered a piece of bread with butter and bit into it.
“And what will you do?” he asked.
“I’ll go back to Elena’s and finish my training.”
“Training?”
She nodded, chewing. “She wants me to specialize in discipline, but I don’t know. I might prefer the chapel.” She smiled wolfishly.
“The chapel?” he asked.
“Yes, the chapel. You recall—the one you ran away from?”
She clearly thought he was now ready to laugh at this, but he was not. He did not know what he wanted. To know more. To steal her ale and drink it down in a single gulp. To go outside and drive into the blinding rain, and away from this terrible feeling of wanting and loathing himself for wanting.
He coughed. “What is it that you would do in this … chapel?”
“It’s a bit like you wrote in your journal. Some members are excited by stern nuns, or lusty vicars. Others like the atmosphere itself. The sin of it.”
He felt like his cravat was actually trying to choke him. He knew she had read about his fantasies. He had not known she was training to fulfill them herself.
“Alice, I should not have asked. We mustn’t speak of this in public.”
She gave him a very feminine smile. “Very well, Henry,” she said primly. “Perhaps when I’ve done my training you can pay me a visit and we can speak of it in private.”
Now his breeches were choking him. He nearly fell on the serving girl in gratitude when she arrived with their plates, if only because it meant Alice would eat instead of tormenting him.
As they waited for the meal she chattered about this and that, her life in London, and he tried to listen, but his mind kept returning to what she’d said.
Between sentences she ate, heartily, in that way he’d become so fond of—fawning over each thing on her plate. As he picked meagerly at his own roast turnips and stewed beets, she looked meaningfully into his eyes.
“Don’t you ever get hungry, Henry?”
He frowned, surprised by the question, since she knew his diet.
“Vegetables and grains are very filling and nutritious, and I supplement them with milk and eggs.”