It was too much. He felt too much. After years, decades, of nurturing that numbing control, it was finally starting to splinter. And Jacob didn’t know what to do without it. How to act. How to be. What to feel.
He let out a long, shuddering sigh as he heard Mollie climb the front stairs. He imagined he could still feel the warmth of her hand on his cheek, and every impulse urged him to follow her up the stairs, to take her in his arms, to stay there for ever.
This was no longer about seduction or sex. He wasn’t dealing with the seemingly simplistic matters of a physical transaction, or resisting it.
No, now something far greater was at stake. It played havoc with his mind. It wrecked his resolutions. It destroyed his self-control. Love.
He was falling in love with Mollie Parker, with her warmth and kindness and generosity of spirit, with her pansy-brown eyes and her tumble of auburn hair. With everything about her, and it terrified him.
Jacob spun away from the kitchen and the sights of his cake and his present. They were too much as well, more than he’d ever had before. He’d learned long ago not to expect presents, surprises, kindnesses of any sort. He’d trained himself not to want them.
Yet now his defences were crumbling. He felt it at night, when he fell asleep deeply enough to dream. The old nightmare came for him nearly every night now, and in it he was always worse than ever. He was a madman, a monster, and that awful laughter was his. The sound echoed endlessly through him.
Every time he woke up, sweating and shaking, he remembered the look of shock on Mollie’s face when she’d seen him in the depths of that dream, and his determination to tell her the truth about himself, of what had happened and how he’d felt, to spill all his secrets, trickled coldly away.
He couldn’t.
And yet still he wanted to. He was desperate to talk, to tell her everything in a way he had never wanted or even envisaged before. It was crazy, the way the words rose inside him, bubbled up so he could barely keep them in. Already he’d told her more than he had shared with any other person.
And she isn’t walking away. She’s still with you. Caring for you. Maybe even loving you …
Raking his hands through his hair, Jacob headed out into the damp night. The grass was wet with rain and the sky black and moonless above him. He walked and breathed and tried to empty his mind of thoughts.
That old trick didn’t work any more. The thoughts came anyway, memories rushing in to fill the empty spaces of his heart and mind, and the strange and surprising thing was they were good memories. They were memories of Mollie.
Memories of her seemed to fill the gardens and house; he could picture her bent over a plant, hard at work. Curled up on a bench in the Children’s Garden, smiling wryly at being caught dozing in the sun like a contented cat. Sloshing through mud puddles in the boots he’d bought her. The memories were small, yet they still made him smile. Made him want.
He wanted to let her know the truth. He craved the kind of exposure and honesty he’d been running from for twenty years, and yet even so, it was terrifying. Impossible.
If he told her.
What? What would happen?
Would she reject him, if he told her just what—and who—had made him leave? Himself. The horror of his own self had forced him away from his family, before he hurt them. Before he became even more like his father.
And even more terrifying, what if he hurt Mollie? What if the old demons claimed him, and he hurt her just as he’d hurt Annabelle—or worse? That thought scared him most of all. It made his eyes darken and he turned back to his father’s study, the knowledge of who he was—who he would always be—hardening inside of him.
CHAPTER TEN
THE next few days Mollie worked outside, determined to finish the renovation of the Rose Garden, although she could hardly call it that now that there were no roses in it.
She told herself she would tell Jacob she loved him, yet he’d been avoiding her again, silent and foreboding, and her courage failed her. It was so hard to say those words when you had no idea what the other person thought or felt, or whether such a declaration would even be welcome. She never found the right moment—or the courage.
The moment came when Mollie wasn’t looking for it. She wasn’t even ready. She was sweaty and tired from working in the garden, and came into the house for a drink of water. Yet as she stood in the kitchen, the summer sunlight slanting through the windows, she was conscious of a creeping sense of desolation; she had only one more day of work on the garden, and then there would be no excuse to stay.
She let out a long, slow breath, half wondering—half believing—that it was for the best. The weeks of Jacob’s solicitous silence had started to take their toll. Maybe she loved him; maybe it didn’t matter.
Sighing, Mollie gazed at the gardens in all their restored glory. She’d been so sure of her love for Jacob just a few days ago, so serene in her certainty. Yet now she felt the creeping of fear, like the most tenacious and poisonous weed, curling its destructive tendrils around her hopes. Her heart. And she didn’t think she had the courage to tell Jacob anything.
She could, at least, tell him the garden was almost done. That, Mollie hoped, might give her a sense of how he felt about her leaving. Yet even that thought was nerve-racking; what if he greeted the news with calm disinterest, a careless shrug? How could she tell him she loved him then? How could she tell him she loved him at all?
Sighing again, Mollie went in search of Jacob in the place he spent most of his time, his father’s study.
She could tell the room was empty before she even entered in. The door was ajar and a breeze blew in from the open window, ruffling the scattered papers on the desk. Mollie knew she shouldn’t enter; this was Jacob’s private space, his sanctum. Yet the remnant of her own memories forced her inside, to stand in the centre of the hated room and remind herself that it was just a room, in a house, and it held no power over her or even over Jacob. She could smell the clean scent of cut grass from the window, and it banished the memory of stale smoke and an excess of alcohol.
She wondered if the memories could be banished for Jacob. Coming back to Wolfe Manor had made him a slave to them, and she felt his bonds more keenly than ever. Would he ever be free? Could she help him be free?
Could her love?
A breeze ruffled the drapes once again and a few pages blew off the desk. Automatically Mollie stooped to retrieve them, and then stilled as she saw the words on the page.
Dear Annabelle. Today is your sixteenth birthday.
Mollie knew she should stop reading. These were letters, old letters, letters that had never been sent. And even though common courtesy—not to mention common sense—told her to put these pages back on the desk unread, a deeper instinct made her keep reading.
I wonder what you are doing, and I hope you are able to celebrate. I hope you have cause to celebrate, for not a day goes by when I don’t think of you, and pray that you are safe and loved. I left because I loved you, but I know you can’t understand that now….
Tears stung Mollie’s eyes. A lump formed in her throat. She kept reading.
I don’t expect you to understand it, or even forgive. But I want you to know that I am thinking of you, and imagining your big butterscotch cake, with sixteen pink candles to blow out. Make a wish.
Your loving brother, Jacob
Mollie turned to the desk. A stack of papers lay on it, and she knew instinctively what they were. Letters to Jacob’s family, letters he had never sent. How many had he written over the years? By the size of the stack, she guessed dozens. Maybe hundreds. She placed Annabelle’s letter back on top, wanting to read the others yet knowing she had no right. Reading one letter might be forgiven, but reading them all was not.
Yet she longed to, for she knew these letters were Jacob’s heart. He may have left, for whatever reason he felt so necessary, but his heart hadn’t. His heart had remained with his family, and it made her love him all the more.
&
nbsp; ‘What are you doing?’
Mollie froze. Jacob stood in the doorway, his face dark with suspicion and rising fury.
‘Jacob,’ she said weakly, and he strode into the room.
‘May I help you with something?’ he asked with cold politeness, and then his gaze went to his desk, and the pile of his letters. The very air in the room seemed to shiver, freeze. Jacob went utterly still, and Mollie knew he hadn’t realised he’d left the letters out until that very second.
That awful second.
His gaze, dark and pitiless, swung back to her. ‘Did you have a good look?’ he asked, as if it was a question of nominal interest. His eyes were blacker than Mollie had ever seen.
‘I—I’m sorry. The papers blew off the desk and I went to replace them.’ She swallowed, knowing a full confession was required. ‘I read your letter to Annabelle. I’m sorry. I know it was private, but it was beautiful, Jacob—’
‘You shouldn’t have.’ He stalked over to the desk and swept the letters into a folder.
‘Why did you never send it—them? If Annabelle could read that letter, she would—’
‘She would what?’ He swung around, suddenly dangerous. ‘She would forgive me?’
‘No, no,’ Mollie said quickly. ‘Just … understand. More.’
Jacob said nothing for a moment. ‘Well, I’ve already spoken to her,’ he said finally, his voice still cool. ‘Several times. As a matter of fact, she’s returning here next week. With her husband.’
‘Her husband?’ Mollie repeated incredulously.
‘Yes, his name is Stefano, and she met him in Spain.’ Mollie just blinked. She’d known from her friend’s emails that she was doing a photography shoot in Spain, but married? She hadn’t checked her email in ages, and she wondered if Annabelle had written her. She would have to write and offer her congratulations.
‘It seems as if all of my siblings have found their happily ever after,’ Jacob continued in that same cold voice. ‘I’ve talked to them all, you know. We’ve made our peace with one another. If you think I’m still suffering with guilt over that, you’re quite wrong.’ Mollie opened her mouth to speak—to demand what it was that enslaved him now—but Jacob rode over her with his words. ‘It’s really very sweet. At least I know they’ll be taken care of when I leave.’
Dread pooled in Mollie’s stomach, ate away at her courage and conviction like the most corrosive acid. ‘You’re leaving?’
‘Yes.’ He met her gaze with his own bland stare. ‘You always knew that, Mollie. I’m leaving, and so are you. The estate goes on the market next week. You are almost done the gardens, aren’t you?’
She swallowed. ‘Yes, but—’
‘But?’ Jacob prompted. He did not sound very interested.
‘You could have yours too,’ Mollie blurted. Desperation fuelled her words so she barely knew what she was saying. ‘Your happily ever after. You could have it … with me.’
The ensuing silence, Mollie thought, was worse than anything Jacob could have said. He just stared at her until she felt like the gap-toothed, tousle-haired tomboy she’d always been, peeking through the hedges. Unseen, invisible. At least, she wished she was invisible now, based on the incredulous way Jacob was looking at her.
‘Of course no one’s happy all the time,’ she continued shakily, knowing that no matter how humiliating or horrible this was, she had to see it through. ‘I wouldn’t expect us to be. But we could take the joys and sorrows together—sharing them.’ She sounded like a greeting card. Swallowing, she tried again, in the only way she knew how. The only way left to her. ‘I love you, Jacob.’
‘No, you don’t.’ He spoke flatly, with such finality that Mollie blinked.
‘Yes, I do.’ Were they actually going to argue about it? ‘Trust me, I know I do.’
Jacob let out a sharp bark of laughter that ended on a quiet, ragged note. ‘You don’t love me, Mollie, because you don’t know me.’
‘I tried to believe that,’ Mollie told him. Her confidence was growing, amazingly. She felt it come back like wind into a sail, buoying her hope. At least he hadn’t told her that he didn’t love her. Yet. ‘I told myself that, because it was easier. Safer. But I do know you, Jacob. I know what is important, what is true—’
‘No,’ Jacob cut her off, his voice sharp with anger. ‘You don’t.’
She took a step closer to him. She could feel the anger and even the hurt coming off him in hot, pulsating waves. Yet instead of scaring her, it made her sad. Enough. Enough of this sorrow and heartache, this endless guilt and despair. That time was past. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her face calm. ‘Why don’t you want me to love you, Jacob?’
‘This is a pointless conversation …’
‘Or is it that you’re afraid I won’t love you if I discover who you truly are? This terrible secret you have?’ Mollie didn’t know where she found the words; they came from a deep place inside her, spilling out, as only truth could. She took another step towards him and laid a hand on his arm, as gentle as a breeze, and waited.
‘I know you won’t,’ Jacob said in a low voice.
‘Tell me.’ Mollie tightened her hand on his arm. ‘Tell me why you left all those years ago. Tell me what is so terrible, that I’m not supposed to know or understand.’
‘I can’t—’
‘Why not?’ Mollie challenged. ‘Is it because I might hate you? Why should that matter, if you don’t love me and you’re leaving anyway? You never have to see me again. Why should you care what I think?’
‘I’m not as heartless as that,’ Jacob told her quietly. The corner of his mouth turned up in the smallest, saddest of smiles. ‘I’ve spent most of my life observing the people I love from a distance. A very great distance.’ He gestured to the folder still on the desk. ‘I wrote those letters because I wanted to have a connection with my brothers and sister. I never posted them because I couldn’t bear them to think less of me, even from far away. The memory of their love for me was what sustained me for so long.’
‘And you think the memory of my love for you will sustain you?’ Mollie finished. ‘Why do you have to be such a martyr?’ And then, to her surprise, she was suddenly angry. And she let it show. ‘Tell me, Jacob, do you love me?’
He looked startled, but he didn’t avoid the question. He didn’t even avert his eyes. ‘Yes.’
Mollie wanted to groan. Or scream. She also wanted to sing with joy. ‘Then why did you just tell me you were leaving? Why can’t we work through this, Jacob? Whatever it is? Isn’t that what love is all about? Trust?‘
‘It’s not you I don’t trust,’ Jacob said quietly. ‘It’s me.’
‘You don’t trust yourself?’ Mollie repeated blankly. She trusted Jacob so utterly the very thought was bewildering. ‘Why?’
Jacob didn’t speak for a long, tense moment. The silence ticked on, tautening the very air. The wind rustled the papers on the desk again. Mollie didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. She just waited.
‘I remember the first time my father hit me,’ he finally said, his voice quiet, calm, as if he was simply telling a story. ‘I was six years old. I’d come home from school for Christmas, and I knew something was different. Wrong. Even the little ones could feel it. My stepmother, Amber, Annabelle’s mother, had died—of a drug overdose, I learned later—the year before. I thought my father was sad because of that, and perhaps he was in his own way.’ He took a breath and let it out slowly. ‘I wanted to comfort him. I knew he wasn’t like other fathers, the way dads are supposed to be, but as a child I kept trying to act like he was. I think I thought if I acted that way, perhaps he would too.’ He gave her a fleeting smile, a humourless curving of his lips. ‘But of course it didn’t. You can’t will things into being. And I think, looking back, that my attempts to comfort him—to make him seem normal—frustrated him. Perhaps he realised the magnitude of his own failings.’ He paused. ‘That is a hard thing to bear.’
After another pause he resumed his st
ory. ‘In any case, that Christmas he was worse than ever before. Drunk most times, although it took me a while to realise it. It was as if …’ He stopped, searching for the words that seemed to come from the very depths of his being. ‘It was as if he’d surrendered to the worst part of himself, and allowed it … control.’
Mollie made some inarticulate sound, as it all started to make such terrible sense. Jacob’s determination to remain self-controlled. His refusal to drink. And he’d seen this all when he was six.
‘We had a series of temporary nannies to take care of us, and one morning the nanny left without even telling my father. I can hardly blame her—we were a ragtag bunch. Jack was four and Annabelle and Alex were barely two.’ He shook his head, remembering. ‘Anyway, I went in search of my father, and found him in bed with a bottle even though it was nearly noon. He was a mess. Weeping and raging at turns.’ Jacob’s mouth twisted in memory. ‘In that moment I was so angry because I knew he should be taking care of us and he wasn’t. At least with Amber we’d had some kind of mother. I remember her being fun and loving, at times. But William alone …’ He shook his head again. ‘So I took those whisky bottles and dumped them in the sink. I was so full of self-righteous fury, much good it did me. My father was unbelievably angry. I’d never seen him like that before … he was incoherent with rage.
He hit me then, and Lucas too, and we took it because we were too young and too surprised to know what to do. He’d never hit us before.’
‘Oh, Jacob …’
‘I knew then how it would be,’ he finished flatly. ‘How it would always be. My father may have had his good moments, when he played with us, or gave us presents, but underneath I knew what he was. So did he, and he could never escape from it. Sometimes I pitied him. Most of the time I hated him. And I always promised myself I would never, ever be like him.’ He turned to face her, his expression bleak yet determined.
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