Chapter Twenty-five
Evans Principle #more: Keep your ears, your eyes, and your heart open. When the best opportunities arise, you will know.
She recognized the Devin carriage as it stopped in front of the store. Yet, when she steeled herself to face Lord Devin, she was surprised to see Lady Devin alight, followed just as inexplicably by Mr. and Mrs. Browning. She rushed to the door to assist their entry.
“It’s an honor to have you all in my modest shop.” She curtsied to them, not out of expectation but out of heartfelt respect. “Mrs. Browning, Mr. Browning, if you wish, I would be happy to show you the shelves where I house your work.”
“Please, allow me to get you some tea,” she offered, once they were all comfortably situated. “I’ll only be a few moments.”
“I will come with you, dear,” said Lady Devin, following her.
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of it. You’re my guest. Please have a seat.”
“I insist, Honoria. Contrary to what you might expect, I know my way around a kitchen. And I will not be refused. Now lead the way.”
She began to dread any and all conversations that took place over tea.
“Nora, I am certain I have told you before that my cousin in Paris found herself a widow somewhat late in life and ultimately remarried,” Lady Devin said as she counted teacups and saucers. “What I refrained from mentioning, and what even my children do not know, is that she remarried a Frenchman much younger than she. The French, she told me, are far less stuffy than our English compatriots about what constitutes love.” Her voice dipped low. “She tells me she derives exponentially greater pleasures from her current match than she ever did in her youth. She says it is not so uncommon in France for the women to reach their sexual peak later than the men. I tell you, she so recommends the experience that she almost makes me want to take a discreet lover or two in order to test her theories.” She winked like a naughty schoolgirl. “Almost.”
Honoria’s face flamed at Lady Devin’s suggestiveness, at the slightest possibility that Lady Devin might suspect what pleasures her son was capable of giving.
Still, without shyness, Lady Devin continued. “What I am trying not so subtly to convey to you, my dear, is that my son loves you with a depth and intensity I have never seen. You make him happy. Or at least, you made him happy. These days, he swings between being a ghost and a bear, miserable either way. If he makes you as happy, then all the rest of it be damned.”
Shocked by Lady Devin’s plain speaking, Honoria didn’t want to say what she had to say next. As terrible as it felt to lower Lady Devin’s esteem for her, she had to reveal the truth.
“Lady Devin, you have a right to know. I don’t deserve your son. I don’t deserve his affection—or your kindness. The woman you see before you is built on a lie, a lie all the worse because it feeds on the pain and pity of others.”
Lady Devin withdrew her hand.
“I am not a widow.” Honoria paused, silent as the grave. “I was never married. I perpetrated a fraud to qualify for my uncle’s inheritance and keep my father’s bookshop running.” God, but ever since she’d first admitted the truth to Alex, the almost-forgotten gut-wrenching desperation that spurred that old deception had reawakened. The pain simmered afresh just below the surface of her skin. Way back when, she’d thought it a brilliant scheme, the only way out. “It was the only way I could protect my father’s legacy and stay out of the poorhouse myself.” She felt deflated, unable to fill back up with air. “You were so kind to share with me your loss, under the belief that yours was kindred to my own. And I am so sorry I abused that sacred trust. I am not equal to such kindness.”
To her inexpressible relief, Lady Devin reached out to her again.
“My dear, you may not have had a husband, but I know you have felt loss at your core. The loss of your parents, your only family, devastated you. I can see that it devastates you still today. You have harmed no one with this prevarication, except perhaps yourself. I do not presume to know what it is like to be in such dire straits. But I plainly see that you are a fine, upstanding woman. And I see that you love my son as much as he loves you. And you are, in every way, deserving of it.”
Honoria couldn’t lie to Lady Devin anymore, couldn’t deny the feelings she so keenly perceived. You are, in every way, deserving of it. She fervently wished she could believe it. She carried the tray down the stairs with Lady Devin following close behind and carrying an extra plate of biscuits.
Once Mr. Browning was sure that his wife was comfortable and that he’d spent a polite amount of time with them, he excused himself. The affectionate look he gave his wife before he walked out the door spoke volumes.
Mrs. Browning’s eyes were kind and gentle as they looked around the room. Her manner was open as the three women conversed about many things. Yet it was clear that she and Lady Devin had come here on a mission.
“You know something of my life story, I suppose,” Mrs. Browning said. “It is no secret that Robert and I have faced some obstacles. My failing health, my brother’s death, my father’s decree that none of the Barrett children marry—I had nothing but my work until Robert’s letters began to arrive.
“Look upon me, Honoria, and listen well. My limbs are useless, but my heart is strong. I am six years older than Robert, and I don’t care. I love him with everything I am. And with all that loving me entails, he does so, unconditionally. We have both accomplished so much more together than we ever had apart.” She looked pointedly down at her body. “Even at my advanced age, God has blessed us with a miraculous son. Do you think I have not feared loss? Do you think, at every juncture, I have not considered the safer path? Love is not for the timid, but I see that you are no coward. Embrace the gift that is before you and hold it to you for as long as you can.”
Nora battled in vain to prevent brimming tears from spilling down her cheeks.
“I leave you with this reminder, which you are not, under any circumstances, to sell!” Elizabeth handed her a slim volume, her own Sonnets from the Portuguese, published just last year.
As with many other new arrivals to the shop, Honoria remembered skimming it quickly all those months ago upon release, and they’d struck her as sweet and pretty. She’d recommended it as a wedding gift more than once. She’d memorized several of the sonnets and easily remembered the one that gave her the sharpest pain now.
She began to recite Mrs. Browning’s words quietly: “ ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: / I love thee to the depth and breadth and height / my soul can reach . . .’ ” By the time she reached the end of the sonnet, she was openly sobbing: “ ‘—and if God choose, / I shall but love thee better after death.’ ” She looked up at Mrs. Browning and leaned in to grasp her hands.
“What if I cannot?” she asked, trembling.
“If I can, Honoria, you can.” Mrs. Browning squeezed her hands hard. “But you must make the choice. And then you must commit to it with your whole heart. No one can convince you. Only you can make that decision.”