Theresa Romain: It Takes Two to Tangle

“What?”

“—because our friendship’s fallen by the wayside in recent years.”

Henry held up his hand. “Bart. Wait. I didn’t keep up any friendships in recent years. It just wasn’t possible while I was in the military. It had nothing to do with you or our friendship.”

The hat flipped in Bart’s hands, fumbled, fell to the ground. “Sorry,” Bart said in a tight voice as he bent and retrieved his hat. His face was redder when he stood than one might have expected, considering he’d only been bent over for a second or two.

As if he’d been rapped on the head with a candle, light dawned in Henry’s mind. Bart felt hurt. And if the situations were reversed, Henry might well have felt the same. How else would he react if an old friend returned after years of silence, let him learn of a serious injury by chance, then largely avoided his company in Town?

It had nothing to do with Bart, just as Henry had said. But maybe he understood his old friend better than ever now. Just as quiet Bart always had, Henry now knew the feeling of separation within a crowd, of light pleasantries weighing heavily on a mind distracted.

And Bart, like Jem and Emily, remembered Henry’s best self. He gave Henry another chance to reach out and remember it himself. Bart’s unquestioning loyalty meant all the more after Henry’s long separation from everyone he knew.

“Bart,” Henry said. His old friend had begun to turn toward the door. “Bart, to whom did I entrust the first letter to Frances?”

Bart turned back to Henry, looking puzzled.

“ You , Bart. I trusted you . I knew Frances thought you a kind man, and she would value a letter from you. Your friendship is worth a great deal.” Henry smiled. “To me.”

Bart’s face reddened. “Oh, well. It was—I mean, I was happy to do it.”

“Thank you. I am very grateful for that.” Henry nodded. “For everything.”

It was not the most articulate thanks, but he hoped Bart would understand. If Henry was any more effusive, he would embarrass them both.

“I’m afraid,” Henry continued, idly straightening papers on the desk, “that I can’t hunt anymore. But I’d still be pleased to go to Beckworth next autumn.”

Bart scuffed a booted foot in the carpet and gave a rascally grin. “That’s no kind of a problem, Hal. You can help the hounds retrieve the game.”

Henry chuckled. “I’ve been a son of a bitch to you often enough. That might be the perfect way to repay me.”

Bart laughed, ducking his head. “Well. I’ll see you next hunting season then. I suppose you’re busy today.”

“Not so busy. Emily’s working herself into a frenzy over my wedding preparations and won’t allow me to do a thing. There’s nothing in the world that makes her happier than mild domestic chaos.” Henry motioned toward a chair. “Please, sit.”

With another tap of his hat against his legs, Bart sidled to a chair and perched at the edge of it.

“I’ll probably see you again long before next autumn,” Henry said. “In fact, if you don’t have to head to Beckworth immediately, I’d be honored if you’d stay in London to attend the wedding. It will be just for family, here at Tallant House.”

“Do you mean it?” Bart leaned forward. The chair tipped, upsetting his balance, and he spent a few chagrined seconds rearranging himself into a dignified posture.

“Yes, of course. Though I should warn you, Emily is determined that any gentleman who attends should wear a striped cravat. She insists they are—”

Together, Henry and Bart chorused, “All the crack.”

Bart laughed. “She’s right, you know.”

Henry raised his hand in a gesture of surrender. He didn’t know these things. But it didn’t matter. He’d relearn it all in time, as much as he needed to.

Bart twirled his hat on his forefinger. “Do you have time for one more ride in the curricle before you settle down?”

“I’m sure there’s time for that,” Henry said.

“Where shall we go?”

The old question. Henry remembered running free, not caring what the answer was.

He didn’t really care now. Anywhere would be just fine.

“I don’t know.” Henry let a grin spread across his face. “Where would you like to go? We’ll go anywhere you like.”

As Bart grinned back, Henry snapped his fingers in a gesture of remembrance. “As long as we stop at Gunter’s on the way back. If we drive hell for leather across Berkeley Square, we might be able to bring Jem home an ice before it melts.”

“So we shall,” said Bart. “I say, would you care to drive the team?”

***

Henry drove the team. They never broke out of a walk, and horses and men all survived, though the ice was almost completely melted by the time it arrived at Tallant House. Still, Lord Tallant devoured it with indecorous glee.

Four days later, Henry did not wear a striped cravat. Yet he and Frances still contrived to be married.

Jem manfully choked back tears during the brief ceremony, and Frances beamed up into Henry’s face as he clasped her hands together. She was swathed in white satin, pale as cloud. Hair dark as earth, eyes steady as a tree.

He could not help his flight of fancy as he spoke his vows. She was his world.

After they were pronounced man and wife, the newlyweds and their few guests piled into the dining room for a wedding breakfast that Emily assured them would possess all the pomp missing from the ceremony itself.

She was right. Henry looked over piles of brioche and cakes and eggs and sliced meats with a wondering eye.

“What do you think?” Emily said to Henry in a low voice, as Jem began to pour chocolate out of a silver pot as neatly as any footman.

Henry thought there was far too much food for only a half-dozen people—the same half dozen, in fact, who’d come to dine at Tallant House, cheat at cards, and criticize Henry’s fireplace screen.

How much they had been through since then.

“Thank you, Emily. You are very kind.” He offered her a smile, knowing she would consider his gratitude the best repayment for her efforts. Not just now. Always. You are very kind .

“Chocolate, Em?” Jem held out a cup. Emily pulled a face and shook her head. “Lady Stratton, then?”

Caro took the cup from him as they all arranged themselves around the laden table. “I simply have to tell you all something, though it may not be dignified enough for the occasion.”

“Ah—do we have to be dignified today?” Frances made a mock frown. “I hadn’t planned on that. After we’re done with breakfast, I thought we would all dance a hornpipe on the table.”

“Or a minuet,” Henry said, nudging his foot into hers under the table until rose stained her cheeks. Henry felt her toes flex within her thin slippers, as if they were turning together again in the center of a ballroom, with eyes only for each other.

Caro set her cup down on the table with a hollow clink. “Dance if you must, but for heaven’s sake, hear me out. You’ll all adore this. Two days ago, I was looking through the sweetest china shop, trying to find a vase to replace the one I was unfortunately required to throw. And who should walk in, just as I was lifting the vase up to look at the potter’s marks?”

Bart spluttered into his tea. “Not Wadsworth.”

Caro nodded. “Exactly. As soon as he clapped eyes on me—well, I’ve never seen a man turn so pale or spin on his heel so quickly.”

Henry laughed. “Jittery, is he?”

“Awfully. I don’t suppose he’ll be able to look at a tree for some time either after what you did to him, Henry.”

Emily took a dainty bite from a slice of brioche. “I can’t say I’ve got any sympathy for the man. He’s had undeserved good luck, timing his humiliations for the end of the season. By next spring, everyone will have forgotten them.”