There. If that didn’t make her plan clear to him, nothing would. She had just enough pride left to avoid stating anything more obvious, or more desperate, though she really was not above much anymore. Her finer associates might not understand that, which was why she would keep those details to herself.
But Henshaw nodded slowly to himself, his frown fading as his understanding sank in. “Edith, I’ll say this once, and I hope you will take it as it is intended…”
She tilted her head in question.
“If it will do you any good at all, help in any way, I’ll marry you.”
The breath rushed out of her lungs at the offer, and her first thought was to adamantly insist against it, to laugh off his thoughtful nature, as she had so often done before. Henshaw had offered to marry Grace only last year, though he had been teasing, and she would not be surprised if he had offered the same to one of the other Spinsters at one time or another. He was the sort of man that knew the way of the world and the skewed nature of it. Yet, he would offer himself as a way to surmount such an obstacle, even if it were made in jest.
But there was no jest here, and it was that solemnity that kept her from reacting as that first thought called for.
Marrying Henshaw would solve everything. Absolutely everything. His offer was utterly genuine, without condescension or heroism, and made with what he thought a full understanding of her circumstances. There was no judgment, no prejudice, and no indication that he believed her anything less than capable of managing her problems on her own.
To alleviate her suffering, to give her peace of mind, this man would give up any of his own prospects for future happiness and marry her.
Her chest tightened, slowly clenching with emotion, and her eyes burned with the same. She smiled at him, beyond words for the time being, and wishing, faintly, that she could accept such an incomparable offer.
“Alas,” she managed to choke out, “I dinna think I could allow that. It would break the heart of too many lasses, and for all my fondness for you, Hensh, I will insist that ye marry where your heart dictates, and no’ your conscience.”
“Not that many lasses, Edith,” he assured her, smiling with more warmth than she deserved. “But thank you for giving me the courtesy of a moment’s consideration. The offer will always stand, should anything change.”
Edith nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”
The offer was a pointless one, for all its sweetness.
No matter what else changed, her decision in this never would.
“I hear that you danced with Lord Radcliffe at the Martins’ ball last night,” Henshaw said then, his tone and expression returning to his usual one. “I’m sorry I missed that.”
“I didna mean to,” Edith murmured, her cheeks coloring.
Henshaw chuckled. “How did you manage to get a dance with a man when you didn’t mean to? I didn’t know you were acquainted.”
“We’re not,” she answered honestly, memories of the night before darting in and out of her mind at a rapid speed. “It was… a matter of chance. And he didn’t want to.”
Henshaw grunted, looking impressed. “Well, you can add your name to a very short list of women he has danced with.”
That was curious, to be sure, and despite the distress she’d felt the night before, she could honestly say she was interested now.
“How short?”
He gave her a somber look. “Two others, that I know of.”
Edith blinked at that, the answer settling on her heavily. How could a man who never danced give in to her demand for a waltz with relatively little fight? Granted, she had been quite determined, which was something that had once been a vibrant part of her nature, now long forgotten. She hadn’t exactly given the man a chance to refuse her in earnest.
“Lord, did you say?” Edith murmured, wishing with some pain that she had tea at hand.
“You really don’t know him, do you?” Henshaw chuckled and crossed one knee over the other. “Lord Radcliffe is a viscount. He inherited not long ago after a family tragedy. Everyone was devastated when we lost Lord and Lady Radcliffe like that. Merrifield will never be the same, that is certain.”
Somehow, that seemed too much to hear, too much to think about. She had her own burdens to bear. The notion that her hero of the ball was also one to whom fate had not been kind weighed heavily on her heart.
Why could her desperate dance not have been with someone with the simplest of lives? She would never wonder about the life that sort of man led or feel sympathy that her actions might have added to whatever he bore.
“I dinna mean to inquire into his life.” Edith shook her head, averting her eyes. “Poor man.”
“You didn’t. I offered it up, and it is common knowledge.” He waited a moment, and when she made no answer or response, he spoke again. “Edith…”
She dragged her reluctant gaze back to Henshaw and found him smiling at her with some sympathy. “Yes?”
Henshaw’s smile grew briefly. “Whatever you are thinking or planning, remember that you need only ask, and I will be happy to assist.”
Edith found herself smiling back at him. “If I had any idea what I was thinking or planning, Hensh, I’d be pleased to include you.”
He took her at her word, laughing again, then informed her of the food he’d had sent down to the kitchens, and invited her to accompany him to the theatre with their friends the following evening.
The theatre was not a ball, and there was no reason why Sir Reginald should attend the same night, especially with the other activities available to one during the Season.
She agreed, though her natural inclination was to remain at home and hide away from the world as she had so often done.
She could not do that now. More’s the pity.
Henshaw left shortly after, and Edith stared after his carriage, her arms folded about her midsection in an almost protective fashion.
“I dinna ken why ye dinna jus’ tell him, mistress,” Owen remarked from somewhere behind her. “He’s a right one.”
“I ken he is,” Edith murmured. “And tha’s why I canna do it.” She sniffed once and turned for the doors. “I’ll be walkin’ to Charlotte’s now.”
Owen grunted once. “I’ll be some paces behind ye, as always.”
She nodded in acknowledgement, then headed out into the damp London morning, her thoughts awhirl.
Lord Radcliffe. She hadn’t meant to dance with a peer; she’d simply snagged the closest sleeve available to her and blurted out something desperate. The only thought in her head had been getting safely away from Sir Reginald in a manner that wouldn’t earn her his wrath or punishment. He had been pursuing her for too long that night, her polite refusals meaning nothing to him, and the influence of too much of the evening’s good wine had emboldened him. A dance with him could have ruined her before any plan had the chance to come to fruition.
Hence the desperation.
A desperation, which, unfortunately, surpassed any recollection of the actual person with whom she had danced. He was tall, he scowled, and he had dark hair. Beyond that, there was nothing in her mind to recollect Lord Radcliffe at all.
It seemed a shame to learn the name of the man from someone else, but to also doubt she would know him again should their paths cross once more. Hardly respectable, hardly polite.