“I know,” said Millie, in the carriage with him. “I love coming back to it.”
He was struck by a fierce gladness. This beautiful place belonged to him and he belonged to this beautiful place. He would never again think of it merely as the estate he’d inherited. It was home now—and would be till his dying day.
Henley Park was as lovely as Fitz had ever seen it. The drive, the lake and the folly, the lavender fields, and at last coming into view, the house he shared with Millie, a trim, compact Georgian, its walls faintly lavender from the fading of the bricks, asymmetrical from the demolishing of the north wing, and yet, harmonious in every aspect.
“This is where I picture myself,” he said to Isabelle, “my favorite place on Earth.”
He’d come to it by fate; but now he held it by love.
He signaled the driver to stop. They alit and walked in silence, arm in arm, until they came to the new bridge crossing the trout stream: a Japanese bridge made of stone, perfectly arched.
A pair of swans glided past the bridge.
“I should have realized it sooner, but I’ve been a fool. We have built this place together, my wife and I. And we have built a life together. She is a part of me now, the greater part of me, the better part of me.”
Isabelle turned away. He caught her by the shoulders. “Isabelle.”
“I understand now—and it is not as if I haven’t felt the future I’d imagined for us slipping away these past weeks,” said Isabelle, her voice breaking. “It’s just that I—”
“You will not be alone, Isabelle. I cannot be your lover, but I am your friend. And I am far from your only friend.”
She had tears in her eyes. “I hope you are right, Fitz. I wish you all the joy in the world.”
He enfolded her in his arms. “And I wish the same for you. I love you and I always will.”
But the love of his life was the one with whom he’d built his life.
Millie walked, hoping to find solace, but what solace she found was lanced through with a painful longing, for imprinted on every square foot of Henley Park was their collaboration: She and Fitz had massaged every last nook and cranny of this land, to soothe the tantrums of an estate made temperamental by neglect.
They’d once stood not fifty feet from this path, discussing what to do with a vast quantity of cleared underbrush—eventually discarding a bonfire in favor of making mulch. At the next bend she’d come upon Fitz a good many years ago, tossing small bulbs out of his pocket—she’d bought too many for her garden and he’d wanted to see whether some of them might naturalize in the woods. Some of them had, piercing the soil every spring to bloom afresh, dots of yellow and purple and white against the previous year’s fallen leaves. And of course, farther ahead was the spot where the trout stream had overflowed on the eve of their Italian holiday, flooding the old bridge and a greenhouse in the process. They’d spent the days before their departure trudging up and down the banks, debating the merits of widening versus straightening.
Sometimes she’d been harried. Many times she’d been resoundingly annoyed by yet another creaking wheel needing her attention. They’d both marched in on each other, demanding the purchase of dynamite to blow up a particularly irksome part of the estate.
But looking back, she could see nothing but wonderful moments, the threads of two separate lives gradually, imperceptibly weaving into one.
The path turned. The new bridge came into view. She stopped, her heart falling into an abyss.
A man and a woman stood on the bridge, in a tight embrace. And then, even after they drew apart, he kept his hand on her shoulder, and she leaned her head on his.
Millie slowly backed away. And when she was sure they could not hear her, she turned and ran.
She ran until she could no longer run. Then she walked—until she could no longer walk. And when she sat down on a mossy rock, her tears overcame her at last.
She would be all right in the end, she supposed. She was an enviably rich woman, and still quite young. And if a place as wretched as Henley Park could be brought back to life, anything could.
But she could not see the future, she could only weep for her loss. Day by day, year by year, kindness by kindness they’d built this life together, its foundation an unshakable affection, its walls partnership, and its pinnacle passion. All she wanted was to add to it, strengthen it, and cherish it.
Now she would have to leave it behind to disintegrate and fall into ruin.
Her tears streamed anew.
As daylight faded, she started for home—she would never not think of it as home.