Eliza Doolittle: The Life and Times of a Good Girl

Chapter Twenty-Two: Jillian Takes Liberties

Author's Note: Sorry about the long wait, dear readers! My beta is a busy young woman this summer, so I eventually asked for the services of a close friend, who will be my temporary beta. Everyone say "'Ello Teckla!". Good.

It had been six months since Henry left Eliza, and he was not the better for it. He had meant to get away from her, away from the weight of his actions in an attempt to mete out what he was to do next. It had been a fruitless plan. Henry went from landmark to landmark, thinking only of how joyful Eliza would be to experience the sights with him.

He was sitting in a café in Heidelberg, shuddering over the sound of the German language in all of its heavy, plodding glory, when he was approached by Jillian Webster. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her. The woman had absolutely no subtlety over her mission to resume their affair. He contemplated arming himself with garlic and crosses in an attempt to ward her off.

"How are you enjoying the weather, Henry?" She asked, sitting down across from him.

"It's too damned cold."

Jillian smiled, undeterred by the cold brevity of his response. "I am arranging a skating party, perhaps you would like to join? Anson is still in bed with a cold, and I need a handsome man on my arm."

"I hate ice-skating. Don't let that deter you from your mission, I am sure there is a nice young Herr Schmitz around to twirl you about."

Jillian had the temerity to pout. "Oh! You men are such spoil-sports."

"Sorry, Mrs. Webster, being a spoil-sport is just my nature."

Jillian reached out a soft, gloved hand, and stroked his cheek. "When did I become 'Mrs. Webster'?"

"When you married Anson, I imagine."

"Let me rephrase; when did I become 'Mrs. Webster' to you?"

Henry groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "When I realized that running about with married women is a foolish game. Or perhaps it was when I married my wife."

Jillian laughed cruelly. "Your wife? My goodness! You mention her so infrequently that I completely forgot her entire existence." Jillian smirked. "Have you even written or called her?" When Henry did not respond, she laughed again. "You make a sorry husband."

Henry stood up. "Good day, Mrs. Webster. I think this conversation is at an end."

Jillian stood. "I've offended you! I did not think it possible."

"I am leaving before my impeccable politeness fails me, Mrs. Webster."

Henry started to walk out of the café, but was stopped when Jillian grabbed his arm.

"Unhand me, you are making a spectacle of yourself!"

"Come to my room tonight," Jillian purred, in a low voice that only Henry could hear. Anson had purchased a separate room for Jillian, for fear that she would take ill.

"I've been to your room, the air is rather too stale for my liking," Henry responded. The insult was enough to loosen Jillian's grip on his arm, and he made a retreat.

Henry sat at the desk in his suite, and began writing another letter to Eliza. In total, he had started and discarded over one hundred missives to his wife. Nothing his brain could conjure up seemed worthy of her. Many times he contemplated leaving the tour abruptly, and throwing himself at her feet to beg forgiveness, but the abandonment with the added secret he had not divulged to her made such a feat seem fruitless. He could not forgive himself, asking her to do it for him was insupportable.

How he missed her! Reverting back to sleeping alone had been a chore. It had felt as though he was being deprived of her warm body after years of companionship, not mere weeks. It wasn't just the physical intimacy either; he found he even missed her dreadful snoring!

Henry tore up the unfinished letter, stalked over to the fireplace, sat down at the enormous arm-chair, and drank. As his mind and vision softly blurred, his last coherent thought was that he had left his letter to Catherine, as well as the picture, in the drawer by his and Eliza's honeymoon bed. If he had been sober, the thought of Eliza possibly discovering those items would have sent him into further despair. Alas, port was an excellent numbing agent, and he regarded the revelation with a casual shrug as he nodded off to sleep.

Some time later, the feeling of cool hands stroking his face alerted him to another presence in the room. He responded warmly to the soft lips that pressed against his own, and his arms reached out for the affectionate phantom, pulling it into his lap. "Eliza…" He muttered softly. Henry opened his eyes, certain he was correct. Eliza's hair was not blonde. "Catherine?" Henry was confused, and shoved the phantom from his lap, before leaping to his feet.

Jillian Webster glared at him from the floor she had been thrown onto. "Don't ever call me by another woman's name!" She growled.

Henry swore loudly. "Damn you! I told you I never wanted to renew our acquaintance like this ever again!"

Jillian stood up, smoothing her skirts. "You left the door unlocked. That action led me to believe otherwise."

Henry laughed. "A foolish oversight made you believe you could come slinking in here to molest me?"

"Molest you? You seemed to be enjoying it, Henry."

"Yes, well, I am three sheets to the wind, and I was unaware it was you. Or did you not hear me call out for my wife?"

"You also called out for someone named 'Catherine'." Jillian folded her arms across her chest and managed to look extremely smug. "I suppose you aren't the spotless image of a devoted husband that you led me to believe."

Henry's patience with Jillian was most decidedly at an end. "I want you to leave this tour and go back to England at once," he declared.

"Pardon me? Who are you to order me about?"

"Someone who can raise up a ruckus, and have your husband here in mere moments."

"I will tell him you were the one taking liberties."

"Oh you will, will you? I was taking liberties with you, against your will, in the comfort of my own rooms? Did I bash you over the head and drag you here by your hair?"

Jillian grew very pale, the air of triumph fading from her aristocratic features. "You wouldn't cause such a scandal."

"Oh, you've known me for many years, Mrs. Webster. Do I strike you as a man who cares for the opinion of society? You, on the other hand, care a great deal, don't you? A cut in public from a society matron would devastate you, a snub from a ball or garden party would destroy your whole world, would it not? These things are important to you, not to me."

Jillian bowed her head in defeat. "What shall I tell Anson?"

Henry shrugged. "Tell him the continent is a bore. Tell him you want to be back home with your friends and your familiar comforts. I don't care, honestly. I just don't want to see you haunting these halls any longer. Go home."

Jillian departed, leaving Henry triumphant, but missing Eliza more than ever.