“Neither do I. I do not want to become a mother in the immediate future. And perhaps not even in the intermediate future.”
“So what do you propose? A nonprocreation covenant?” There was a grim humor to his voice, but none in his eyes.
“Something a little more comprehensive: a covenant of freedom.”
He tilted his head; for the first time he appeared interested in the conversation. “What is it?”
“We say our vows and then, until the time comes for the matter of heirs, we live unencumbered—as if we’d never married. Notice I do not say as if you’d never been left the title. I cannot help you there: Unless you find a general willing to tolerate a lord in his ranks, you will not have a career in the army. But in everything else you should do as you wish: travel, enjoy your friends, woo all the ladies you care to. Go to university if it’s what you’d like. There will be no nagging wife to answer to when you come home. No responsibilities; no consequences.”
“And you? What will you do?”
“The same, except for the obvious differences, of course: There are certain things an unmarried girl does not do and I will hold myself to that standard. That aside, I will enjoy being the mistress of my own household. And I will not have to worry about how I will get on with my husband—at least for some years.”
He was silent. In the afternoon sun, his cricket kit was brilliantly white, his person sensationally beautiful.
“Well, what do you think?”
“Sounds tempting. Any catches?”
“None whatsoever.”
“All good things come to an end.” He didn’t sound as if he believed her entirely. “When does this covenant expire?”
She hadn’t thought of a specific time limit, except that it should be long. “How about in six years?”
Six years was outrageous. Even if he halved the length, she should still have enough time to put herself back together again.
“Eight,” said her fiancé.
He’d never touch you if he had the choice.
By now she should have become numb to the humiliation of this marriage, but her heart choked with pain. She squared her shoulders and offered him her hand to shake. “We are agreed, then.”
He glanced down at her outstretched hand. For a moment his impassiveness foundered. His expression turned harsh with rebellion—but only for a moment. The deal was done, the contract signed. He had no choice; what he wanted was besides the point.
When his eyes met hers again, they were quite blank—the gaze of the dead.
“Agreed,” he said, shaking her hand. His voice was equally blank, a wall that concealed his fury. “Thank you.”
She trembled inside. “No need to thank me: I did it for myself.”
A truer word she never spoke.
CHAPTER 4
1896
Thanks to a traffic logjam, by the time Helena and Millie returned from Lady Margaret Dearborn’s at-home tea, there was barely enough time to change before heading out for dinner.
Fitz was waiting for them as they came down the stairs. “You both look lovely.”
Helena could not see anything immediately different about her twin, who must have spoken to his Isabelle for the first time in eight years, but his gaze did linger on his wife longer than usual.
“Thank you, sir,” said Millie. “We must hurry or we will surely be late.”
Her tone was that of an ordinary wife in an ordinary marriage on an ordinary day. Strange that Fitz never seemed to notice how odd it was. Such perpetually neutral responses were unnatural—at least to Helena.
The conversation in the brougham on the way to the Queensberrys’ was also largely ordinary: Society was still curious about their sister Venetia’s elopement with the Duke of Lexington; people bought tinned goods in ever greater quantities; Helena reached an agreement with Miss Evangeline South, whose charming picture books she’d sought hard to publish.
It was only as they turned onto the Queensberrys’ street that Millie asked, as if it were an afterthought, “And how is Mrs. Englewood?”
“She seems well—glad to be back,” said Fitz. Then, after a small pause, “She introduced me to her children.”
At last Helena detected a catch in his voice. Her chest constricted. She remembered his numb despair when he’d given them the news of his imminent wedding. She remembered the tears rolling down Venetia’s cheeks—and her own. She remembered how difficult it had been not to cry in public the next time she’d run into Isabelle.
“They must be good-looking children,” murmured Millie.
Fitz looked out the window. “Yes, they are. Exceptionally so.”