“It’s all right, Esther.”
At the sound of his voice, she leaped to her feet like a scalded cat. Puffy, red eyes glared at him accusingly. “What are you doing in here?”
“I heard you crying. It’s all right—”
“Of course it is.” She swiped at her cheek with the back of her hand and frowned a little as Goliath hopped down from the bed and trotted from the room. “I’m perfectly fine. It’s only residual nerves, I’m sure. Or I’m coming down with something. I’m prone to crying jags when I don’t feel well—”
“That’s not what I meant.” And he was fairly certain she was lying about the crying jags. He reached for her hand, only to miss when she stepped away. “It’s all right to…not be all right.”
She sniffed, looked away, and said nothing.
“Why don’t we sit down together?” he suggested.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
He closed the bedroom door, then took a seat himself and patted the mattress beside him. “Sit down, Esther. Please.”
“I said I’m quite all right,” she snapped.
But she wasn’t angry. He knew embarrassment when he saw it.
“You’re rude is what you are,” he returned. “If you won’t sit down, I’ll have to get up. And I only just sat down.”
Her mouth set in a mulish line, but after a moment, she relented. To his surprise, she settled next to him rather than take a seat at the far edge of the bed. Her skirts brushed his legs and he caught her faint scent of roses.
“I’m sorry you’ll not have the chance to meet your father,” he said and wished he could put his arm around her, but he wasn’t sure she’d allow it.
She was quiet for so long, he began to wonder if she intended to simply bite her tongue until he gave up and went away. But then she pulled her legs up again, sighed heavily, and rested her cheek on her knees.
“It’s not that,” she said quietly. “Not entirely. It’s only…” She looked down at the paper still in her hand. “All this time I’ve had a brother. I imagined it possible, even likely George Smith had other children, but… I don’t know. I suppose I imagined that they had all been cared for as I was. These past few years, I’ve been comfortably settled in the country, and he was suffering in poverty. He lost his father, then his mother. Our grandfather wanted nothing to do with him. He was all alone. If someone had just told me. If I hadn’t waited so long… He shouldn’t have been alone.”
There was still the chance that Edmund was a swindler, but he rather doubted the possibility would cheer her up. “It’s unfair, but that’s not your fault.”
“I know.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “But so many other things are.”
And with that, she let the paper fall to the floor, put her forehead back on her knees, and wept.
He did put his arm around her now. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he wanted to. The sound of her weeping made him want to…break something. And then maybe fix it. Which clearly made no sense, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that if Esther was crying, then surely he should be fighting and/or fixing something.
He needed a dragon to slay, or a broken wing to mend. And he had neither.
Instead, he rubbed her arm, stroked her hair, and murmured soothing nonsense against her temple until, at last, her sobs quieted to sniffles.
“There now,” he crooned and wedged his finger under her chin so he could lift her face. “There now. That’s better, isn’t it?”
She looked at him with mild disgust. “No.” Her nose sounded a bit stuffy. “It’s humiliating.”
“Nothing shameful in tears.” He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her.
“Oh, yes,” she drawled, leaning away a little to wipe her face. “I’m sure you indulge regularly.”
“Not regularly.”
She slid him a skeptical look. “You cry?”
Pure masculine pride compelled him to repeat, “Not regularly.”
“Crying as an infant doesn’t count,” she muttered, looking away again.
He gave into the urge to tuck a loose lock of blond hair behind her ear. It felt like silk between his fingers. “You know I met Renderwell on the Crimean Peninsula.”
“Yes.” She sniffled again and frowned a little at the sudden change in subject. “He was your commanding officer.”
He nodded and, because she didn’t protest his touch, brushed his thumb along the soft curve of her jaw. “There was a dog that used to come into our camp,” he said, reluctantly withdrawing his hand. “He would beg scraps from every soldier he could find, but at night, he’d come in my tent and sleep at my feet. Damned uncomfortable. But I liked him. I liked that, for whatever reason, I was his favorite companion.”
“If something bad is going to happen to the dog, I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Nothing bad happened to Richard.”
“Richard?” She gave him a pitying look and balled up the now very damp handkerchief in her hand. “Dreadful name for a dog.”
“Fair sight better than Harry. He was Richard the Lionheart.”
“Oh.” She smiled a little. “I take it back. That’s a fine name. What happened to him?”
“He returned home with me and—”
“You brought him back with you?” She used her fingers to wipe away a tear she missed on her chin. “To England?”
“I did. He lived a long and happy life. Spent every night at my feet and never failed to greet me at the door. Fine dog, Richard.” He dug into his pocket, pulled out his extra handkerchief, and held it out to her. “I wasn’t an infant when he passed away at a ripe old age.”
Her hand paused in midreach for the offered linen. “You wept over your dog?”
“I did. And I’m not ashamed of it.” He pressed the handkerchief into her hand. “But if you tell anyone else, I’ll call you a filthy liar.”
She produced a small, wet laugh. The sound of it made him feel as if at least a few dragons lay dead at his feet.
* * *
Esther used the new handkerchief to finish drying her face—her no doubt exceedingly puffy face. It wasn’t often that she cried. It had been years, in fact. But if memory served, it wasn’t a pretty sight. There was blotching involved.
She should make some excuse to gain her privacy. Samuel would probably welcome the opportunity to escape. Then again, he’d come in of his own accord.
And she didn’t want him to leave. Not yet. She’d been so certain during their carriage ride to the station that he’d washed his hands of her. But then he had held her hand. Afterward, he had insisted on investigating Edmund for her. He had sought her out in her room and held her as she cried.
She wasn’t sure what to make of that. Those weren’t apologies or declarations. But they spoke of affection and engendered a hope that, quite frankly, baffled her. She didn’t know what to do with it.
Samuel didn’t want that woman. She wasn’t good enough.
So what was she hoping for? Friendship? She’d snatched at that possibility earlier, but it had been an act of desperation. And now that desperation made her feel small and pitiful, like she was begging for scraps of him.
I’ll be whatever you want me to be. Even if it’s only a friend.
She hated the way that made her feel. Hated that she hoped for it even now after he’d rejected the offer. But she still didn’t want him to leave. Not yet.
She fished about for some suitably neutral topic to keep him with her and landed on, “Edmund didn’t leave those rats on the doorstep.” Which was something of a clumsy transition from the Crimean War and a loyal dog, but Samuel didn’t seem to mind.
“Likely not,” he replied. “But it might have been John Porter or his friends.”
“Or Harry.”
“Goliath.”
She smiled a little when he did, but
it seemed only an echo of the comfortable teasing they’d known before their argument. “Do you think they were the men at the park? John and his friends? There were three of them.”
“Possibly.”
“Could they have followed us here?”
“They wouldn’t need to if they recognized me,” he said with a shake of his head. “It’s no secret where I live.”
“Perhaps I should have stayed at the hotel.” The idea that she might have led violent thugs to Samuel’s home made her feel ill.
“I can’t control who comes and goes from a hotel,” Samuel replied. “You’re safer here.”
She might be, but the same could not be said for the rest of the house. “But if—”
“As long as you’re in London, you’ll stay here.”
The steely tone of his voice offered no room for discussion. Another time she might have argued anyway, but she just didn’t have the heart for it today. “I suppose. I won’t be here for much longer at any rate.”
“You still have your extra day. Why not use it to meet with your grandfather?” he suggested. “He must have been the one who wrote the letter you found.”
The grocer in Spitalfields, she thought. Yes, the letter must have come from mean old Mr. Smith. “Why would he send a letter if he wanted nothing to do with his grandchildren?” she wondered aloud. “I might need more than a single day if he’s not quickly found.”
“Your sister won’t be back from Scotland for a while yet.” There was a slight hesitation before he spoke again. “Are you in a hurry to leave?”
“No.” Oh, that had come out much too quickly. She felt the heat of embarrassment at the back of her neck. She didn’t want him to know how desperately she longed to stay with him. “This John needs to be found as well,” she said hastily.
Samuel rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “We have his name and the names of his friends. Provided he has not gone to ground, it should be relatively easy to find him.”
And then what, she wondered. Could they convince him he was mistaken in thinking she was Esther Walker? Could they trap him in blackmail? “Maybe you were right. Maybe I should not have come to London. I’ve put my family in danger.”
“Your family? Is that one of the other things you believe is your fault?” he asked tenderly. When she remained silent, he dipped his head to catch her gaze. “You haven’t put your family in danger. Not directly. Your presence in London doesn’t offer any clues as to their whereabouts.”
She gave him a wry look. “I believe I made a similar observation during our argument in the parlor. You didn’t appear convinced at the time.”
“At the time, I was trying to dissuade you from going to Paddington station.”
“Dissuade,” she murmured, remembering the raging fury in his eyes. She unfolded her legs to hang them over the bed. “Not quite how I would put it. You keep your temper well hidden, Samuel.”
His eyes tracked down to the big hand resting between them on the mattress. “I keep it under control.”
Because his father had not? “Are you afraid of becoming like your father?” she asked before she could think better of it.
He frowned a little at the question but didn’t seem to take offense. “I was for a time. When I was much younger. And you’re afraid you’ll become like yours,” he guessed. “Like Will Walker. Something we have in common.”
She stifled a sigh. He still didn’t understand, still only saw what he wanted to see. “It’s not something we have in common, Samuel. You were never like your father. I am still like mine.”
Less now than she’d once been, but only because she now chose to use her skills differently.
Samuel watched her for a moment, his gaze speculative. “Were you lying when you told me you wanted to be more?”
“No, of course not,” she replied quickly. “I do want to be more. I think I am more. But I can’t be someone else.”
“You are a different woman than you were when you worked with your father. Doesn’t that make you someone else?”
“No, it makes me a different me.”
He muttered something under his breath, something that sounded rather like barrister. “We’re arguing over semantics.”
“We’re not. You’re just missing the salient point,” she replied and ignored his grumble of dissent. “I am still a Walker. In many ways, I am still that woman.”
Bafflement briefly crossed his features before he seemed to recall his words from the night before. “I spoke out of anger,” he said with a grimace. He shifted closer to her and rubbed the back of his fingers along her cheek. “You’re not that woman, Esther. Not anymore.”
It would be so easy, she thought, so incredibly easy to simply agree with him, to accept the reconciliation he was offering. She could lean into his touch then. She could twine her arms around his neck and pull him close. Yesterday’s terrible fight could be forgotten. Tomorrow they would go on as if nothing had come between them.
She could keep him.
But for how long? How long would it be before she did something, or said something, that reminded him that part of her was that woman? How long before she hated herself for pretending to be someone she wasn’t?
She felt as if she were standing on the brink of a great precipice, her toes already dangling over the side. And she wanted to jump. She longed to throw herself into the air with a shout of laughter and with her arms flung wide. But she was terrified that at the end of the long, tumbling fall, she would find herself all alone at the bottom of a chasm. She was afraid she would look up and see Samuel still standing on the edge or, worse, halfway to climbing his way out again.
She needed him to jump with her. And she needed him to do it with his eyes wide open.
Drawing away from his touch, she turned to fix her gaze on the carpet at her toes. “A part of me is, Samuel. As a Walker, lying comes easily and naturally to me. I’m not ashamed of that, any more than I am ashamed of my knives, or my ability to cheat you out of a fortune in a card game, or the fact that I am not put off by a bit of danger. I regret how I utilized the skills I learned from Will. I do not regret the skills themselves. Nor do I—”
“I see no reason you should be ashamed,” he cut in.
She threw him a cautious glance. “You had little patience with my unique capabilities today.”
“I had little patience with how you chose to apply them,” he corrected.
“My skills are mine to use as I see fit.” She shook her head when he made an aggravated noise in the back of his throat. “And I don’t think you’ll ever approve of the way I choose to apply them.”
“That’s not—”
“Someday,” she cut in, eager to explain herself. “I will do more than dream of traveling to Paris. I’ll see it for myself. Maybe someday, when Peter is grown, I truly will move to America. Perhaps I’ll set up a shop. Or apply myself in some other trade. I heard Renderwell say the Pinkerton Detective Agency in Chicago is rumored to employ female investigators. Who knows, maybe… Good Lord, you’ve gone pale at the very mention of it.”
“Well, for God’s sake,” he snapped and rose from the bed. “Should I relish the thought of you jumping from one danger to the next? Do you expect me to apologize for wanting to protect you this morning? For being afraid for you?”
“No.” She didn’t mean to dismiss his concerns, only make him understand that she’d not bend her will to match his own. “I wasn’t serious about the Pinkerton Agency, merely making a point. And I do know that it was every bit as difficult for you to take me to the station as it was for me to sit at home whilst you searched for Edmund on your own. I—”
He swore savagely and moved to stand in front of her, his enormous frame filling her vision. “No, Esther, it wasn’t. I have significantly more experience and training, and I am twice your damned size. An injury that inconvenienced me could kill
you. I know it was hard for you to wait, to set aside your desire to act, and I’m sorry for that. Maybe I should have…” He dragged a hand through his hair and shook his head. “Maybe I could have bent more there. I will try to bend more in the future.” He dropped his hand. “But let us be honest, you weren’t terrified for me when I went out, and you weren’t bloody ashamed of yourself.”
The amount of anger in his voice surprised her, but the raw pain she heard buried beneath absolutely shocked her. She chose her next words with extraordinary care, and still she managed to trip over her tongue. “I didn’t want… That is… It was not my intention to hurt you. I am sorry that I did. Truly. But you’re wrong if you think I wasn’t afraid for you.”
He sucked in a breath to speak, then pressed his lips together and shook his head again. After a moment, he visibly relaxed. The harsh lines of anger eased from his features, and he blew out a long breath of air. “I’m sorry as well. I shouldn’t have lost my temper, and I didn’t mean to belittle your own fears, nor—”
Before he could finish, she rose from the bed, brushing past him to take up position in front of the cold hearth. His forgiveness and apology only served to make her feel worse, only cementing her belief that they were hopelessly ill-matched. She had wounded him without meaning to, without even realizing what she’d done.
“Hurting you is the last thing I want to do. But…” She brought her hands up in a helpless gesture, one facing palm up and the other bunched around the wet handkerchief. They both trembled slightly. “I can’t promise I’ll not do it again.”
She couldn’t promise to be what he needed. What he wanted.
He looked as if he meant to argue, but she rushed ahead, her words spilling out in a great tumble. “Because I’m sorry that I hurt you, but I’m not sorry that I went to the station. I’ll never be content to let someone else make that sort of decision for me. I don’t want somebody else to decide where I am to go, or how much I am to risk, or what dangers I am allowed to face. I won’t be made to feel as if I’ve no control over my own life. I can’t pretend to be something, or someone, I’m not, and…” Her voice was growing oddly strained, and she couldn’t seem to stop twisting the handkerchief in her hands. “And that’s exactly want you want me to be. It’s what you need me to be—an obedient, biddable lady who will be happy to do as she’s told. I’m not a biddable woman. I’m not even a particularly good woman. Certainly I’m not the thieving Esther Walker of old, but neither am I the deadly dull Esther Bales. I’m trying to be the best of both, really, but you seem to have willfully forgotten I was the former in the hopes I’ll be the latter.”
A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) Page 25
