“So…you are glad you married her?”
He did not look away this time. “I didn’t say that. You know I’d have crawled over broken glass to marry you, had the circumstances been different.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Yes, I know that.”
The front door of the house opened and in wafted the sounds of children at lively chatter, followed by a quick “shhh” from their minder.
“Excuse me a moment,” said Isabelle. She left the parlor and came back with a boy and a girl. “May I present Hyacinth and Alexander Englewood. Children, this is Lord Fitzhugh, an old friend of Uncle Pelly’s and Mama’s.”
Hyacinth was six, Alexander a year younger, both beautiful, both with their mother’s coloring. Suddenly, Fitz couldn’t speak. Had things been different, they would have been his children, and would not regard him with solemn, curious wariness, but run to him with open arms and wide grins.
They stayed only a minute before leaving for the recesses of the house with their governess. Isabelle lingered a moment at the door, her eyes following them. “They grow up so fast.”
Fitz swallowed a lump in his throat. “You always did like the names Hyacinth and Alexander.”
“I did. Hyacinth and Alexander Fitzhugh,” she murmured, a sheen of tears in her eyes.
She retook her seat. The sun streaming in from the open curtains sparkled on the gold trim of the saucers. She turned her cup round and round on its saucer—she was never one for staying still.
And then she looked at him, bold, resolute, Isabelle as he’d always remembered. “Is it too late to reclaim some of what we could have had?”
As if she had to ask. As if he hadn’t been thinking of the very same in the weeks since her first letter arrived. As if he wouldn’t hold on to this rare, priceless second chance with both arms and never again let go.
“No,” he said. “It’s not too late.”
CHAPTER 3
The Pact
1888
A fortnight after the dinner, lawyers from both sides sat down once more at the negotiating table. But while the new earl had capitulated to the demands of his estate, the price he asked for his surrender was as steep as the Matterhorn.
Such was the influence of youth and beauty that Mr. Graves barely grumbled over having to pay nearly twice as much for this earl. The negotiations concluded quickly and Millie once again found herself engaged to marry.
Throughout it all, she never once heard from Lord Fitzhugh himself. There were no notes, no flowers, and no engagement ring. Citing his studies, he declined a second dinner with the Graves. For the Fourth of June, the biggest holiday at Eton, a time when friends and family flocked to the school, the Graves received not a single invitation to participate in the festivities.
And why should he act differently? Were Millie Lord Fitzhugh, she, too, would furiously enjoy the final days of her freedom and waste not a precious second on those to whom she’d soon be shackled for the rest of her life.
But understanding why he was so distant only made things worse. When she wasn’t buffeted by misery, she was overcome with shame. To him, she would always symbolize everything that was unappealing about coming of age: the crushing pressures of duty, the paucity of choices, and the appalling necessity to forgo dreams to pay creditors.
No aloofness on Lord Fitzhugh’s part, however, could dissuade Mrs. Graves from dragging Millie to Lord’s Cricket Ground on the day of the Eton and Harrow game.
Cricket was popular, a pastime enjoyed by young and old, gentlemen and laborers. More easygoing parsons sometimes joined their parishioners for a Sunday afternoon match. And certainly it was the dominant game in the lives of schoolboys.
The Eton and Harrow game at Lord’s, however, was not a sporting event. Or rather, the sporting event was but an excuse for all of Society to gather for a merry daylong picnic under a fair summer sun. And since no invitations were needed at Lord’s, it was also one of the few opportunities for the merely rich to rub elbows with the blue-blooded.
For that reason, Mrs. Graves always began planning for what she and her daughter would wear to the grand event months in advance. But two years in a row, they’d had to abstain, first because of the passing of Millie’s maternal grandfather, then due to severe abdominal troubles that had left Mr. Graves in need of his wife’s and daughter’s tender attention.
This year, with no one expiring and no one remotely under the weather, Millie could only watch helplessly as Mrs. Graves, in a burst of energy, orchestrated the outing.