But Henry wouldn’t be doing that. He couldn’t. The thought of never seeing Christopher again made him feel physically ill. And the thought of Christopher with anyone else was… well, it was intolerable.
By now Henry was nearly home, turning onto Curzon Street and walking towards his own house. As he approached, the lock scraped and the door swung open, a sleepy footman stepping aside with a slight bow to let Henry pass.
Henry nodded a greeting.
“Your grace,” the man murmured. Henry handed off his hat and cane then headed upstairs to bathe and change into fresh clothes.
His bedchamber was dim and shadowy, thanks to the thick drapes that kept out the morning light. He crossed to the window and yanked the drapes aside, only to startle when he turned around and realised there was a person lying in his bed, sleeping.
Caroline?
She never came to his bedchamber—and it had been several years since he’d visited hers—but here she was, a small, slight figure in the middle of the mattress, her long, loose hair covering her face.
Puzzled, he approached the bed carefully, sitting down gently and reaching out to carefully comb her hair back from her face.
She stirred and turned her face, and he saw it was blotchy and swollen from what must have been recent tears. His gut hollowed with dread.
Please, don’t let it be one of the children.
Caroline blinked her eyes open. There was a long moment when she seemed entirely normal, entirely well. And then some horrible realisation seemed to come over her, and her blue eyes filled with tears.
“Henry,” she gasped. “Oh God, Henry.”
She scrabbled up onto her knees and launched herself at him, burying her face in his shoulder as she began to cry in great wrenching sobs that sounded as though they’d been dragged from the depths of her soul. Henry stared at her in shock for a moment before folding his arms around her and pulling her trembling body close.
“What’s wrong?” he said urgently.
She felt both familiar and strange in his arms. It had been so long since they’d touched each other like this. The rosewater scent of her soap was like an old memory.
She pulled back and met his gaze, her face wrecked by tears.
“What is it?” he breathed, terrified.
She didn’t say anything, only reached for his hand and lifted it to her breast, guiding it with her own. Pressed his fingers against the soft flesh.
When he felt the lump, he understood, and their eyes met.
“What’s that?” he breathed, but he knew—he could feel it, under his fingers.
“Just like Mama,” she said thickly, and now Henry felt tears spring to his own eyes. Caroline’s mother had died a few months after he and Caroline had married. It had been shockingly quick, and Caroline had been distraught.
“I can’t bear it!” she half-sobbed. “The children are so young. You are going to have to be everything to them, Henry. From now on.”
“Don’t talk like that!” he exclaimed. “How do you know? Have you even seen the doctor yet?”
“Of course I have!” she cried, and she pressed his hand against her breast again, forcing him to feel the hard, uncompromising lump.
He swallowed against the sudden thickness in his throat, fighting for control. When he felt he could speak again, he said as calmly as he could, “Was it Doctor Jenkins? He’s not the only one—”.
“I’ve seen two,” Caroline interrupted dully. She closed her eyes briefly, gaining control over herself, before she added quietly, “Dr. Jenkins and another man he called for. They both said the same—they believe there is little they can do, other than provide pain relief.”
“But surely there’s something, some treatment—” Henry said, his voice cracking with disbelief. After a moment’s hesitation, he added weakly, “Surgery?”
Her mother had undergone surgery—to no avail—and it had been agonising.
Caroline shook her head swiftly.
“We’ll get another doctor,” Henry interjected desperately. “My dear, you can’t give up. The children—”
“I know!” she broke in, her voice low and fierce. “You think I don’t know, Henry? The thought of leaving them breaks my heart!”
And then she was crying again, and so was he. Till he had no tears left and felt like an empty husk.
“I want to go home,” she said. “Today. I want us all to go home to Avesbury House. Just us and the children.” Her fingers tightened on his. “May we, Henry? Please?”
He did not hesitate. “Of course. Whatever you want, my love. The doctors can come to you there and any treatment you need will—”
She interrupted him. “You will have to leave everything else behind.”
“Darling, it’s fine,” he interrupted. “I don’t mind—”
But she carried on, apparently needing to say more. “You will have to leave your young man behind,” she said. “You will have to give him up, Henry.”
She was talking of Christopher.
Henry’s throat closed. He couldn’t speak at all.
“I know you will miss his company,” she added, “but, my dear, it is time to put your toys away. We must think of the children now. They will need this time with us together—what little we can give them—and then after, you will have to put them first, Henry. Before your own desires.”
Somehow, Henry managed to swallow against the rocks in his throat.
“I know,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Sssh, I know.”
But she was too caught up in her own urgency to quiet. “Promise me, Henry,” she begged. “Promise me you will put them first, always.”
“I promise,” he said, though it felt like a wild thing was clawing his heart to pieces. “We will go home, and I will be very glad to do without Parliament and all the hubbub of London to have this time with you and the children. And as for my—my friend—” Somehow, he managed to quirk a smile, despite his sore, raw heart. “He will receive a parting gift and he will be perfectly content when I explain. I can arrange things so that we leave tomorrow—”
“No!” Caroline interrupted. “No, Henry, today. We must leave today.” She began to weep again, and he stared at her helplessly.
“All right,” he said. “All right. Don’t cry, my dear. I will speak to Parkinson, and he will arrange everything. We will leave today, if you wish.”
“Thank you, Henry,” she whispered.
He pulled her close again, and in that moment, grief swamped him.
He grieved for Caroline, and for their children—for the sorrow that would soon be coming their way. But he also, shamefully, grieved for himself.
For the loss of Christopher.
For the loss of the young man who Henry’s heart had fastened upon, despite his better judgment, and who he did not at all wish to lose.
II
London, April 1826
18 years later
3
Kit
Kit was running his finger down the long list of entries in the expenses ledger, totting up pennies, shillings, and pounds in his head, when the door of his office burst open and a small and very grubby person rushed inside.