“Would you . . . would you like that one?” the man asked.
“Yes.” Her voice was hoarse and low. “Please wrap it up with the others,” she said, louder this time.
“Very good, your ladyship.”
Traffic and rain made the drive home very slow. She tried not to think of the cologne or the scandalous things she planned to do with it later while sitting across from Ostler, but she wasn’t successful. As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop outside her home, she bounded out. If Huxley hadn’t stopped her inside, she would have run to her room.
“Telegram for you, ma’am.” He held out a yellow sheet of paper. When she looked at him in question, he added, “The telegraph boy brought it round earlier this afternoon.”
To: Lady Helena March, 43 Berkeley Square, London
I miss you STOP How long must I wait QUERY
From: Mr. Maxwell Crenshaw, Crenshaw Iron Works, New York, NY
Tears wet her eyes before she could stop them. Part of her had made herself believe that he had already moved on. He’d sent a few letters since returning home. One regarding Hereford’s death. One in response to her query about his Christmas plans—he’d spent the day with extended family. Another to let her know that his negotiations with his employees had resulted in avoiding a strike. His letters were so calm, friendly, and direct to the point that she hadn’t believed he ached for her as she did for him.
Holding the package with the cologne tight against her chest, she let herself imagine what it would be like to end this misery for both of them. To tell him that he didn’t have to wait at all. It would be as near to bliss as she would ever get.
“Will there be a reply, milady?”
Helena blinked back the ache of tears and said, “Yes, I’ll write one out.”
He gave an abbreviated bow. “I’ll have it sent immediately.”
Hurrying to her desk, she pulled out a plain sheet of paper and wrote, One month is not enough. When enough time had passed, he would come to his senses and realize he wanted his legacy more than he wanted her. She was certain of that.
His reply came via telegram later that night. How long?
She went to bed with those words in her head, imagining his impatient and gruff voice saying them against her ear as she fell asleep in a cloud of his scent.
Chapter 25
I can live alone, if self-respect, and circumstances require me so to do.
Charlotte Brontë
MARCH 1876
Today marked three months since Max had seen Helena. Three months since he had touched her skin, tasted her kiss, and smelled her perfume. They had been three of the longest, most hellish months of his life. Aside from battling Crenshaw Iron’s demons—convincing the board to support his solution to dealing with the workers’ demands over his father’s more authoritarian approach had not been easy—he’d had to battle his own personal devils. Helena had yet to choose him, and he didn’t know what to do with that. He’d managed to convince himself that if he gave her time alone, she would come to accept that his love for her wasn’t going away. Now he wondered if perhaps she was the one who had moved on.
His second telegram demanding a timeline had gone unanswered. Instead, a letter had arrived several weeks later in which she had studiously avoided addressing the topic as she gushed about the success of the training program she and August had implemented for the female residents of her charity. He hadn’t pressed her again, preferring to congratulate her on the accomplishment and resign himself to the fact that she would need more time. Now he wondered if not pushing harder had been a mistake.
Violet’s child had been born a couple of weeks ago at the end of February. Christian’s telegram had alerted him of the baby’s arrival and assured him of the good health of both mother and child. Max had immediately thought of Helena and how she might be feeling. It had to be difficult for her to watch someone she cared about go through the birth of a child knowing it was something she would never experience for herself. He’d sent a telegram asking how she was doing. Her reply had been quick and to the point—Good. Thank you.
He hadn’t heard from her since, but he felt something was changing. An ache had taken root in his chest, and he’d found no relief from it no matter how many hours he worked a day.
“What do you say, Maxwell? Another round?” Walter, the man who spoke, was one of the board members who had taken Max’s side in the debate against his father. He gestured at the half-filled tumbler before Max.
Max blinked, forcing his mind back to the table in the private room at Delmonico’s and the five men he’d had dinner with. They were men of industry Max had known for years, and they met every month to discuss business and current events. “Actually, I was thinking of retiring early,” Max said.
Suddenly, the thought of spending another hour out was exhausting. He usually enjoyed these dinners but tonight wanted nothing more than to sit in front of his fire at home sipping a brandy and remembering the night in Helena’s bed at Claremont Hall.
“Are you ill?” Walter asked, concern clouding his features.
“No, a bit tired.” He pushed back from the table and stood; the others rose to wish him a good night. “Good evening, gentlemen.” A waiter hurried away to retrieve his coat, hat, and gloves.
The streets were dark, and winter hadn’t yet loosened its grip on the city. By the time he got home a quarter hour later, his fingers were numb and that brandy sounded even better.
“Evening, Charles,” he greeted his butler after hurrying inside.
“Good evening, Mr. Crenshaw,” Charles answered, helping him out of his coat. “The day’s post is in your study.”
“Anything interesting?”
“A letter from London.”
A lump of anxiety churned in his stomach. He didn’t have to ask who the letter was from. Somehow, he already knew.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” Charles asked.
“No, thank you. That’s all for tonight.” Max couldn’t seem to look away from the open door of his study, the letter calling to him.
“Very well. Good night.”
“Good night.” As Charles disappeared down the hall leading to the back of the house, Max managed to get his legs to work and made his way to the study.
A pile of correspondence sat waiting on the corner of his desk. He ignored it briefly to pour himself a bit of brandy and take a swallow. It warmed him on the way down, giving him the strength to approach the stack. As he’d suspected, a letter from Helena sat on top. Her beautiful, flowing script stared back at him.