Whispers Upon Glass

The evening had that cool, crisp air which was to be expected of spring in mid-April. Anne Harding stood near the fireplace of the room, watching the people in the party, a teacup balanced in both of her hands, using the warmth of the teacup and the fire to warm herself. She faced the party with her back to the fire, but her eyes were looking out the windows just to her right where the city glowed and shimmered against the damp cobblestones. Conversation and music hummed around her, but none of it she heard through the center of what she felt. The unnamable quiet she felt since Clara whispered about her child bearing William’s face. Though Anne didn’t quite believe the rumors or Clara, the seed was planted and it would not be easily removed from Anne’s thoughts and heart. 

That evening, Colonel William Harding found Anne as he always did when he meant to be both present with her and otherwise engaged–a broad hand on the small of her back, a glance toward the men gathered around her as always, and a kiss to the top of her head in that practiced way when he introduced her to men he disliked. He knew introductions could anchor people and introduced her with equal possessiveness and gentleness.

“Anne,” he said, “This is Lord Harcourt. Harcourt, my lovely wife.”

Harcourt took her hand with practiced ease. Too practiced. 

“You will know his name well from my frustrations in the House,” William continued. 

Anne glanced up at William’s eyes, searching for meaning. 

“I intend to fight your husband on every count,” Harcourt said with a sly smirk and an eye that looked as if it measured people for how they pleased him and what they could do for him rather than for who they were. 

Anne weighed Harcourt’s words for a moment before she said, “And why would a gentleman do such a thing to another gentleman who is trying to improve the state of living conditions for the needy?”

Harcourt licked his lips, and fluttered his eyes in such a way as to brush her words off before he said, “Business, ma’am. Because I raised myself up from the poverty my uncles brought upon my family for generations, and I very much intend to keep it that way.”

“But surely to give starving children some bread…”

“Mrs. Harding, perhaps you should leave the politics to the men. Charity work doesn’t look nearly as well on you as the emerald gown you wear this evening,” he said, his eyes lingering where they shouldn’t. 

William noticed too. 

“I very much intend to leave the politics to the right person,” Anne said, leaning closer to William.

Harcourt gave her the faintest of smiles. “An admirable quality to have confidence in your husband.”

“I have every confidence in him,” she said. “Every confidence he will do the right thing.”

Harcourt leaned just a fraction closer, not enough that it was considered a breach of decorum, and his voice was low and silk-lined as he said, “I hope you wear forgiveness as becomingly as you wear emerald silk.”

“Your flattery is wasted on me,” she said.

“Not flattery,” he said, his eyes flicking to William’s. “Only truth.”

“I am not the kind of woman inclined to neither flattery nor your half-hearted observations,” she said.

“You are much freer with your words than I expected for William Harding’s wife,” Harcourt observed. “A lack of demureness like yours invites certain…imaginings. Pray tell, do you lack demureness in all areas of your life or is it only in public occasions in which you lack decorum?”

“I believe I am not the only one who is lacking in that area,” Anne replied. 

The few men surrounding them did not mean to laugh, and their eyes flicked to William as they did. William did not laugh. He’d had enough of Harcourt’s public flirtation with his wife. 

“Harcourt,” William said. “Mind your pleasantries. Mrs. Harding’s thoughts and behaviors are not a sort of property to be speculated on for sport.”

Harcourt’s smile widened in almost dangerous amusement like it was a game for him to play and win, and he said, “Of course, Colonel. I meant no offense, only admiration.”

William’s mouth went hard. “Restrain it.”

There was a pause that might’ve been an end had Harcourt not had the deliberate insolence of a man who intended to provoke, and he stretched the moment taut, bowed with exaggerated grace, and fixed Anne with a look that asked something the conversation had not asked before.

“Mrs. Harding,” Harcourt said, his tone making the request a proposition. “Will you honor me with the next dance?”

The question landed like a pebble thrown into a calm pond; the ripples moved through the surrounding guests. Anne looked from Harcourt to William, and in Wiiliam’s face she saw a heat that was more fury than injury. He hated this man. His hand tightened at her waist, then relaxed as if testing a dam that might not hold.

“Thank you,” she said, because to refuse his request would be to call attention to not only William’s fury, but also the impropriety of refusing a dance for no legitimate reason. To refuse would not make whatever passed afterward any easier. 

She placed her teacup down with the precision and care of a woman who had been in this world long enough now to know that even small gestures could misread the room, and she stepped into the space Harcourt indicated. This was a man’s world. She merely abided by it. 

William did not speak as she crossed to him. He watched with narrowed eyes, and when Harcourt’s arm found her waist, William’s voice cut through to a friend, Lord Redford, beside him. 

“If he thinks I will stand idly by while he courts my wife in my sight, he is very wrong.”

“No need for scenes, William,” Redford said. “A dance is merely a civil thing.”

Anne felt the weight of William’s gaze like a presence behind her spine, and in that weight she understood—more acutely than any whispered insult ever delivered—that this evening was not merely a flirtation. It was the beginning of a campaign, deliberate as any speech in Parliament, and she had stepped unwillingly onto its stage. She was becoming a pawn, a political pawn between two men, one of whom was her husband.

When the music ended, Harcourt inclined his head. Anne stepped away and returned to William’s side, but when his eyes remained on Harcourt, she knew the dance wasn’t over. 

***

Later, at dinner, the chandeliers spilled golden light over the long table, catching on crystal and silver. Anne’s hand rested on the soft garnet-colored table linens, and every so often, William’s fingers would brush hers. Was it purposeful? She was unsure. Her mind stayed fixed on her life these past eight years since marrying William. Did she regret it? Some days, yes. Not because she didn’t love him. Because she was moving in circles she had never imagined herself to be in. High society London wasn’t for the faint of heart. Men sitting with mistresses instead of wives but purchasing expensive jewlry and gifts for the wives. It was a conundrum, which was why Anne’s gaze kept returning to the end of the table, where Clara sat with Lord Fenmore, whose wife was at the other end of the table wearing the most beautiful silk gown with the most elaborate display of diamonds around her neck, dangling from her ears, and the tiara on her head, but Lord Fenmore did not spend his time with her, only his fortune on her. Clara wore a gown of deep purple. Though Anne did not believe it complimented Clara’s auburn hair, who was she to judge a mistress’s choice in attire? Anne wore a deep emerald velvet gown that subtly draped from her shoulders, and dangling delicately from her neck into the dip of the clavicle was the diamond pendant William had given her. The combination was one of William’s favorites, and he had told her three times already that evening. 

“You are beautiful tonight,” he leaned closer, whispering. “Have I told you?”

“Three times,” Anne said, sipping her wine. 

“You are beautiful. So, four,” he said, grasping her hand in his underneath the table. Their hands now rested on his thigh. Not too intimate but just intimate enough. 

“Mrs. Harding,” Clara said from down the table. “How are your children?”

The question took her aback. She glanced up but didn’t lock eyes with Clara. “They’re well.”

“How many do you have now, William? Six? Seven?”

She knew Clara was trying to make her upset, and she stayed poised as she politely corrected her. “The Colonel and I have five children.”

“Oh, I could’ve sworn William had more,” Clara said, sipping her soup with a smile. 

The smile Clara gave stirred an anger in Anne that she couldn’t explain, but she was a lady and she stayed composed as she replied, “No. Only five. I also care for my niece’s child.”

William reached under the table, squeezing Anne’s hand. 

“Ah, yes,” Clara said. “I remember that tragedy. Shame isn’t it what happens when men can’t contain their desires.”

Anne gave a polite smile to give the appearance as though she didn’t know what Clara was referring to, also knowing she would soon be forced to socialize with the women, while the men retreated for cigars and brandy.

But William knew. He knew enough that Clara’s comment upset Anne, and he squeezed her hand underneath the table where it rested on his thigh. Then he leaned closer to her as he wiped his mouth from his soup and said, “Don’t let her upset you.”

The next course was served, and the lords from the other end of the table began conversation with William and Anne, leaving Clara to her end of the table, allowing Anne some reprieve. But Anne knew it was only temporary until the ladies would join later. 

“Harding!” Lord Fulton said as he sipped his wine. “Your wife is a darling woman. This is explains why you’ve been keeping her locked up in Ramsgate all this time!”

With a glance at Anne, William smiled.

When everyone stood, Lavinia approached, linked her arm and said, “Shall we?”

Anne whispered, “I am unsure I can bear her presence.”

“You can because you are elegant and sophisticated, and she is not.”

Anne stopped, closed her eyes briefly with a breath, and Lavinia tapped her hand.

The women gathered in the sitting room, while the men retreated into the parlor. 

Lavinia and Anne sat together near Lady Fulton. “Mrs. Harding, I hear your husband is quite ferocious in the House. I hear he fights Lord Harcourt quite tiresomely.”

Anne gave a small laugh. “The Colonel is ferocious about anything he puts his mind to.”

“Yes,” Clara chimed in. “Your husband has…such generous qualities. I do hope he is as attentive at home as he is elsewhere.”

Lady Fulton turned her nose up at Clara’s comment, situating her back to Clara as almost an insult before Lavinia tilted her head and said, “What did she mean by that?”

Anne’s fingers tightened around her glass. She didn’t respond.

“Oh, nothing at all,” Clara replied. “Just that some men are unsatisfied at home. It’s merely an observation.”

Lady Fulton turned sharply to look at Clara before looking again at Anne. “Do not let her bother you, my dear. Some women will do anything to have another woman’s husband. Women of little birth will always remain women of little class.” 

“Oh, but I am not the only one in this room of little birth, now am I?” Clara said.

Anne turned, remaining calm. “I see no one else.” 

Lavinia leaned close to Anne and whispered, “Nicely handled.”

“Ladies, heiresses… then there’s you and me,” Clara said, looking at Anne.

With a breath, Anne said without turning, “I am a gentleman’s daughter. My father was well respected in his trade.” She paused then turned. “The Colonel married me, of his class, because he loves me. He could’ve chosen anyone…” Anne paused, eyeing Clara, then she continued, “But he chose me.”

“Perhaps; yet some wives can’t keep their husbands satisfied, so they look elsewhere,” Clara said.

“Is it satisfaction they are looking for or something else?” Lady Fenmore said, feeling sorry for Anne who was under such attack by Clara.

Understanding now, Lavinia’s lips curved into a knowing smirk, and she said, “Well, it’s hardly unusual. Most men have children their wives don’t know about, or even they themselves don’t know about.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s practically a tradition. It doesn’t make you special, deary,” Lavinia said, turning to Clara. “Being someone's mistress isn't the same as being his wife.”

“No,” Clara said, her eyes flicking to Anne. Clara was full of arrogance and pride and Anne knew it. “Because the mistress is chosen when he tires of his wife, isn't she?”

Lady Fulton, angered now, turned and defended all the wives in this room and said, “But the wives truly belong here, don't we? We were asked to be here...for life. You, for a night.”

Clara stood, moving away, and the women in the vicinity all laughed politely. Anne did not. This was not the life she had imagined for herself, and she raised her hand to her face, using her fine silk glove to wipe the solitary tear from her eye.

***

When Anne stepped out to the patio for some air, Lord Jonathan Harcourt was there, holding a cigar. Anne did not know him well but only knew Lord Harcourt was newly elected to the House and was known for his cutting speeches against William’s positions. His dark eyes lingered on Anne, not with pity, but with recognition. He knew her. 

“Mrs. Harding,” he said, bowing slightly. “How lovely to see you again this evening. It seems you’re looking for the same distraction as I am.”

Anne remained quiet. Cautious of these men as ever. 

“I, too, tire of these conversations,” he said. “But I found your poise and resilience this evening to be very admirable. To be able to stay so calm against such accusations, I applaud you, Mrs. Harding, especially with a husband who doesn’t publicly defend you.” His tone was dry, but his gaze was steady and Anne felt the heat rise to her cheeks…from anger, she told herself. Only anger. 

“Accusations?” Anne said.

“Oh,” he said with a wave of the hand. “You know how people talk. Things of your husband. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Anne’s breath caught. “I just needed some air,” she said, stepping away.

“Same as I,” he said, stepping closer. 

“You don’t know me and you don’t know my husband,” she said. “I assure you that whatever you’ve heard is not true of him.”

“No,” he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “I’m sure they’re not.”

Anne’s body began trembling, and she closed her eyes. Did everyone believe Clara?

***

Later that night, the door to the bedroom slammed closed. William looked up from where he stood beside the bed, undressing from the day. His eyes were startled as she strode in, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with fury. 

“I can’t…I can’t do this anymore,” she said, her voice shaking. “I can’t sit there while that whore parades your child in front of me like a trophy, like she’s won something I have not.”

“Anne…”

“Don’t you dare tell me it isn’t true! Don’t you dare!” Her hands were in fists at her sides. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to have them look at me and know? To have Lavinia tell me that every man has children with those whores?! You have no idea what I’m going through, William. So, don’t you dare!”

He crossed the room and reached for her, but she stepped back. “And tonight, you were just clueless.” She turned her back to him. 

“Why? What happened?”

“To have Lord Harcourt speak to me on the patio like the accusations might actually be true…”

William stepped closer. “Stay away from him.”

Her laugh was bitter. “Why? Because he saw me tonight, William? Because he recognized what you can’t? Because all of London society sees Clara and her lies and yet you do nothing about it! But to have Harcourt see what you don’t…”

“And what is that?”

“My strength…against everything you are. Or maybe that’s what it is. He sees you for what you are.”

The fight drained from her voice all at once, leaving her trembling. “I can’t…” her voice broke. She sank to the floor, sobs tearing through her. “I just can’t do this.”

William knelt beside her, but she turned her face away, her shoulders shaking.

“Anne,” he said, reaching for her. 

“Just leave me, William,” she sobbed.

He stood, walking away, but glanced back as he went down the hall. 

TWO

The club was filled with the smell of brandy and clouded with smoke when William walked in. The room was crowded with its usuals, and his eyes scanned the room for Lord Redford, not locating him until he saw him in a small gathering of men in the far back of the room. William paused, however, when he saw a familiar figure in the corner, sitting as though he’d been waiting just for William. His shoulders tightened the moment he saw him. Harcourt sat with a cigar and brandy in hand, relaxed in a chair, and a smug smile on his face. William ignored him at first as he walked past until Harcourt said, “How is your wife?” He raised his glass, smirking as he leaned back in his chair, studying William with lazy amusement. A mocking toast. A quiet declaration of triumph.

William froze. His eyes turned before his body did. “Excuse me?”

“Your wife Anne,” he said, savoring her name, “how is she?”

William remained quiet. His jaw clenched so hard it ached. He didn’t remember deciding to turn; his body simply pivoted toward the man who had no place speaking her name.

“After the dinner party the other night, I’ve been concerned for her,” Harcourt said, hinting toward something intimate without saying it outright. 

“My wife is not your concern,” William said, trying to remain calm.

“Isn’t she? Appeared the other night as though she isn’t your concern either,” Harcourt said. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” William said, defenses up, anger rising. He stepped closer. 

Harcourt puffed his cigar before he said, “The other night, Anne appeared to be in some distress. Eyes red, hands trembling, as though she’d been crying. I noticed, of course.”

“Distress,” William repeated. His pulse kicked hard. “You say the word as though you know my wife. You use her name as though you have a right to her intimacy.”

“Yes, William. Distress,” Harcourt repeated, savoring the word. “One might almost think she wished to be anywhere but at your side. She looked…unattended. Neglected, even.” 

“You keep her name out of your mouth!”

“But she looked at me…” he continued, learning forward, quieting his voice to a near whisper. “As though she wanted me to listen.” 

William stepped closer. “Enough.”

Harcourt’s smile curved menacingly up his face as he said, “Tell me, William…does she cry like that for you? Or only when she’s alone?”

Anger coursed through him and his hand shot out before he could stop himself, knocking Harcourt back in his chair so forcefully that the cigar fell from his hand. A man sitting nearby looked up at the disturbance. Cards stilled. Chairs scraped. A ripple of attention spread across the room.

“No reason to act like a savage, Harding,” Harcourt said, leaning forward to pick up his dropped cigar. “I only mention it because a woman in distress often seeks… comfort from someone who notices. I would think a husband ought to notice if he were paying attention.”

His words were the push William needed; the simple hint that Anne had confided in Harcourt caused William to snap. William’s thoughts flashed to Anne sitting in tears just days previous because of Clara’s words to her, and his own fault in noticing.

William’s control snapped.

He shoved Harcourt so hard that the chair toppled. Harcourt pounded against the wood floor, brandy glass shattering beside him. Gasps rippled through the room. 

Harcourt looked up, smiling through the glass shards. “A woman doesn’t cry like that unless something is very wrong at home. Perhaps she told me what you fail to see.”

William grabbed Harcourt by the lapels and hauled him upright. William’s eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to something low and dangerous as he threatened, “Stay away from my wife! You can have your games with me on the House floor, but go near my wife again, and I will play games no longer.”

Harcourt’s smile finally faltered as he sat forward, pushing William back. “Let me go.”

William stepped back a beat, but his stare stayed locked, sharp enough to cut.

“Perhaps, William, you should ask her why she was distressed,” Harcourt said as he adjusted his jacket. With a smirk, he added, “Or perhaps you already have, and that’s the source of the problem.”

“Don’t go near her again,” William threatened.

“Then keep her from looking at me.”

***

Anne had been thinking of the past few days–William’s unexplained tension, the argument she’d heard he had at the club, the way he’d kissed her goodbye that morning with a distracted tenderness–when the footman stepped into her sitting room.

“Servant boy delivered it, Ma’am,” Griggs said, offering a blank envelope. No seal. No name. He bowed and withdrew. 

Anne stared at it for a long breath before breaking the wax. A single sheet slid into her hand. 

Her breath caught.

It was her. Not a caricature, not a vague likeness. Her. It was her profile rendered in soft charcoal, the shading delicate enough to capture the faint curve of her cheek. A loose strand of hair brushed the corner of her eye, exactly as it had fallen the night of the dinner party. Her blue silk dress fell bare from her shoulder. She hadn’t posed for this. She hadn’t even known she’d been watched. Who thought of her so intimately other than William? She felt a strange heat rise in her chest–part embarrassment, part fear, and partly something she refused to name–and she traced the line of her own cheek with her thumb before snatching her hand back. 

Wrong. Intrusive. Intimate. 

She folded the sketch quickly, fingers trembling. William would be furious, not at her–never at her–but at the man who had drawn it. At the implication. At the audacity. At the trespass into what was his.

The door creaked. Anne jolted, shoving the paper into the back of her writing desk.

Only Mrs. Evanson. 

She exhaled shakily. Guilt pricked at her. She should burn it. But she didn’t. 

Three

The bell above the draper’s door chimed softly as Anne stepped inside. The shop was warm, filled with the scent of dyed fabrics and lavender sachets tucked between bolts of cloth. She had come for ribbon, something that didn’t require thought. Her mind was already occupied by William.

She was examining a length of pale blue silk when she felt it–the brush against the skirts of her dress, the prickle on her skin–the unmistakable feeling of being watched. 

“Mrs. Harding.”

She stilled.

Harcourt stood only a few paces behind her. His gloved hands were clasped casually behind his back, expression polite in a way that made her skin crawl. 

“Lord Harcourt,” she said, dipping her head in the smallest possible acknowledgment. 

He stepped closer. “A fortunate coincidence. I hadn’t expected to see you out alone. Speaks of impropriety, does it not?”

Anne turned her back to him and snapped, “I’m not alone. Mrs. Evanson is just outside.”

“Mm,” his gaze drifted–not to her face, but to her hands, to the absence of her ring. “Still. One wonders whether it is wise. You seem unsettled the last time I saw you.”

“I am perfectly well.”

“Are you?” he asked, blinking quickly. “Your words contradict other parts of you.” His eyes flicked to her bare finger. “Some burdens are just too heavy to carry.”

Her hand tightened around the silk. “You presume too much about me, sir.”

“Do I?” He leaned closer–just enough so she felt his breath on her skin, just enough for the faint trace of cigar smoke on his coat to reach her. “Forgive me. I only meant to say that some troubles make it easier to bear when one is… noticed.”

 He lifted a gloved hand and brushed the pad of his finger along her bare ring finger. 

Anne gasped and snatched her hand back.

“I must go,” she said, breath unsteady.

“Of course,” he said, stepping back with a courteous bow, as though he’d said nothing improper at all.

As Anne stepped away, Harcourt said, “Do give my regards to your husband.”

Anne paused–just a beat–before fleeing the shop, the ribbon forgotten on the counter. 

***

The House buzzed with its usual afternoon noise–papers shuffling, voices rising and falling, the echo of footsteps in the corridor. William was reviewing a set of notes for the upcoming vote when Harcourt approached, hands clasped behind his back as was his usual style when he wanted to provoke William. 

“Harding.”

William didn’t look up at first. “What.”

“No need to be defensive. I come in peace,” Harcourt said with a smirk.

William, having still not looked at him, said, “What do you want?”

“I only thought you might like to know I saw your wife today,” Harcourt said lightly, as though commenting on the weather.

William’s head snapped up. “Stay away from my wife.”

“I saw her at the draper’s. No need to be defensive. Only ran into each other. Was a pleasant encounter for me.” Harcourt’s smile was small, polite, and practiced. “Although, she seemed…unsettled.”

William looked away. “My wife is perfectly well.”

“Of course.” Harcourt shrugged, as if conceding the point. “Only, she startled when she saw me. Quite sharply, in fact. Seemed to me she feared something. Perhaps being caught.”

“Caught at what?” William said, his pulse quickening.

“Oh, I wouldn’t presume.” Harcourt’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “But she did look distracted. Pale, even, and she left in rather a hurry.”

William’s nostrils flared, a sure sign he was upset, angry even. But he said nothing.

Harcourt leaned forward, resting his elbows casually on the desk, and he said, “You might ask her what upset her.”

His thoughts bounced to the night before when they were in bed, not a word spoken between them. She had been distant. Cold. Sad. Harcourt had seen something in her that William had missed. 

Shame burned through him.

What hadn’t she told him?

Harcourt straightened his coat with a flick of his wrist. “Do give her my regards.”

He walked away before William could respond, leaving the words heavy in the air. 

Harcourt’s insinuations burrowed beneath William’s skin. Anne: startled, pale, troubled. And he hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t shared it with him. 

By the time he returned home that evening, his unease turned sharper, into something he couldn’t ignore. He wasn’t sure what he had been searching for, but he searched for something, and when he opened her writing desk, he understood. The sketches were exactly what Harcourt wanted him to find. 

***

A few days later, the morning post arrived with the usual stack of invitations, bills, and political circulars. Anne sorted them absently, pausing when she saw her husband’s name on a political announcement – news about the House votes. Harcourt...she moved on. That was William’s whole life now. He hardly noticed her anymore. She continued flipping through until her fingers brushed a parcel wrapped in cream paper. 

Her name was written in a hand she did not recognize. The sender’s name beneath it made her stomach tighten:

 Lord Jonathan Harcourt 

She hesitated, glancing toward William’s study, where he was closeted with correspondence. She slipped the string free. Inside was a slim volume of poetry, the leather cover soft with age. Between the pages lay a pressed violet. Its color still vivid despite the years. 

A note was tucked inside the front cover: For the woman who suffers, who sees more than she is allowed to say.

Anne’s breath caught. It was not overtly romantic, but it was intimate. A recognition. A warning. A claim. She slammed the book shut and slid it into her writing desk. 

That evening, William came to her sitting room, the book in his hand. 

“I was looking for the accounts,” he said, his voice deceptively calm, “and I found this instead.”

He held up the book. 

Anne’s pulse quickened. “You went through my desk?”

“I was looking for the accounts,” he repeated, his eyes fixed on her. 

“In my desk, William?”

He made no reply to that, only, “Why is Harcourt sending you gifts?”

She met his gaze, refusing to look away. “Perhaps because he speaks to me as if I matter. Something you have forgotten as of late. Perhaps because he sees me.”

William’s jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. “He’s only using you to get to me.”

“Yes, William, because you are the only reason any man could ever want me.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Perhaps,” she said, almost whispering, “he’s simply not afraid to look at me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Anne said. “Your guilt seeps from your pores, William. Your guilt overwhelms you.”

William slammed the book down on the desk. The sound cracked through the room.

 He left without another word. 

-Meg S