THREE WEEKS.
It doesn’t seem so long. Only two more than one. Three weeks. It doesn’t sound so long to say it out loud. Only two syllables. But in some ways, the last three weeks have felt endless. Filled with self-doubt and questioning of what I should have done differently—what I should do now and next. The exhausting inner debate. Do I call him? Do I wait for him to contact me? Is he still filming? Should I go back to Anthorp Castle? Is he still there or is he behind the palace gates? There hasn’t been a word about him on the news or in the headlines. Why hasn’t he called? Does he ever think of me? When I told him I needed time and space, I didn’t think it was over. I didn’t believe that was really the end. Should I have stayed longer? Did I judge too quickly, did I leave too soon?
But it hasn’t all been regret and self-pity.
I stopped crying after four days.
I stopped checking my mobile for a text or missed call after ten.
After sixteen, I stopped looking up and down the street when I stepped out of the library, searching for a black SUV and wild green eyes.
After eighteen, I accepted that Henry wasn’t coming for me.
I still dream of him, though. Every night, in bed, I hear his voice and imagine his long fingers plucking at the strings of that old guitar. I see his smile in my mind and can swear I smell him on the bedsheets. And then the dreams come, but there’s not much I can do about that.
Because sometimes, life is very much like a book—we don’t get to write our own ending; we have to accept the one that’s already on the page.
Slipping back into my life was easy, because it was ready-made, like a child’s bin of LEGOs—the pieces designed to seamlessly interlock. Organized and scheduled.
But at the end of the first week, day seven, something strange happened. Something that turned out to be not so bad.
I began to look for ways to deviate from my routine. To move away from the consistency I’d once craved. I went into work early and left after sunset—not just to keep busy, although that played a part, but more because I was yearning for something . . . different. Something new. I satisfied the itch with small things at first: rearranging the furniture, hanging new drapes, walking a different route home each day, offering to sit with baby Barnaby from upstairs so my neighbors could grab a bite, popping over to Mother’s for dinner randomly instead of the staid Wednesdays and Sundays.
One night, Annie took me to a pub two towns over, to meet her new boyfriend, Wade, who thankfully isn’t at all a douche-canoe. The place was a bit rowdy, crowded, and loud. But I didn’t mind so much.
Another time, it was dinner and dancing with Willard. The funny part was, I kept glancing at the band while they played, because there was a pushing, pulling sensation inside me—and I had the maddest urge to pop up on the stage and grab the microphone for a song or two. I didn’t actually do it, but I thought about it.
And I wasn’t afraid.
Because once a shell is broken, it can’t be put back together again—not really, not in the same way it was. The cracks will always be there.
That’s the Henry Effect.
And it’s miraculous. Freeing. And despite how it all shook out in the end, I will always love him for that. I will always be grateful. And I will always remember the sweet, teasing prince who changed me for the better.
The symposium. My Waterloo.
The second week I was back at work, Mr. Haverstrom asked me if I would be presenting after all, now that my Palace business had concluded early. He told me he understood if I declined, because I hadn’t had the time to prepare a presentation.
He gave me an easy out. And I could’ve taken it.
But I didn’t.
So here I am. In the largest conference room in Concordia Library, facing a packed room, over two hundred filled chairs and more attendees standing along the back wall. All eyes on me.
Willard and Annie are in the front, as close as they can be for moral support . . . and to catch me if I pass out. I know my cheeks are bright, flaming red. My knees are trembling and my stomach spins like a top. As I step up to the microphone, the panic surges right up to my throat, threatening to swamp me.
So, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, and then . . . I picture Henry Pembrook naked.
And I laugh. Because he was right, the wanker. It does work.
An hour later, I’m wrapping up my presentation on the importance of promoting child literacy, especially among young girls. I’ve kept my head down, eyes on my notes, so while it probably hasn’t been the most engaging of talks, I didn’t pass out or Davey on any of them, so I consider it a grand victory.
I just have to get through these last few lines and the Q&A.
“In conclusion, I’d like to end with these final thoughts: Reading brings knowledge and knowledge is power; therefore reading is power. The power to know and learn and understand . . . but also the power to dream. Stories inspire us to reach high, love deep, change the world and be more than we ever thought we could. Every book allows us to dream a new dream. Thank you.”
They clap.
And I close my eyes and sigh, deflating with relief. I did it, I really did it. Willard blows an obnoxious whistle while Annie fist-pumps, and it’s wonderful. I only wish . . .
A yearning ache begins in the center of my chest, then spider-webs outward like a crack in a windshield.
Because I wish Henry were here. He would love this—it would blow his mind. And then he’d make a teasing comment that there are others things I could blow. Or maybe I’d say it—he always did bring out the dirty in me.
I shake my head, trying to dust off the melancholy. And I look out over the sea of clapping hands and nodding heads . . . and then my heart stops mid-beat.
My first thought is: he’s cut his hair.
It was almost down to his shoulders the last time I saw him. Thick and soft, wavy and wild. But this is nice too. Short and clean, professional and powerful-looking, with just the right length in front, with a few strands falling over his forehead in a roguish sort of way.
His suit is beige, his tie light green, his shirt crisp white—so sharp and handsome—like a broker on Silver Street.
He’s clapping heartily—with those strong hands that I adore. His gaze is alight with admiration and his smile . . . his smile is so tender my eyes prickle with wetness.
I blink and look away . . . and then I remember to be pissed off at him. Three. Weeks. Three fucking, awful weeks. I lied when I said they weren’t so bad—they were bloody hell. And he shows up now? Here? For what, exactly?
I don’t have to wonder long.
Because the moment Mr. Haverstrom calls for questions, Henry’s hand shoots up high and straight, like he’s a child in class who can’t wait a second more to use the lavatory.
I ignore him.
The only problem is, he’s the only one raising his hand.
“Questions? Anyone?” I look left and right, tilting my head to check all around. “Anyone at all?”
Henry clears his throat. Loudly. “Ahem.”
And several heads swivel toward him.
But I’m still ignoring him, shuffling my papers. “Well, since no one has any questions—”
“He has a question,” Willard says, clear and grinning like a traitorous Cheshire cat.
I’m going to smack him when this is over.
But, first I’m going to deal with Henry.
“Yes, you there in the back,” I say like I’ve never seen him before in my life. Like he isn’t our future king. “What is your question, sir?”
His eyebrow hitches, as if he’s saying, “So that’s how you’re going to play this?”
Murmurs of recognition ripple through the room, but Henry doesn’t seem to notice.
“My question is about Heathcliff.”
And his voice . . . I’ve missed his voice—strong and rough, but teasing and sweet. Oh balls, I’m melting like a cheap candle.
But I don’t let it show. I cross my arms.
“The fat orange cat, you mean?”
The corner of his mouth kicks into a smirk. “No. From Wuthering Heights.”
“Ah, I see. Go on.”
“My question is, why didn’t someone shoot the bastard? Were guns not around in that time period?”
My head shakes on its own. What a ridiculous question! “No, firearms were used, but . . .”
“Then someone should have definitely shot Heathcliff in the arse. He was a thoughtless, abusive, mean son of a bitch.”
“Some feel his one good quality is his love for Catherine. That’s what redeems him.”
Henry shakes his head, his expression sober. “He didn’t deserve her.”
“Well,” I lift a shoulder, “Catherine wasn’t exactly a saint either. And I’m sure the debate over Heathcliff’s worthiness will continue for as long as people read the book. Thank you.”
I turn to the rest of the room. “Other questions?”
Aaaaand up goes his hand. Quick and strong and, again, the only one raised.
I don’t try fighting it this time, but sigh dramatically. “Yes?”
“It’s about Mr. Darcy. He’s kind of a snob—he’s got a stick up his arse. A big one.”
My own eyebrows rise above my glasses. “You’ve got a thing for arses today, don’t you?”
He chuckles, totally unashamed. ““Well . . . tight bottoms are a few of my favorite things.”
And he can still make me blush like no one else.
“But that’s a discussion for another time. My point is, Mr. Darcy is a prat—I don’t get it.”
“Well, if you had read the book—”
“I did read the book.” His green eyes watch me intensely. “I read all of them.”
And butterflies go berserk in my stomach.
“Oh.”
I shake out of my stupor, and refocus. “Well, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet are two sides of the same coin. He is painfully reserved and she is uninhibited but they both make their assumptions and end up getting it wrong. In the end, they must put aside their prejudices and their pride and be honest with themselves and each other to make it right.”
He gazes at me, soft and gentle, like he never wants to stop.
“Hence the title, I guess.”
“Yes.” I nod.
He rubs his knuckles against his jaw. “Now about Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility.”
And I smack my hands down on the podium. “No. You can say what you want about Darcy or bloody Heathcliff and hell, you can tear into every Dickens hero written—I never liked any of them. But you will not besmirch Colonel Brandon! I won’t allow it.”
Henry finds my outburst amusing. “I’m not going to besmirch him. I like Colonel Brandon.”
“Then what is your question?”
Slowly, stealthily, he drifts forward up the aisle.
“The way I see it, Marianne messed up. Brandon was there all along, but she let herself be distracted by the wrong things. It wasn’t written on the page, but I’m guessing she had to apologize and he had to forgive her.”
My throat is dry and my voice is like sand. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
Closer and closer he comes.
“My question is, if their roles had been different—if Marianne had been the man and Brandon the woman—do you think she would have forgiven him? Taken another chance on him, trusted that this time, he wouldn’t mess it up?”
My head swims the nearer he gets.
“I . . . I’m not—”
“I mean, if he completely threw himself into the groveling. Pulled off a stupendous grand gesture, something really public and humiliating.”
He’s right in front of me now. Close enough for me to touch him.
“I don’t think she’d like that, the public part,” I say softly. “She’s still a bit . . . shy.”
Henry nods, and his voice is low and raw and desperate.
“Then what if he just stood in front of her and said, ‘I’m sorry. And I miss you. I want to be a better man for you and because I love you so much, I actually believe I can be.’ Do you think she’d give him a chance then?”
My eyes go blurry and I blink because I want to see him clearly. “I think . . . I think that could work.”
Henry smiles, and it feels like my heart is flying out of my chest.
“Good.”
I nod, crying and grinning at the same time.
Then I hear Willard on the sidelines: “Are we supposed to keep pretending they’re actually talking about the book?”
“Wait,” Annie responds, “they’re not talking about the book?”
Willard pats Annie’s head. “You’re so pretty.”
We’re stuck in the library for almost an hour after my presentation. As soon as one person recognizes Henry, the news spreads like wildfire and everyone wants to meet him. Most of the people here are visitors to Castlebrook; I don’t think the regulars would be so swept up in the celebrity of a visiting prince.
Security does their best to control the crowd and Henry is gracious, but I can tell he’s impatient. He keeps looking over at me, almost to assure himself I haven’t run off.
Though it’s only a short distance to my flat, James drives us there. When they first close the door behind us, and it’s just Henry and me in the backseat, he tells me fervently, “I’m so proud of you. You were absolutely brilliant up there.”
And my smile spreads far and wide across my face. “Thank you. I’m happy you were here to see it.”
We’re quiet then. James takes the long way around, with extra turns and diversions to lose anyone from the library who tries to follow us. And Henry holds onto my hand the entire time.
Inside my flat, I slip off my shoes and hang my coat in the closet, and Henry stands in the middle of my parlor, looking too big for it, larger than life.
And there’s something different about him. He’s still the Henry I know. The wild lad with a dirty mouth is still there below the surface. But the way he carries himself has changed, like there’s a veneer of . . . nobility that wasn’t there before.
He turns in a circle, noting my framed covers on the wall, running his finger along my prized bookshelf.
There’s so much to say, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how to start.
So I ask, “Would you like tea?”
“Yes, tea would be lovely.”
I nod, and on jittery legs move into the tiny kitchen. And just like our first real conversation by that big tree on the hill, instead of going mute, I babble.
“I have peppermint and chamomile. But that’s probably too bland for you, isn’t it?” I take the pot and canisters out of the cabinets and set them on the counter. “I have this fruity, exotic blend that Annie convinced me to try—it’s not my taste at all, but you may—”
Henry puts his hand over mine, standing so close behind me, I can feel the heat from his strong chest and smell the scent of his shirt.
“Sarah,” he says against my ear, raising goose bumps along my neck. “I like peppermint tea.”
And it’s absolutely insane, but that small, insignificant confession breaks something open in my chest—which I didn’t even realize I was keeping tightly shut.
I turn my head, looking at him over my shoulder, and he’s right there, near and real and here.
“You do?”
Henry nods.
“It’s not too plain for you?”
He shakes his head, swiping a tear from my cheek that I wasn’t aware had fallen.
“It’s my very favorite.”
His arms come around me then. And I sink back against him. I feel his lips on my hair, as he inhales deeply—breathing me in.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers. “Every day.”
“Where have you been? What took you so long?”
Henry straightens with a sigh, like he has to force himself to back away.
“Tea first. Then we’ll talk.”
I’m not sure I like the sound of that. But I put the pot on and a few minutes later, we’re seated on the sofa, drinking peppermint tea.
Henry sets his cup carefully on the table and rubs his palms on his slacks, like he’s nervous.
“I fucked up, Sarah. I thought I was doing the right thing for us at the time, finishing out the show, putting it behind us. But I was wrong. Just like . . . Mr. Rochester.”
Warmth spreads through my chest. And I laugh out loud.
“You really did read the books.”
Henry nods. “Every one.” He reaches out, squeezing my hand. “It made me feel closer to you. Knowing you had read the same letters, that you knew the words by heart.”
“But Henry, if that’s true, why did you wait so long to come here? Why didn’t you call or text or even write me a letter?”
“I had to be sure I was doing the right thing, I didn’t want to risk hurting you again. And there were . . . arrangements that had to be made. Things I had to get in order.”
“What things?”
He waves his strong hand. “That’s not important now. What matters is that I’m here, for you. Nothing’s changed for me and yet, everything is different. How I see the world, the part I want to have in it, it’s all different because of you. And I’m ready now—I can be the man you deserve. Steady and consistent, unselfish and adoring. Your very own Colonel Brandon.”
It seems so foolish now. A silly girl’s thoughts. Henry doesn’t compare to Colonel Brandon—he’s so much more. He’s real and true and wild and romantic, all the things I once thought only existed in books.
“I’ve spoken to Grandmother about us; she can’t wait to meet you. And . . . I want us to be like Jane and Guildford . . . only without the whole head-chopping part.”
I laugh and start to cry.
“I want to change the world with you at my side, holding your hand. I love you, Sarah, and whatever happens, I promise there won’t be a day that I don’t love you with all that I am.”
He takes my hands and leans in close.
“Will you have me, love?”
I shudder in a breath and my face is wet with tears. I shake my head at him, silly boy.
“Have you? Are you mad? You are every dream I never let myself believe could come true.”
And then I’m in his arms, kissing his face and holding him close. He lifts me up and carries me to the bedroom. He lays me down and strips me bare and I run my hands up and down his beautiful chest. And we make love, over and over again.
Outside the window, tiny snowflakes begin to fall, but we don’t notice. Because we’re lost in each other and no matter where we are, from this moment on—whether it’s in a drafty castle, a grand palace, or a little flat in an old, quiet town—it will be Henry and I, together for always.