Not so soon, not with Isabelle’s wedding breathing down his neck. There was no long engagement, as he’d secretly hoped; the nuptials would take place before the end of Captain Englewood’s home leave. The honeymoon would be spent in France and Italy, en route to India, where Captain Englewood was posted.
Fitz would have married her when he was Captain Fitzhugh, on home leave from his regiment in India. And they would have passed through France and Italy on their way to their new life together, completely wrapped in each other, completely thrilled to be married at last.
She was doing her level best to claim the life for which they’d planned—without him.
He still had her letters, the photograph with the entire gang, and the various small presents she’d pressed into his hands over the years. But those were static things, representing only certain moments of the past, whereas Alice was a living, breathing embodiment of all that they were and all that they’d hoped to be. As long as Alice lived, a part of their connection remained unbroken, time and distance be damned.
But without Alice, beautiful Alice…
All around him, life went on. The finishing touches were being put to the restored manor: new floors laid, new wallpapers hung, and shiny, blue enamel commodes installed one by one. His wife seemed to have terribly ambitious plans for the flower garden: Thickets and brambles were cleared; Peruvian guano arrived by the railcar-ful, along with enormous sacks of bulbs, for those first splashes of color in spring.
Sometimes he’d see her in a wide-brimmed hat, conferring with the gardeners, consulting the master plan in her hand as they measured out new flower beds to be built and new paths laid.
And despite his panic, he would gather up Alice and head down to his study, to meet with his steward, his architect, and his foreman; receive his tenants and mediate their problems; and write his weekly report to Colonel Clements on the discharge of his numerous responsibilities.
He was becoming like his wife in some ways: the stoicism, the determination to carry on no matter what.
Alice, however, could no longer carry on.
“I always thought you’d pass away in your sleep,” he told her, adjusting the bed of soft cotton batting he’d made for her. “And it would be so easy you wouldn’t even know it.”
She wheezed another arduous breath. Her eyes were closed. One of her little feet twitched from time to time, but otherwise she’d become too weak to move.
“I want to have you in my pocket all of my days. And I’ll wager you want the same. I’ll wager you wish you were just having a hard time falling asleep, that when you wake up, it will be spring again and you’ll be strong and healthy and ready to eat your weight. But we can none of us have everything we want, can we?
“You are going to a beautiful place, where it is always spring. I won’t be there, but I’ll remember you from here. And I’ll think of you surrounded by fresh buds and hazelnuts—hungry again, young again.”
She stopped breathing.
He wept, tears falling unchecked. “Good-bye, Alice. Good-bye.”
An invitation to Isabelle Pelham’s wedding came for the Fitzhughs, but neither Millie nor Lord Fitzhugh attended.
Or rather, Millie assumed her husband did not attend. She was home alone in the country and he off somewhere. She had not asked about his whereabouts. In fact, she did not even keep count of how long he’d been gone—except to know that it had been more than seven days and less than ten.
He came back two days after the wedding. She expected to hear the sledgehammer again. But through her open window came only the sound of the wind, and of the grounds staff as they went about their duties.
Her curiosity outweighed her resolve not to care. She slipped into a room that overlooked the ruined wall. He stood before the wall, still in his traveling clothes, one hand braced against it. Then slowly, he began to walk, his palm sliding across the wall, as if he were a student of archaeology, examining the ruins of Pompeii for the first time.
She went on her afternoon constitutional. When she came back, he was still there, leaning against the stonework, a cigarette dangling between his fingertips.
He raised his chin in acknowledgment of her approach. Somehow the pensive, wistful expression on his face told her everything.
“You went to the wedding,” she said, without further preamble.
“No and yes,” he said. “I didn’t go inside.”
“You waited outside the church while she was inside exchanging her vows?”
Such a forlornly and stupidly romantic gesture—another reason to not love him. Yet all she felt was her heart tearing apart.
“I watched them come out from the church, get into the waiting carriage, and drive away.”
“Did she see you?”
“No, she didn’t,” he said softly. “I was but a face in the crowd.”
“She must have made a beautiful bride.”
“Yes, very beautiful. Her groom was thrilled; she looked happy.” He tilted his head up. “I’ve been dreading the day of her wedding. But now that it has come and gone, I feel almost…relieved. It has happened at last: She has become another man’s wife. I need to dread it no more.”