‘You appear very thoughtful this evening, Mrs Hertle,’ Robert Hertle observed, putting a hand over the fingers she had tucked into the crook of her husband’s arm.
Robert had appeared unannounced, as often he did, for no one could ever predict the day a ship would return to harbour, and for the past two days she had been so utterly happy and content that she had begun to wonder if she did not look rather girlish, though in truth she hardly cared.
‘Do I, my dear? I must be thinking always how much happiness your sudden return has brought me.’
Happiness was in the very air that evening, among the gathered Carthew family and their guests, but not everyone partook of it. She let her gaze wander over the familiar faces. In a room of notably joyful souls, Elizabeth Hertle wondered who, next to Penelope, was least pleased with the proceedings. Mrs Hertle hovered near to her youngest daughter, attempting, largely in vain, to lift her spirits. And though Pen was striving to put on a brave face, far too often she seemed about to weep. Mrs Carthew appeared happier than Elizabeth would have guessed, given the reservations she had recently expressed regarding a match between Henrietta and Frank Beacher. Perhaps her motherly instinct had come to the fore when she realized her lovely daughter was engaged to a gentleman whose character she knew, from long familiarity, was in all ways above reproach.
Elizabeth put this question aside a moment. Who the happiest person was anyone could tell; Frank Beacher looked as though he had been granted every wish he had ever imagined. Miss Henrietta Carthew was to be his wife and he was transported into a state of near bliss, a smile always upon his lips, his gaze ever returning to his intended.
Poor Pen, Elizabeth thought, such happiness must be like a knife in her heart.
Henrietta, who was capable of a near saintly grace when it suited her, had donned that persona and smiled upon everyone and everything as though they gave her unimaginable joy – but there was, for the briefest second, now and then, a tightening of the skin around her eyes that Elizabeth had come to recognize as distress or perhaps disquiet.
Disquiet was precisely the word that Elizabeth would have chosen to describe her own feelings – not her feelings towards her returned husband, which were never in doubt – but her feelings towards the match that had been announced that evening. Despite the approbation of Henrietta’s father and two Carthew sisters – and even Beacher’s friend Wilder – Elizabeth felt that a terrible mistake was being made. Not that she thought poorly of Frank Beacher – like everyone in the room she believed him integrity brought to life. He would cherish Henri and do everything within his power to assure her happiness, she had no doubt of it. But … she could not feel joy or even moderate satisfaction. She had pushed Henrietta in this direction and now she regretted it most profoundly and she could not even say with certainty why. For no reason that she could explain she felt that, in time, Frank Beacher, even more than Henrietta, would be made entirely miserable by this union. And then it occurred to her – Henri would never be able to love Frank as he imagined she would. Oh she might love and respect him and care for his happiness, but there would be always be something amiss – she would never give herself over to him completely, body and soul. And he would spend his life always yearning for a love that could not be. She felt sorry for him already – and for Henri as well.
Mr Carthew cleared his throat, caught everyone’s attention and then held aloft a glass. ‘Is everyone’s glass charged? Then let me propose a toast that I am sure will win Mrs Carthew’s approval; may Mr Beacher and our dear Henrietta be blessed with children.’
Everyone was willing to drink to such a proposition and Elizabeth, with Robert at her side, crossed over to Mrs Carthew to say how she wished she would soon have a grandchild. At that moment a servant entered the room, spotted Mrs Carthew and came immediately to her.
‘Pardon the intrusion, ma’am. There is a gentleman caller at the door – a sea officer. He has asked to speak with Miss Henrietta on a matter he describes as of the greatest urgency.’
‘How very odd,’ Mrs Carthew interrupted. ‘Did he give his name?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Charles Hayden.’
Mrs Carthew put a hand to her heart and though she opened her mouth three times could make no words issue forth.
‘I will attend to this caller,’ Robert stated, gently removing his wife’s hand from his arm and immediately making his way towards the door.
Mrs Carthew looked at Elizabeth. ‘Who in their senses would come to our home and make such a claim?’
‘I do not know, but whoever it is Captain Hertle will see him on his way.’
And then, without either saying a word, they made for the door in Robert’s wake.
‘What is it, Mother?’ Cassandra asked as her mother hurried past. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
This caught everyone’s attention and as Elizabeth and Mrs Carthew passed out of the door, half clinging to one another, a general enquiry followed.
As no guests were expected that night the entrance hall was poorly lit. A man stood inside the door, too stooped and thin to be Charles Hayden, certainly. Elizabeth perceived that immediately.
Robert did not hesitate but approached the stranger directly, his shoulders tight with anger.
‘Robert!’ the stranger said. ‘Thank God!’
‘Charles … ? My God! Charles!’
And the two friends all but threw themselves into each other’s embrace.
‘How is it you are here?’ Robert managed as they pounded each other on the back. ‘I was informed you had perished. The Admiralty think you dead.’
‘They did, but no longer. I will tell you the whole story but …’
There was a swishing of gowns behind and Elizabeth turned to see the remaining family and guests wedged in a little knot, staring past one another at the two murky figures before the door.
The two friends released one another, and Robert noticed all the others staring. ‘Henrietta,’ he said, ‘it is Charles … returned to us by what agency I do not know.’
It was one of those moments, Elizabeth thought, so completely unexpected and fraught with emotion that no one knew the proper course of action or even how they should feel.
Henrietta gazed, in either amazement or confusion, at the shadow-man standing by Robert, then at the face of Frank Beacher. Then back again to Hayden. In what appeared to be three strides she crossed the hallway and threw herself against Charles’s chest, her face pressed into his neck. Neither said a word but clung to each other.
Elizabeth turned towards Mr Beacher, who stood looking on helplessly, his mouth slightly open, and she thought for a mad instant that his soul had slipped out of that opening and left him – a husk awaiting a bitter wind.