Prologue
Paris was vast and bustling with life. Everywhere Hetty looked, women were promenading in brightly coloured dresses, flimsy parasols shielding them from the early spring sun that bathed the city in a golden light. As she walked in a reserved sense of awe, an artist on the corner of the street halted her to ask her for a portrait, across from them a violinist accompanied a poetry recital by a strapping young poet. Hetty laughed joyously and spun around her axis to admire her surroundings. At last she was in Paris, the city of love, artistry and fashion.
She had not felt this much carefree joy since she had wed Elias and the possibilities of her life now felt endless - she could sojourn to Italy to see the ancient civilisations with her own eyes or to England to attend the London season. Automatically the thought of her marriage made her seek her husband in the crowd - he might spoil her plans - but he was nowhere to be seen, and when she looked down at her hands clasped together in front of her, there was no sign of the ring that had bound her to her husband for many decades now. At once, her hands felt lighter, her spirit buoyed.
I never want to leave Paris, Hetty thought, turning her face up to the sun. It was warm enough to burn her from the inside out, make her face feel flushed. But not warm enough not to notice how the brazen touch of a strapping young man made her flush additionally with delight. He had dark eyes, dark hair and lacked the facial hair that was currently en mode, but he was handsomer than any man Hetty had ever met, and the way he kissed her knuckles betrayed a certain familiarity. I love this man, thought Hetty as he took her by the arm, leading her away from the painter and across the Seine where they promenaded in the shade of the Louvre and Les Tuileries. Hetty felt safe with this man, though she did not know his name. She leaned against him as they walked, hiding her smile at some of his silly jokes and flirtations. His accent betrayed that he was American just like her, from New Jersey.
When nobody was looking, her nameless companion spun her around and lavished her with kisses beneath the shade of a tree. He whispered her name against her flushed skin. Flushed, she felt so flushed, almost uncomfortably so. “Hetty,” he murmured playfully, then with an entirely different emotion she couldn’t quite place, “Hetty.”
His voice changed into someone else’s, a more familiar, but distant voice, a feminine voice she had not heard since her last birthday party. There was a breathless desperation to the way this voice said her name. “Hetty, please. Henrietta.” Philippa. A small, quivering voice joined the feminine one she had heard first, a child praying for its mother. Ah, and Thomas.
Paris began to fade around Hetty. The scents disappeared first, then the bustling sounds, the swaying leaves of the tree and the park beyond. Her nameless lover was last to go, his eyes mournful. Hetty tried to hold on, grasping at his hands and the lapels of his coat, but he seemed to disintegrate, crumbling beneath the pads of her fingers. Au revoir Paris, thought Hetty sadly when he had disappeared completely and nothing remained of the city of love but for the chiming of the bells of Notre Dame ringing out in a vast blackness.
When Hetty woke her face was wet with tears and her hand was no longer in her nameless lover’s, but it rested in Philippa’s ringed hands instead. Her handsome dark haired friend sat gazing out the window, in her lap a forgotten piece of embroidery. Though she looked composed, there was a hint of tears that clung to her lashes.
“Phil,” Hetty murmured, her voice hoarse and scratchy with disuse. Philippa snapped to attention, leaning forward in her chair and taking Hetty’s face in between her hands, her rings cool against Hetty’s skin. For a moment, she seemed to seek Hetty’s eyes for something, perhaps a hint of feverish delirium, and when she found none, she smiled.
“You scared me, Henrietta Woodstone, don’t you ever dare do that again,” Philippa said, blue eyes filled with tears. She leaned down to press a kiss against Hetty’s feverish brow. Her lips felt almost as cool against Hetty’s flesh as her rings had. I must have been burning up, realised Hetty, all of it was simply delirium, not even a beautiful dream. Even in her dreams she would not have dared dream of such freedom, a life of love, free from Elias. When she was younger and newly wed she had allowed herself such dreams; she had imagined herself in the arms of her dear Will. She had dreamt of his lips on hers, his soft hands on her skin. Dawn had always come cruel as a dagger, reality a fresh wound to nurse, so Hetty had ceased allowing herself to dream.
“I promise,” she said weakly when Philippa withdrew, quietly studying her face. Philippa smiled and took her hands from Hetty’s face, promising to call for the doctor.
As she departed from the room, Hetty felt almost guilty for wishing she could return to the Paris of her delirium. To the sunbathed streets, the attentive lover and the lack of wedding ring - which now sat on the nightstands undoubtedly too big for her thinned hands. She turned her face away from the ring and gazed at a bird that had landed on the windowsill, puffing its tiny chest to regale her with song. A soft breeze wafted in through the window, carrying the scent of flowers and the forest after a springtime downpour. While Henrietta had been ill, spring had come to Ulster County. So why then did she feel as if the winter had never ended? There was a chill deep in her bones that had perhaps been there as long as she could remember, but which she had never felt so keenly. Hetty pressed her face against the crisp silk of her blue pillowcases and cried until she fell asleep exhaustedly.
For the consecutive two weeks, Hetty stared listlessly at the windowsill of her bedroom where the bird would come and go. She ate little and said even less. Though Philippa had sat by her day and night like a loyal watch dog for the first two days, Hetty had insisted she go rest on the third. At night she lay in bed, hoping the dream would return to her like a benediction, but it did not. On the fifth day, Phil ushered in the children to sit with her, hoping it might cheer her up. Thomas nestled himself against her side, while Eleanor and Margaret shyly played with their dolls at the end of the bed. Philippa’s youngest daughter, Cora sat on her mother’s lap, grasping at her needlepoint.
Phil’s efforts were in vain. When the children left, Hetty was the same as she had been before. Nevertheless, for the rest of the two weeks the children visited at least an hour daily, which made a small improvement, for it was Thomas who got Hetty to eat more than a little bit of broth by bringing his mother all sorts of treats he had saved from his own lunch and dinner.
A fortnight after Hetty’s awakening, Phil entered the room determined and without knocking. It was late at night and her friend was already wearing a long nightgown and robe. “That’s it,” she said, “I am taking you away from here. I’ve written my doctor and received his answer tonight.” She procured a piece of paper from the pocket of her robe and sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing Hetty’s sheets over her. “He agrees you will best convalesce someplace quiet, preferably by the sea.”
Hetty folded her hands primly over the coverlet. Two days ago Phil had slipped her wedding ring back on her finger, but removed it again with a worried frown when it still proved too big. Hetty wasn’t sure if she thought it proper to wear it again or if she was simply using it as a measuring device for her gaining weight. “What about my husband?” Even now her voice was still rather raspy from weeks of either not being used or being abused in feverish hallucinatory dreams.
Philippa raised a well manicured brow, a flicker of the impish smile on her face Hetty recognised well from their youth - before Phil’s marriage had nipped her rebellious streak in the bud. “What about him?” she asked.
Hetty raised both of her own brows in response. “You can’t possibly take me away someplace without his knowledge or permission.” Just now Hetty realised she had not yet seen her husband since her awakening. She would have hoped he had perished sometime during her illness - perhaps as a result of the same affliction that had struck her - if she weren’t keenly aware that Philippa would have told her if he had. Of course their abhorrent maid had not succumbed to illness either. Such a pity.
“I can when it is clearly necessary for your health, Henrietta,” Philippa said matter of factly, gently tapping Hetty’s hands that lay on the coverlet. “I broker no argument dearest.” Though Hetty had never taken well to being commanded, Philippa was an exception to that rule. She had always been like an older sister to Hetty and the bossiness came with the territory. Besides, it was always gentle and well natured. And this time it sounded like a blessing - to go away someplace. It would not be Paris but right now she’d take any getaway.
“Very well,” said Hetty, “Where is it you mean to take me?” Henrietta knew many of the houses that belonged to Phil’s paternal family, the Livingstons, but she knew little of the homes of her mother’s side, and even less of her husband’s - the Schuyler family.
Phil smiled widely and leaned forward to grasp Hetty’s hands. “My great aunt, Mrs Jamison inherited a house in Canada. I loved to frequent it as a child and she’s given it to me as a bridal gift. It’s very peaceful and beautiful there, perfect for your recovery.”
Hetty had not expected Phil would send her out of the country, but a part of her was glad for it. Perhaps she could shed her mournfulness in Canada and leave it behind never to be looked upon again. Hetty smiled tightly. “Alright, Phil. Take me to Canada.”