Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(60)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Hero went to the hearth and, catching up a cloth, picked up the kettle and poured boiling water into the teapot. Fragrant steam rolled up from the teapot before she replaced the lid. She’d come to inform Mrs. Hollingbrook about the new architect and the further delays in building the new home, but that information would obviously have to wait. This was more important.

She brought the full teapot to the table. “He was lost at sea?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Hollingbrook fingered her skirt. “His ship went down. One and fifty men aboard, and all lost at sea.”

“I’m so sorry.” Hero fetched two cups from the sideboard.

“It is sad, isn’t it?” the other woman said. “At sea. I keep remembering those lines from The Tempest: ‘Full fathom five your father lies/ Of his bones are coral made/ Those were pearls that were his eyes…’ ” Her voice trailed away as she stared fixedly at the table.

Hero poured some tea and put a heaping spoonful of sugar into the cup before placing it in front of Mrs. Hollingbrook.

“How long does it take, do you think?” Mrs. Hollingbrook murmured.

“What?” Hero asked.

The other woman glanced up, her eyes looking bruised. “For a corpse to turn into something else in the sea? I’ve always found it somewhat comforting that we all turn to dirt in the end—when we’re buried in the ground at least. Dirt can be a very good thing, after all. It nourishes the flowers, makes the grass grow that sheep and cattle feed upon. A cemetery can be a very peaceful place, I think. But the sea… It’s so very cold and lonely. So lonely.”

Hero swallowed, looking at her tea. “Did Captain Hollingbrook like sailing?”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Hollingbrook seemed surprised. “He talked about it even when he was home on land. He’d always wanted to be a sailor ever since he was a little boy.”

“Then perhaps he never saw the sea quite like you and I would,” Hero said tentatively. “I mean, I don’t presume to know what his mind was like, but wouldn’t it make sense that he might have a different opinion of the sea? That he might even like it?”

Mrs. Hollingbrook blinked. “Maybe. Maybe so.”

She reached forward and took the hot tea in both hands, raising it to take a tentative sip.

Hero drank from her own cup. Although the tea wasn’t as fine as the type she was used to, it was strong and hot and at the moment seemed just the thing.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said vaguely. “I should… What did you come for today?”

Hero thought of the news she’d wanted to share about the new architect for the home. “Nothing important.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Hollingbrook knit her brows, seemingly deep in thought. “It’s just…”

“What?” Hero asked gently.

“I shouldn’t tell you these things,” Mrs. Hollingbrook murmured distractedly. “It’s not your concern.”

“I think,” Hero said, “that I would like it to be my concern. If that would be all right with you.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said. “That would be all right with me.” She took a breath and said in a rush, “It’s just that when he left—when William sailed last—we were not in the concord of mind that we usually were.”

Hero looked down at her tea, remembering the rumors that had swirled last winter about this woman. There were those who had been quite eager to tell her then that it was well known that Mrs. Hollingbrook had sold her virtue to a man called Mickey O’Connor. At the time, she’d decided to disregard the rumors. She trusted both Temperance and Winter Makepeace, and if they had confidence that their sister was fit to run a foundling home, then she was content with their opinion.

Hero had dealt directly with Mrs. Hollingbrook all summer and fall, and in that time she had found no reason to doubt her. She didn’t know the truth of the rumors, whether they were groundless or if Mrs. Hollingbrook had somehow compromised herself. But she no longer had quite the moral authority to judge other women on their failings, did she? And even if she had, Hero would still feel at a soul-deep level that Mrs. Hollingbrook was a good woman. A woman deserving of the epithet “virtuous.”

But whether the rumors were true didn’t really matter at this moment. Trust could be broken over falsehoods as easily as lies.

“I’m sorry,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say.

Mrs. Hollingbrook didn’t seem to need an eloquent speech. “I wish I could have but one more chance to speak to him. To tell him…” Her voice faded away, and she shook her head before drawing in a shaky breath. “I just wish we had not parted on such unfriendly terms.”

Hero hesitantly reached out a hand toward the other woman. She didn’t know her well—they were of different classes—but grief was universal.

Mrs. Hollingbrook clutched her hand convulsively. “It’s selfish, I know, but I keep thinking ‘it’s over now.’ ”

“What is?” Hero asked gently.

Mrs. Hollingbrook shook her head again, and tears suddenly ran down her cheeks. “My life, everything I… I thought I’d have. This was my love; this was my marriage. William and I were happy once. I’m explaining it badly.” She closed her eyes. “Love—happiness—isn’t so very common, really. Some people never find it in all their lives. I had it. And now it’s gone.” She opened her eyes, staring without hope. “I don’t think love like that comes twice in a lifetime. It’s over. I have to go on without it now.”

Hero looked down, tears misting her own eyes. Love isn’t so very common. She’d known that in an intellectual sort of way, but here was someone who’d had it and then lost it. She had a sudden, near-panicked urge to see Griffin. She had to warn him that Maximus knew of his distillery. She had to touch his hand, to assure herself that he was whole and alive. She had to hear him breathe. Was this love, this longing? Or was it a sly facsimile?

“Pardon me,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said, wiping at her tears. “I’m not usually so maudlin.”

“Don’t apologize,” Hero said firmly. “You have suffered a great shock. It would be strange if you were not melancholy.”

Mrs. Hollingbrook nodded wearily.

Hero stayed a few minutes longer, drinking the tea in companionable silence. But her urge to see Griffin—to feel for herself that he was alive and well—was still strong. She soon excused herself and walked rapidly to the door.