My mind raced. I had seen the affection in Owen’s eyes when he watched them, interacted with them. I could see that my brothers thought of him as their idol. But Owen truly cared for them, and I could see in both Peter’s and Charles’s eyes that it was the greatest gift. And it pained me to observe. How had being loved become such a rare novelty?
Charles pulled me from my thoughts by saying, “Oh! And then he said that he loves you too, very much, ’cept you don’t love him back. Then he looked sad.”
A breath caught in my throat.
“Why don’t you love him?” Charles asked, concern plaguing his face again.
My emotions were held together by spider web strands. I swallowed, and tried to stop holding my breath. Both Peter and Charles looked up at me expectantly, clearly wondering the same thing I had wondered multiple times: how could anyone not love Owen?
“I do.”
Charles’s face lit up and he turned his gaze to Peter. “Let’s go tell him!”
“No!” I exclaimed in panic. “I mean—no. You mustn’t tell Owen that.”
“Why not?”
“Because … because he can’t know.”
“Why not?” Charles repeated, his voice a whine.
“Because he just can’t,” I affirmed, searching my mind for a new subject. “Now, what would you two like to do? Would you like to visit the library and show me your favorite books?”
Peter’s eyes flew open wide. “Grandfather could tell you a story! He tells the greatest stories!”
I slumped with relief. “Oh? That should be very nice. Hopefully Grandfather is there.”
Charles nodded his agreement, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “I think Grandfather lives in the library. All the time.”
I threw my head back with a laugh. “That sounds like a possibility. But where could he sleep?”
Charles’s expression never strayed from serious. “Probably under the table.”
I ruffled his hair, laughing, Peter joining me. “You may be right. If so, then we should have no doubts about his presence there right now.”
Sure enough, as we stepped into the library, I spotted Grandfather sitting in a leather chair, book in hand, spectacles on nose. He glanced up as we entered, his wrinkled face lifting in a smile. “Good evening. I hoped to see you here.”
Peter and Charles ran across the room to the chair beside him, pleading for him to tell a story.
“Very well, very well,” he chuckled, standing to move a chair for me to sit in. “Owen told me all about the ordeal this morning,” he said, ushering me into the chair. “Are you well?”
Had Owen been everywhere today? “Yes, I’m feeling much better.”
“I am glad to hear it.” His smile made his eyes twinkle. He took a deep breath that sounded like a sigh. “Yes … Owen spoke with me for a very long time this afternoon.”
I wondered what he would say next, but instead of continuing that subject, he leaned forward in his chair, rubbing his hands together. “Now for the story. Hmm,” he mused, looking from my brothers to me. Then he began, his voice smooth, easy to listen to.
“There once was a lovely young lady who carried with her a vessel full of water everywhere she went. She treasured this vessel, and cared for it deeply, but it had been scratched and worn over her life, and so the water within was what she so attentively nurtured. Never had she let a single drop of that precious water spill. In all her daily activities she held this vessel tightly against her, concealed beneath her thick coat, so none could see it or touch it, or, what she feared most—steal it.”
Grandfather paused deliberately, looking between my brothers and me, lingering longer on my face, as if he could see my thoughts displayed there.
“She often visited the stream from which she had collected the water. It was the only stream she had ever known and this young woman found contentment in walking along its banks with her scarred vessel full of its treasured water. Never did she dream of other streams or other waters. Then one day, when this young lady ventured to the stream, she was astonished to find another stream running directly beside it. Unable to help herself, she walked along its banks too. As days passed, she grew attached to this stream and wished her vessel could give place for some of its water. But she knew her vessel was full, and still she infinitely valued the water from the first stream and knew it must not be replaced.”
I felt my throat clench with emotion, feeling the truth behind this story nestle in my heart and remain, as if it intended to make a home there. My hand crept to my throat as I listened, intent on keeping myself in one piece.
“But as days turned into weeks, the young woman’s longing for the new stream began to create fresh scars on her vessel, and soon, she feared, it would break and she would lose every drop of precious water within. So, if only to soothe the ache she felt, she dipped her hand into the new stream and scooped its water into her brimming vessel. Expecting the water would not fit, and overflow onto the rocks, the young woman was amazed to find that the water did not. Instead, the water entered the vessel and remained although it had appeared full. Unsure, the young woman took another scoop of water and poured it into her vessel. It too remained.
“Delighted, this young lady deposited scoop after scoop of water from the stream into her vessel and remarkably, she never spilled a drop from the first stream as she went. Her vessel, it seemed, could not become full. And as she poured water in, she saw the scratches fade from her vessel, and was filled with happiness like she had never before known. She had discovered a brilliant truth: that the water from both streams was infinite, and her vessel could contain it all.”
Tears ran silently down my face as the poignant beauty of his story overwhelmed me. The message was clear, and it filled me with a new kind of strength.
Grandfather paused, finishing his story on a softer tone. “So, later in her life, as more streams appeared beside the two she now knew so well, she didn’t hesitate to take water from each, for she now knew she did not have to lose a single drop to gain many.”
When he finished speaking, the room fell into a silence too important to break. Every shattered piece of unknown had molded together, all my indecision brought to light. How had he known exactly what I needed to hear? Precisely what would tug at my heart more than anything else? The answer was simple. He was Owen’s grandfather.
Grandfather smiled and nodded toward the door. “I believe he is in the orchard.”
I smiled back, hoping my gratitude could be shown without words. And then I stood and left the room, letting my tears dry as I ran. I was afraid, but I also had hope, and somehow that was enough.
A
Chapter 22
The sun was nothing but a dim glow in the sky, soon to set for the night. I had no plan, and soon after I stepped outside, my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. What was I doing? What would I say when I saw him? Did I really want to tell him I loved him? No. I could not declare my feelings first. What if he didn’t really love me? What if Peter and Charles had lied and the man in the woods was wrong? How could Owen possibly not have known already? I was a puddle every time he spoke with me, surely he already knew.
So what was I doing?
I was close to the gate now. The door lay open, inviting me in. Was Owen even there? My question was answered as I glimpsed him, standing with his back to me, arms folded across his chest.
My heart pounded. It was settled then. I was turning around. I ordered my feet to stop walking, to turn and never have to see what was in Owen’s eyes tonight, but apparently, my feet did not seek my good opinion. They carried me forward, doggedly propelling me to the gate, through it, and then five paces more.
I stopped, tracing the slump of his shoulders with my gaze, wondering what it was that brought him here tonight. Did he need to be alone or did he wish me to come? There was still time to leave; he hadn’t noticed me yet.
I took another unwilling step toward him.
A leaf must have crunched, or a twig must have broken under my boot, because he turned at that step, and then I knew I was finally paralyzed from taking another.
He didn’t seem surprised to see me there, standing ten feet away. Doubt was cast on the path between us, leaving no room for surprise. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Much better.” I had to force my mouth to form the words.
“Are you still leaving?” His voice was throaty and broken—full of doubt. It wrenched at my heart.
“No.” I swallowed. “I think … I think we will stay a few days longer.”
He seemed to relax at this, but there was something more that was tormenting him. He kept his arms crossed, as if it was the only way to hold himself together. The air was unmoving between us, not a breath of wind, yet there was a tension that could be snapped in two. I stood as still as I could, waiting for his words that I couldn’t predict. The shadow of the sky fell over him, growing darker by the second, bringing the yellow of the sun to a deep gold.
“Do you remember the poetry lesson I taught the boys?” he asked.
I nodded, gripping my shaking hands on my skirts.
His eyes were careful, fear laced with anticipation. “If you will provide an honest answer, I would like to ask my question now.”
I nodded my consent, nervousness closing my throat from words.
Drawing a ragged breath, he raked a hand through his hair. “Your honesty is crucial, Annette,” he sighed. “Because I cannot go on without knowing this. Truly knowing this. I have been acutely tortured by this question for too long already and without an answer, I will be tortured always.” He didn’t move, speaking in a voice that was vulnerable, watching me as if I would run away any second.
My stomach tied itself in knots as I watched Owen growing dim with the sky. I could see him clearly in the waning light—I could see his eyes flashing with fear and carefulness, and his chest rising and falling with each broken breath. He hesitated for several seconds, each one containing an eternity.
“Do you love me?”
My heart pounded so hard it ached. Owen stood watching me, awaiting my answer, looking as if a word from me could shatter him apart. I did love him. I had loved him for what felt like a lifetime. So much within me insisted that I say no, that I run and hide like the weak thing I had become. But a part of me, the stronger, braver part of me refused to listen. I had balanced on these slender branches for far too long, and now I finally knew which way I wanted to fall.
“I do,” I breathed.
It was as if the words threw Owen forward by some nameless force. He covered the space between us in four long strides, and before I had time to think, or take a single breath, he was kissing me.
One arm wrapped around my waist, the other holding my face, he pulled me close, his kisses beckoning, firm, full of nothing but aching emotion. His hand at my back was all that held me righted as he kissed me exactly the way he wanted. All my previous efforts to defend my heart and maintain its barriers were quickly unraveling, and the time for thinking was gone.
My hands clutched the lapels of his jacket, pulling him impossibly closer, kissing him in return. His fingers moved to my hair, guiding me into a kiss that was too perfect for words, my heart breaking apart at the aching emotion, and then being repaired flawlessly by the tender gentleness that increased as his lips slowed.
Everything was different about this kiss—there was knowledge and hope and understanding. Not a trace of heartbreak. And it did not take long for me to realize that this was not falling. Not at all. This was climbing higher than I had ever climbed before. I was at the top of the tree, standing beneath the clouds that seemed so close and away from the ground that now seemed so far. The sky was in my reach and there was at last nothing stopping me from taking flight.
By the time Owen pulled away I was nothing but a puddle at his feet, shaking in his arms as tears ran silently down my cheeks.
“Annette,” he sighed in a hoarse whisper. His face was an inch from mine, his eyes shining with tears of his own. “I knew I couldn’t let you go until I was certain that you didn’t love me. I never dreamed that you did.”
“What?” I asked as he swiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “You must have been entirely blind, then. Until today I hardly imagined that you loved me.”
He gave an exasperated sigh. “I was not blind to your continuous glaring and fleeing from my presence. And I certainly was not deaf to being called atrocious repeatedly.” His mouth curved into a small smile, his eyes roaming my face with such undisguised adoration that I was melted all over again. “I have been falling in love with you since that first lovely glare, the moment you arrived here wearing Charles’s vomit like a champion.”
I laughed, a choked sound in my throat.
He leaned down, pressing a kiss to my forehead, making a blossom of sweet warmth spread throughout my face. “You won my heart from me that day and I knew that I would never reclaim it. It has always been, and will always be yours, Annette. If you will accept it.” His blue eyes gazed into mine, his very words inscribing themselves on my heart.
Beneath my hand pressed to Owen’s chest, I could feel his heart pounding through his shirt, strong and sure. How was it that all this time it had belonged to me? It was too amazing to believe.
“But I have no money to give you, no dowry, no—no titles in my family, or any accomplishments to note … it is a lot to overlook.” I remembered Miss Lyons’s words, That he should overlook so much for the sake of his heart.
I was shaking my head, but Owen stopped me, holding my face in both his hands now. “Listen to me. There is nothing to overlook. I don’t want to overlook anything about you, in fact. You are the most accomplished lady I know. You are accomplished in everything that truly matters, nothing that does not. You are accomplished in the art of taming mischievous boys, being unfailingly witty, selfless and devoted and brave.” He wiped away another tear that slipped from my eye. “So brave,” he whispered. “And there is nothing in this world that you could give me that is more precious than your heart, and I would treasure it forever—if you will allow me to have it.”
My breath came in sputtering gasps as I nodded, the tears continuing to flow. I had become an official watering pot, but I no longer cared.
He wrapped me in his arms, encasing me in the warmth of him, his perfect scent that I had memorized but couldn’t quite describe, and rested his forehead against mine. He quickly swiped away each new tear that slipped from my eyes. In that moment every trace of doubt was gone, whisked away by Owen’s words and his smile and his love in my hands. With him, there would be no reason to doubt ever again. I knew it with a solid certainty that could not be denied.
I took a deep breath and smiled, bringing my hand up to his face, feeling the place where his dimple always showed. “You have had my heart for much longer than you think,” I whispered.
His face split into a smile of disbelief and relief and then he kissed me again. All over my tear-covered face, my hair, my lips, until I was certain that I was completely, fervidly loved. And I didn’t have to be afraid of anything. I was the girl with her vessel of water, full to the brim but never overflowing, I could love without end and be loved the same. It was the greatest gift under the sun.
When the last hint of daylight was gone and the sky was painted the navy and deep purple of evening, I finally pulled myself from Owen’s arms and we started walking back to the house, hand in hand.
When we were approaching the rose garden near the back door, Owen turned to face me, his eyes soft, careful. “Wait here.” Then he slipped his hand from mine without another sound and walked toward the rose garden. I watched as he removed a rose of indistinguishable color from the top of the nearest bush. He turned with a crooked smile and started toward me again.
As he moved closer, a patch of moonlight cut through the dimness, bathing the rose in silver, natural light. It was sloping gently, smoothly, and was the softest shade of pi
nk. Owen stopped in front of me, holding the rose as if it was a fragile thing. I watched it, cradled in his hand, the stem broken off short near the head, not a thorn to be seen. It lay there like a secret that belonged only to us. And it didn’t scare me at all.
“I daresay this would look enchanting in your hair,” he said in a quiet voice, his lips quirked upward.
I smiled shyly and looked up into Owen’s eyes. Nothing could dim the light I saw there.
He lifted his hands to my head, to the place where my hair was arranged in a loose twist. One of his hands curved around the back of my neck, the other fiddled with the rose and my untamable hair. I kept my eyes focused on his cravat and the line of his jaw until he breathed in deeply, breaking the silence.
“Let this rose—this color, become something different tonight.” His voice was hushed, and I felt him tuck the stem under my hair by my ear. “Don’t have it haunt you for things that have been lost, but let it be a reminder of things that are new. Let it remind you, Annette, that I love you.” He drew a breath and gave me a small smile, moving his gaze from the rose and down to my face. “But truly, that is not a new thing at all.”
I found breathing incredibly difficult at that moment, with Owen looking at me the way he was, with that crooked grin and the dimple in his cheek. Then his hands fell from my head and he took a step back, his eyes roaming my face and my hair and the rose. I lifted my hand and touched the pink rose carefully, feeling its soft velvet petals that told me Owen loved me.
“You look beautiful.” He drew closer again and took my hand, holding it as if it was just as fragile a thing as our rose. Then he lifted it to his chest and placed it where I could feel every beat of his heart. “Now that you know my heart is unalterably yours, I wish to ask you if you will have it forever, and if you will give yours to me—” he lifted my hand from his chest and brushed his lips across the back of it, then looked at me with a hopeful smile, “and if you will marry me.”
Mischief and Manors Page 27
