A carriage slows in front of Kensington. From the parlor window, I watch the horse’s legs powering near, the driver with his greatcoat and red cap, the sleek black box.
My heart pounds. I grip the sill, begging it to be damfo coming with the day and time of my appointment.
Though I still have to rehearse what to say, I’m ready to see Lord Bathurst. I will practice, for it’s the hardest thing to speak of hope and justice when your heart is alone and grieved.
Another glance out the window reveals a carriage. It’s small. Only one horse, like Pa’s dray, like Cells’s carriages in Demerara. I thought my damfo would have more.
The last time we met, there were at least four.
The footman holds the door for Henrietta Sala.
My granddaughter has come to visit. With a satin bonnet that points like a ship’s bow, tall and pretty, Henny comes through the parlor doors. She wraps her arms about me.
“Grandmama.”
She says the endearment pretty, like it’s a song.
“Child, come sit. It’s good to see you.” I wave her to the lovely tray of tea and sweets Miss Smith has left to make my waiting easier.
A blush hits her cheeks, but she walks around the room looking at the shelves, the stylish curtains and paper treatment on the pink walls.
“This place has only become better.”
Her back is straight, her chin is high. I see Cells. Well, I should see him. He’s as much of Henny’s grandpa as I am her grandma.
“You look good, Grandmama. Was the trip unsettling?”
“No. It was fine.” I’m afraid to ask why she’d think so. The rumors must be rampant.
I grab her hand, light and dark, soft and wrinkled. “How is Mr. Sala treating you? You two have been married twelve years now.”
“Twelve years and many children. I’m a good mother. That’s how often it’s said.”
The edge in her words are biting and admirable. I like a woman who’s bold. But Henny is hurting. Like her grandpa, she keeps secrets.
I pour her tea and then my own. “Tell me the truth, Henny.”
“My husband’s income and the dowry you provided have given us a comfortable house on New Street, around the corner from his mother’s school.”
“Yes, the Marylebone on Lissom Street. I recall.”
“You remember?”
I want to say I know where all my checks are written, but that will make Henny stop talking. She needs to tell me her heart. Then, I can be a rock for her, a safe place to gather and restore her strength. Women need to do that for other women, not torment them for mistakes. “I do remember the school. But are you telling me you are unhappy?”
“I want to sing. Tramezzani and D’Egville of the King’s Theatre, they think I have true talent. They want me, little old me to share the stage with them.”
“Then why not? Why aren’t you following your dream? Singing is why I put you in Marylebone.”
“My Augustus thinks I should be at home with the children and give up all my lessons. He used to perform. He doesn’t want that life for me.”
Henny picks up her teacup, but I hear the echoes of what she doesn’t say. That Augustus Sala doesn’t want her to have applause. He can’t understand her having her own dreams. He does not love her, not as she needs.
My sighing is loud and long. “Henny, I recall so fondly how you loved to exhibit.”
She settles her cup. “My husband only talks of his plays. His words, him. He forgets that music drew us together. Now it seems it will draw us apart.”
“What a horrible thing for song to do.” I sip my tea and wait to see my blood stir in her, that she can’t blame others for what she hasn’t done for herself.
She unpins her beautiful bonnet and sets it aside. Her dark brown curls hide her delicate ears. Henny looks of money and comfort. Cells would be proud of how she fits into this world.
But that’s looks.
Looks won’t be deceiving me anymore.
I set my cup down and stretch in my sleek slippers adorned in emerald ribbon. I love green and gold.
“Are you here to ask me to pay for lessons?”
Henny’s eyes blink wildly. I thought they’d pop. “No, ma’am. You’ve done enough. I need help sorting things out, that’s all.”
“Good.” I nod and feel that invisible hand on my purse ease. “You’re smart. Surely London has ways for an industrious girl to make money.”
“How have you done it? You had a lot of children but you still made your fortune.”
“Children never blocked my path, just adjusted it a little. I had help and I figured out the best way for them and me. It wasn’t always an easy road.”
Henny’s light eyes squint and she can’t know my meaning. This was best. The past, the missteps, the victories—they are all mine and I wear them like an easy heel or ribbons that slacken from use.
I lean forward, stretching, and spoon a lump of sugar into her cup. “The sweetness of winning, my dear. Don’t lose you. Do all for your children, but birth your dreams, too.”
As if no one has encouraged her in a long while, Henny grins. Her face becomes joyous and young as she blows bubbles in her tea.
“I always imagined you, girl, performing for kings and queens, singing such tunes. You’ll make the papers for the right reasons.”
“What if all the trouble is to make something happen that’s not meant to be? Augustus was mad when I had a little part. The Duke of Clarence has attended.”
“Duke of Clairborne?”
“The Duke of Clarence, Prince William Henry, Grandmama. Your old friend.”
I had heard Henny the first time, but I liked the way she arches her voice to say the prince’s title. My lips lift like I’m responding to a kiss.
“Then it’s true.”
“What is true?”
“This woman, she came around this week asking questions, insinuating . . .” Henny scrapes her index fingers at me. “Naughty, Grandmama. You and the prince? Naughty. I thought you knew him because of Mr. King and that evening at Bushy House.”
My face feels hot and warm. The memories flow.
Henny stands and paces. Again, I see Cells in her steps, fretting about the governor or the financiers or a prince.
“I lived a life. What did this woman accuse me of?”
“Miss Van Den Velden showed me a news clipping from Rambler Magazine. Was that you? Were you caught with Prince William Henry? An affair, Grandmama?”
Can she see my thoughts? Oh, how the legend of my daring has grown. “I believe the sketch ran again in the papers, too.”
“Grandmama? You—”
A patchwork of images dances between me and Henny. She’s sitting too far to whisper my truth. But will this truth steal my chance to right the scales for the women of Demerara? No one will listen to anyone made a harlot in the papers. Scandal is no woman’s friend.
“Did this woman say why she’s chasing ghosts?”
“Grandmama, did you love him?”
“That was a long time ago. Henny, I wonder why it is of such interest now. Who does she intend to tell once her curiosity is satisfied?”
“She didn’t say, Grandmama. She tried to pretend she was inquiring for Kensington School, even teased of a job. But I sense she’s vicious. She has a personal grievance against you, doesn’t she?”
I knot and unknot my scarf, wearing it like the young spirit in me, right across the shoulders above my womanly charms. “A great many things happen when you live long, dearie.” Too many to number.
Henny’s smart, and I sense she wants to hear someone else’s problems to make her troubles seem lighter.
It’s dangerous to confide in someone who’s rooting for a worse lot than their own.
“Enough of me, Henny. There are more difficulties with Mr. Sala?”
Shrugging, she stood and turned to the window. Tears stream her face. “He drinks too much.”
“Men tend to do that, Henny.”
“He stays out late gambling.”
“Fools tend to do that.”
“Grandmama, I think he’s been unfaithful.”
“Oh.” I peer down at my saucy scarlet scarf and slide the knot away, draping it respectfully about my shoulders. “Keep talking, Henny. I’m listening.”
“Doesn’t Augustus know I have the opportunity to be admired, but I stay home with our children?” She rakes her hands in her hair, mussing the curls. “I don’t know what to do.”
I knew she was too young to be settling for Sala, Augustus Sala, the first man to pay her attention, but who can tell a fool in haste about love and life.