by Rose Lerner
They drove for a day, a night, and a day in tense silence heavy with guilt and accusation. In answer to her questions, Mr. Ralph explained tersely that he had been working as a footman in Nuthurst and had been reading the Intelligencer—for news of his brother, Lydia thought, although he didn’t say so. Mr. Cahill’s abrupt departure had been reported in the article about the Gooding Day auction. She would have to thank Jack Sparks.
She couldn’t meet Mr. Ralph’s eyes and was too angry to meet Jamie’s, but staring out the window, she could feel both their gazes on her. She knew what Mr. Ralph was thinking: that she had failed to look after his brother. So did you, she wanted to protest. You left him in pieces. At least I tried.
But she knew Mr. Cahill wouldn’t want her to say it, and besides—his brother had come to save him, when Lydia would have sulked till Doomsday and never thought. She should have known better. She should have had faith. She should have paid more attention to Jamie.
The worst of it was that she couldn’t even believe Mr. Cahill would be angry. He expected nothing better.
She wanted him to be able to expect better of her. She took out his letter, which she had thought so cruel.
I love you more than life, sweetheart. Yours, Ash Cahill.
Why had he gone? He’d thought it was for her own good, she supposed. But she’d told him she didn’t care about practical considerations. She’d told him. Did he think her an expensive China dish, that had lived in a glass case all her life and couldn’t understand what she was risking?
Or maybe—no, it was unfair. The thought completed itself anyway: maybe he cared about practical considerations. Maybe he didn’t love her enough to really want her, if he couldn’t have everything that came with her.
She wanted to ask Jamie what Mr. Cahill had said before he left, what Jamie had said to make him go. But she was afraid the answers would provoke Mr. Ralph to violence.
She glanced at Ralph. Sensing it, he turned towards her, blue eyes hard and accusing. His easy charm was gone as if it had never been. There was something besides anger, though—suspicion and puzzlement. He didn’t understand where she fit in all this. He didn’t believe she could really love his brother either.
Mr. Cahill would be so happy to see him. Overjoyed. Happier, maybe, than he’d be to see her. What if Ralph meant to leave again after? She opened her mouth to ask, to convince him to stay, to defend Mr. Cahill—and, seeing him turn his glare out the window as if the landscape offended him by not being Cornwall yet, seeing the fearful hunch of his great shoulders, Lydia suddenly realized that it would be cruel.
For the first time, she allowed herself to think of the brothers’ schism from Mr. Ralph’s point of view. How must he have felt, to find out that his bulwark against the world had lied to him? But she knew the answer to that. He’d been beside himself. I would have forgiven him if he’d told me, he’d said, eyes red with weeping. She’d seen it, and not much cared.
She turned towards Jamie. He sprawled sleeping beside her, long legs propped on the seat opposite, looking young and defenseless.
How did he feel, knowing she had kept this from him? Boys don’t need to know everything about their big sisters, she’d told Mr. Cahill blithely. Yet she had known Jamie wouldn’t expose her. She’d known she could talk him round. Once he’d signed over her money, there had been no practical reason to keep silent. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t respect her anymore. That he couldn’t love the truth of her, only a lie.
Jamie had believed the lie. He’d believed her so good, so respectable, so pure, that she could never love a man like Mr. Cahill. And her husband had paid the price for her fear and vanity.
How had she not noticed that Jamie was hiding something? How much had he hidden from her over the years, convinced she could only love perfection? There were so many panes of glass between them now that she’d lost the ability to distinguish between ordinary tension and a catastrophe.
Faster, she thought, listening to the hoofbeats and wheels on the road, leaning against the side of the carriage so she could feel its movement. Faster.
She slept fitfully, waking when they changed horses or when her dreams reached a particularly unpleasant pitch. By the second night their hamper had run out. Lydia insisted they stop for a few hours for supper, and for the coachman and groom to sleep.
Mr. Ralph’s brows drew together forbiddingly. “They can pack us another hamper.” Even seated, his squared shoulders made the carriage seem tiny. For a moment she quailed; she didn’t want to delay either, anyway. But that was the expression Mr. Cahill had said made him look like a little rabbi. Knowing that made it harder to be afraid of it.
“I need to talk to Jamie.” She hired a private parlor, dragged her brother into it, and shut the door. “I’ve been thinking—”
“So have I.” Jamie paced to the fire, taking off his gloves to warm his stiff fingers. “And I still think this is madness.”
“I don’t care what you think.” She wished she could find a more tactful way to say that, but she was exhausted and her head had been aching for what felt like a week. She was cold too, but she wanted Mr. Cahill to warm her, not some impersonal fire. “Not about this.”
His mouth set. “I was only trying to protect you. I am only trying to protect you.”
As angry as she was, Lydia knew that feeling—trying so hard to make the right decision and being wrong.
Worry for Mr. Cahill and anger were a layer of down between her and her love for her brother. Carefully, she rolled them back. They would be there in an hour. Slowly, she saw Jamie again. Jamie, her darling, without her pain blurring his features.
“I know,” she said. “I know. And—here’s what I wanted to say. I’m sorry I tried to bully you into politics. I’m sorry I’ve tried to talk you into marrying. I’m sorry—I’m sorry I couldn’t make Father listen to me about Eton. I tried, I did—and I’m sorry I never told you how hard I tried. I didn’t want you to know that he wouldn’t listen to me.”
Jamie shifted uncomfortably, hair falling over his forehead. “Eton wasn’t so bad.”
“I wanted to protect you,” Lydia said. “When Mama put you in my arms you were so small, and I wanted to protect you from everything. But I’ve been thinking, and—Father was trying to protect you too by sending you. From—from not having friends when you were older, from not being the kind of man he thought you should be.”
Jamie hunched his shoulders. “Do we really have to dredge this up now?”
“I’m not defending him. What I’m trying to say is, I don’t think I ever really wanted to protect you. What I wanted was to be on your side, and I didn’t know how to be. I want to do that from now on. I want you to know that no matter what you choose, even if I don’t agree, I will always listen to you. I will always support you. Against anybody. It didn’t matter that Father thought Eton was the right choice. What mattered was that you hated it, and we made you go anyway.”
It had felt so wonderful to hear from Mr. Cahill that she could decide what she wanted and he would back her—even if in the end, he’d decided he knew what was best for her, like every other man in her life. She should have given that to Jamie.
“I got by. It was ages ago. I wish you’d let it go.”
“Jamie—”
“God, listen to yourself,” Jamie said furiously. “You really think I’m useless, don’t you? I’ve blundered about like a bull in a China shop making a mess of your life, and you apologize to me? Because I’m just so pathetic you couldn’t expect anything better!”
Lydia was aghast. “What? Of course I don’t think you’re useless. Why would you say that?”
“Because I sent you those letters!” he shouted. “I sent you those whinging, crawling letters begging to come home from school like a baby, and you’ve never forgotten it. You’ve never let me forget it. Why should you? What’s changed? I’m still afraid of ever
ything, and I still don’t have any friends, and you know it!”
Lydia’s mouth opened and closed. “But Jamie…you have lots of friends. I cried for days when you stopped coming home during the holidays because you always had invitations somewhere more exciting. Don’t you remember? I tried to talk you into having a party for your friends at Wheatcroft and you didn’t want to because home was so dull. You didn’t even want to stay for Christmas this year.”
“I didn’t want to have a party because no one would have come,” Jamie said. “Or they would have, and you would have seen how I was always on the edge of things.”
Lydia rubbed her temples, trying to make sense of it. “I shouldn’t feel so relieved by that, should I? I’m sorry, I’m appallingly tired. But I thought—I thought it was me. I thought you were embarrassed to have me as hostess. I thought you didn’t want me to bore your friends with politics.”
Jamie drew in a sharp breath, instantly remorseful. “Oh, no.” He shook his head. “I’ve always been proud of you.”
“And I’m proud of you,” Lydia said. “No—Jamie, I am. You have been the brightest spot in my life for twenty-one years, and I think you’re splendid. You’re handsome, and brilliant, and funny, and so kindhearted, and talented—you’ll find people who can see it, eventually.”
Jamie put his head in his hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t manage Wheatcroft. And everyone will be so disappointed about the borough.”
“I’m sure not everyone will be disappointed,” Lydia said, remembering with surprise that she had had a number of ideas on this subject, before Mr. Ralph’s arrival had driven everything else from her mind. “There’s room for enterprising men to move up, now. As for Wheatcroft, I’ve been turning it over, and I think all you need is a secretary you really like.”
“But what about Father’s secretary? I can’t toss him out on his ear after twenty years.”
“You’ll have to talk to him about it, and see what he’d like to do instead, and help him do it.”
Jamie made a face.
Lydia laughed. “I didn’t say it would be easy. But nothing is. I’ve worked with him for most of those twenty years and I will be happy to provide excellent references.”
“Everything’s easy for you.”
“I’m sorry I let you think that. It isn’t at all true.” She ruffled his hair. “You weren’t supposed to have to manage Wheatcroft so soon. It’s not your fault you aren’t prepared. Father thought he’d be able to show you everything, now you were finished with school. Then after he—I meant to keep things going for a while, and smooth your path. I’m sorry I got married and left you to it.”
Jamie gave her a suspicious look. “That was a lot of apologizing. Was all of this only to get me to help Mr. Cahill?”
“Not only.” She tucked her arm through his and touched the malachite at her throat and didn’t think of Mr. Cahill yet. “Never only. But tell me something. Do you think I could have said all that a month ago?”
Jamie shook his head.
“Mr. Cahill is good for me. I think—maybe I’m wrong, but I think you like him too.”
“He’s likable,” Jamie said. It wasn’t a compliment.
“What do you think about what I said? About being on each other’s sides, instead of protecting each other?”
Jamie chewed on his lip. “You won’t nag me about getting married anymore?”
Lydia took a deep breath and shook her head. She and Jamie would take care of Lively St. Lemeston and Wheatcroft while they could. That was enough; responsibility could not extend to eternity. She’d been behaving as if the world would end if she wasn’t there to manage everyone, but the world had gone on before her, and it would go on after. Perhaps in several years, if Jamie still didn’t want to marry, they could invite his heir the second cousin and his children for a visit.
Her father wouldn’t like it, but she felt lighter already.
“And if I confess that I’ve fallen in love with the gardener, you won’t stand in my way?”
Lydia blinked. “Which gardener? Not—not Andy Weller?”
Jamie made a retching noise. “Lydia, he’s sixty if he’s a day!”
She snickered. “He’s still spry, though.”
“I wish I could unhear that.”
“You started it.”
Jamie pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry about Mr. Cahill. I think—I think we can hush the whole thing up.”
“So you’ll accept him as your brother-in-law?”
Jamie’s shoulders hunched again. “Lydia, how can you reconcile yourself to what he has been? I thought it would break your heart. We don’t know how many innocent people he’s stolen from.”
No. She hoped with all her heart that she would know, someday, that he would tell her. She had never been as good or as kind as she’d tried to be. “You’re right. But I know how many innocent people he’s going to steal from in future. None. I know that. I’m not asking you to love him. I’m just asking you to receive him.”
Ralph pounded on the door. “That’s long enough!”
Jamie flinched. “Do I have to receive him too?”
“Not if you don’t want to. He isn’t always like this, though.”
Jamie flung open the door. Ralph had one hand raised to knock again, the other arm effortlessly hefting an enormous hamper.
“What are you waiting for?” Jamie brushed past him. “Let’s go and save your brother.” Ralph obviously didn’t think that was very funny.
At the sight of him, Lydia’s blanket of worry rolled back and smothered her. But she was the eldest, and she had to be practical. “The coachmen need to sleep,” she said, entirely against her own inclination. “So do we. We need to be at our best when the time comes.”
“One of them can sleep inside while the other drives.” Ralph met her eyes unyieldingly. “Ash hates being locked up.”
“They haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours,” Lydia protested, even though her heart failed her at his words. “It isn’t safe.”
“Then hire someone new!” Ralph roared. “You’re rich, aren’t you?”
“I can spell them,” Jamie offered. “I’ve been sleeping.”
“No.”
Ralph looked at them. “Is he a bad driver?”
“Oh, he’s an excellent driver. He just likes to go very, very fast.”
Ralph grinned, looking at Jamie with something like approval for the first time. “Sounds good to me.”
There were four cells in the Kellisgwynhogh gaol. Ash didn’t think they’d seen much use. Lord Prowse had had to go to the gaoler’s house to fetch him out. As it was Christmas Eve, the man was both drunk and not best pleased. When Ash had asked politely for water, the gaoler had slammed shut the little hole that communicated between the cell and outside.
The straw pallet was moldy, so he sat on the floor and stared at the small square of cloudy sky he could see through the barred window. Outside, church bells began to peal. It must be midnight.
He had been looking forward to Christmas with Lydia.
The gaoler would surely not look in on him. It was safe, finally, to take Lydia’s letter and her lock of hair from his breast pocket without fear of them being taken away. He’d promised himself this throughout the days on the road, the last three nights when he couldn’t sleep even though Fred Maddaford snored like a pipe-organ from where he slept stretched across the threshold to make sure Ash didn’t escape. Lord Prowse had paid at each inn to have the shutters nailed shut and a guard posted outside the room, but Fred Maddaford trusted nobody but himself these days, even though sleeping on the floor must have hurt his old bones.
Ash had given him the quilt and pillows and lain awake in the cold bed wishing he could take out Lydia’s letter, that he’d saved for when he was really lonely. Oh, he could string it out, use the
letter to keep himself going, tell himself this wasn’t so bad—but why? Why keep going? Why be strong any longer? There was no one to be strong for, nothing to keep going for. And he wanted to read that letter.
Now, in his cell, he pulled it out and held it up to the window. Tilting the paper this way and that until it caught the greatest possible amount of moonlight, he at last made it out.
My darling Mr. C—
A letter ought to be for news, and here I can only manage to tell you what you already know: that I miss you when you’re gone. I am missing you now. Time passes too quickly when we’re together, and too slowly when we’re apart. As you read this, the seconds are passing like minutes, and the minutes like hours, and the hours like years.
Come back soon.
Yours faithfully,
Lydia Reeve
That was the day they had playacted at love and laughed together. He’d said it was as good as the real thing.
He’d lied. The real thing was better, and worse.
He had the other note too, the one that started, You were right. My hair is red. He ran the braided lock of hair through his fingers. It still smelled faintly of jasmine.
He had all of her in those letters and that lock of hair—gleeful, sneaky, generous, thoughtful. Determined to mend things that were wrong. Beautiful inside and out. He had everything but her.
She was probably missing him right now, and he would never come back. He’d swindled her after all, taken her faith and her self-respect. Maybe she’d think he’d got itchy feet and taken to the highway. Maybe she’d think he’d never planned to stay at all, that he’d only ever wanted the money. All his life he’d lied and lied, and now here he was, perishing of sorrow that she’d never know the truth.
The Christmas bells stopped pealing, and Ash put his letters and his lock of hair carefully away in his pocket. He’d been married to her for a week. A week of perfection was more than most men got. He should feel lucky.
