Pottson just looked at her for a long moment. Then he lowered his eyes, nodded, and disappeared into the night.
“What’s wrong with him?” Millie asked once they were in Hetty’s bedroom. “Ate too much of his own cooking?”
“Yes, lamb stew,” Hetty said. She had no intention of telling Millie anything.
If Hetty hugged Millie a bit longer than was her wont, Millie didn’t say anything. She left her young mistress, her own thoughts on the fair that was coming to Bidlington the following week where her sister lived.
Hetty didn’t climb into her bed. She carried her candle to her writing desk and prepared herself to perform a task for which she had no liking, but a task that had to be done. She smoothed out a piece of plain white paper, dipped the quill into the ink pot and began to write. “My dearest father,” she wrote, pausing to chew on the quill handle before continuing. “When you read this letter, you will know that you will never see me again. I pray that you will find forgiveness in your heart for the inevitable scandal that my death will cause. I have tried to act in accordance with principles that carry the highest honor, and although my failure must leave you in the forefront to deal with the unpleasant aftermath, I beg that you will try to understand my motives.”
Motives? Her motive was there, for all to see. She’d simply wanted to avenge Damien. Would she die in the attempt? She hated the fear that surged through her. She didn’t want to die.
The single candle had gutted in its socket before Hetty laid down her pen and rubbed her cramped fingers. Her explanation had covered five long pages, and although she feared much repetition, she had no wish to reread her work. Wearily, she stood and stretched. She saw with a shock that it was past midnight.
Hurriedly, she drew forth more paper, took quill in hand, and wrote much in the same style to John and Louisa as she had to her father.
She thought as she sealed both letters into their envelopes that if she were not to leave the dueling field alive, John would have to seek redress from the marquess. John’s friend, the man who was responsible for both his brother’s and sister’s deaths.
She flung away from the writing table and paced back and forth across the width of her room until the chill drove her to her bed. She sank beneath the heavy covers and stared into the darkness, her eyes refusing to close. How strange it is, she thought, that death has happened so very close to me, yet I cannot really imagine it coming to me.
When word of Damien’s death had reached her, she had felt as though a part of her had died with him. Yet, she still breathed, still felt the sun upon her face, still heartily enjoyed her father’s political vagaries. Even though the past months had moved with unremitting purpose to this point, the possibility of her own death had always seemed only a vague specter, the meaning of death lying only with Damien and in the final revenge she sought from his murderer.
She thought again of Sir John, his open, bluff good nature, his sincere friendship with the Marquess of Oberlon. Perhaps she should have told him of the marquess, of Damien, of Elizabeth Springville. Oh no, it was her revenge, a debt she owed to Damien. She realized with sudden insight that her single-minded goal had hurled her back into life. How very different she was now from the Hetty who had moved through her days and nights after Damien’s death like a vague shadow, allowing nothing to touch her.
If she emerged the victor on the morrow, she would again lose part of herself the proud, outspoken Lord Harry, the brash counterpart of Henrietta Rolland. Which Henrietta Rolland? Parts of her seemed to be strewn all about London, each with a different function, each unwhole, each wanting. How strange it was, too, that Jason Cavander had known each of her parts. The Henrietta Rolland who had attended the masked ball didn’t care for this thought. The marquess she’d known at the masked ball was all that was charming and fascinating, not at all the man who’d had Damien killed, the man who’d simply taken what he’d wanted, not caring, not looking back.