When he finally met Will in the library, he collapsed on one of the worn leather chairs and slung a leg over its wide arm. “I lost her. Did something abominable that I can’t fix.”
His friend didn’t ask who he meant or what the horrible act was as he handed Guy a tall glass of water. “Perhaps time will repair it.”
Guy drank the water, feeling like a man who’d crossed a desert with nary an oasis in sight. “I doubt it. Hattie Glover is not the sort of woman who forgives easily. I broke her trust, you see.”
“Now you’ve mourned for a couple of days, I believe it’s time to buck up and carry on, don’t you?” Will suppressed a yawn and wiped sleep from the corners of his eyes.
“Wise words as always, my friend, but harder to put into practice than I’d expected. I’ve never been in love before, and neither have you, so you can’t know what I’m feeling. This is like having one’s insides torn out, raked over then packed back into one’s body like scarecrow stuffing, after which one is expected to carry on as if nothing has occurred and life is completely normal.”
Guy eyed the decanter on the sideboard and considered ambling over to pour a drink.
“Not overly dramatic at all,” Will said. “Aside from winning back this woman you’ve fallen in love with, what do you want from that life? What do you plan to do with yourself?”
“Nothing,” Guy answered glibly, then replied seriously, “actually, I have begun to form a plan to invest in fledgling businesses for those the bank will not finance. Individuals who would likely never save up enough to establish themselves. There’s a young woman, Mrs. Glover’s shop assistant, who wishes to start a florist. I promised I would aid her if she presented a sound business proposal, but I haven’t spoken with her since.”
“Sounds promising, but tell me you’re not using this woman as a pretext to see her employer,” Will chided.
“Of course not. I must send Miss Gardener a note and arrange to meet,” Guy said. “If this attempt to do some good in the world succeeds, I hope to find others who would benefit from my investing in their dream.”
Simply expressing his vision aloud made him feel a trifle more energized and less inclined to reach for that bottle. Only nausea and exhaustion kept him from jumping to his feet.
“I applaud your plan emphatically. It’s precisely the sort of project you need to focus on. Now, you look and smell like an alley cat dwelling in a pile of garbage. Clean yourself and get some sleep in one of the guest rooms, why don’t you?”
Guy had melted into the comfortable armchair and would happily have remained there, but he stood and reached for Will with the intention of giving him a manly hug.
His friend shook his hand instead. “Sorry, old chap, you’ve a bit of vomit on your shirtfront.” Then he added, “You will be all right, Hardy. As much as you may be hurting now, I’m certain you will get past it.”
“Easy for you to say. Love is damned difficult and excruciatingly painful. I don’t recommend it.” Although his words were spoken as a witty quip, Guy felt the reality of the sentiment in the depths of his being.
Chapter Sixteen
Hattie opened the shop every morning, going through familiar motions like an automated cuckoo emerging from a clock to tweet the hour. She felt no excitement in greeting each day, neither did she harbor unhappiness or disappointment or anger or sorrow. She simply felt numb, as mechanical and brainless as that wooden bird.
That was fine. It would do for now, until she had completely erased all thoughts of Guy and could find pleasure in her business once more. Her plan was to banish memories of him one by one. Their very first meeting—erased. That walk in the park—gone. The lunch they’d shared at a workingman’s tavern—forgotten. The bicycle ride and picnic in the country—obsolete, although the machine still mocked her from the far corner of the work-room.
As for the times they’d kissed and the one glorious night they’d spent in Guy’s bed, when the entire future had been aglow with possibility—those times hadn’t been that spectacular and she threw them out with the proverbial bathwater.
Soon, Hattie was washed clean inside, a blank slate, an empty vessel to fill with the pride of business accomplishments. The following week, she attended a meeting of the recently instituted Providence Street Merchants’ Organization. She and the other tradesmen exchanged ideas for increasing their traffic through mutual advertisements and verbal encouragement to visit the other stores.
Hattie slowly became content in herself once more, fulfilled by success and eager to implement the promotional techniques the organization had agreed to. This was all she needed in her life. And if she lay in bed at night, fighting to fall asleep while all those banished memories flocked home like pigeons to the roost, she could learn to live with that.
One day after the shop closed, Rose faced Hattie with a tense expression. “I must talk with you.”
Dread yawned and stretched out its claws, sinking them into Hattie’s chest. She had felt something was bothering Rose, but had been too busy fighting off her demons to ask questions. “What is it? Are you all right?”
“Perfectly fine. Perhaps too fine. I hardly know how to say what I must.”
“Take a breath and speak. Whatever it is, we shall work through it together.”
Rose stood before her, ringing her hands as she had in their early days together. Her doubt and fear seemed to have returned along with traces of her Cockney accent.
“I know you an’ Mr. Hardy had a falling out that ended your friendship. Before that, he talked about investin’ in a business idea of mine—a florist shop.” Her hands moved rapidly around each other as if she were attempting an
