Lies and Letters

by Ashtyn Newbold

  “Are you ready to be proven wrong?” I heard the smile in James’s voice as it cut through the air.

  Turning to face him, I was relieved that he was indeed smiling. The tension in the air slackened. “You have surprised me before. Are you going to present me with a new hand? Conjure up a set of whole fingers?” I raised an eyebrow at him.

  He stepped closer. “No,” he looked down at me, tipping his head, “but I am going to offer you a share of my hand, if you don’t mind.”

  I scowled in confusion.

  Without warning, he reached forward and took my uninjured hand in his. I thought I would be startled, but he held it with a gentleness that warmed me from the inside out. My heart skipped. His hand was soft and rough at the same time, gentle and strong. I tried to pull it away, to censure him for being so bold, but I was weak from the unexpected gesture of his touch.

  “I’ll show you,” he said in a quiet voice.

  I swallowed, nodding my agreement. He guided me by the hand across the room and we stopped by the pianoforte. He motioned for me to sit on the left side of the bench, and to my dismay, he sat beside me again. I stared at the keys, unable to look up at his face, knowing full well how close it would be to mine. “I don’t understand …”

  He pointed at the music on the stand. It was a piece I recognized. “Do you know this?”

  I nodded, my eyes filling unexpectedly with tears. It was one of my favorites. “Quasi una Fantasia,” I said in a hushed voice. “Beethoven.”

  His smile was gentle as he swept his gaze over my face. “You are quite fond of the composition, I see.”

  I sighed. “Very much.”

  He lifted a finger and traced a line down the middle of the keyboard. “You are responsible for every note to the left of C. And I will cover what remains.”

  Scanning the music, I focused on all the notes my left hand would need to play. It was mostly chords, all of which I remembered perfectly. Hope slipped out of its hiding place and grew inside me. “But how will we keep the rhythm?”

  “You play how you wish, and I will keep with you. Today, I am simply your other hand.” He was smiling again, I could feel it. I kept my eyes glued on the music, and pretended I couldn’t feel the way his breath tickled my hair against my cheek. Why must he sit so close? I supposed it was because we were sharing the pianoforte, and the bench was only designed for one. I breathed deeply and moved as far to the left of my seat as possible. There.

  “This is absurd.” I laughed, but positioned my hand over the keys anyway. James followed, and his other arm pressed against mine as he played the first note with his right hand. I added my chords to the song, clunky and slow at the beginning, an uneven mess. I focused on the sheet of music, willing myself to forget the notes that belonged to James, and remember only the notes that my left hand could play. The melody was soft, slow, hauntingly minor. I let it permeate my skin, where it lived inside my bones. This sonata already held so much of my heart.

  After several minutes of the simple, slow chords, the music shifted, growing more complicated and lively, and my focus intensified. James left spaces that I filled, adding my own notes along with the others, and soon the music was one piece, a flowing melody that an outside ear could never guess belonged to more than one person’s hands or heart. I found home in the song, and the familiar buzz of bottled emotion came pouring into the air through our array of notes. Anger, despair, disappointment, fear. But something was different. I did not find contentment in emptiness. Instead, I drank from the song—joy, relief, belonging, until I was utterly and irrevocably filled.

  My hand moved to the rhythm of my heartbeat, and my heart pounded in time with the song. I had nearly forgotten James, sitting beside me, playing the same way, keeping nothing in reserve. My heart ached with the silence of fading echoes, shattered in the beauty of the trills, and came back together through the length of each fermata. The execution was flawed yet it was somehow perfect.

  When my focus broke and the last measure faded, I sat there, melting into the proceeding quiet. I realized I had leaned even closer to James as we had played, and I subtly pulled away. I could breath a little easier now, but I was disappointed at the same time.

  Thick silence thrummed in the air between us, and I wished I knew how to break it. My eyes shifted to the side and I turned my head up to look at him—the movement slow and careful. My heart skipped when I saw his face—the way he was looking at me. There was a sort of quiet awe in his eyes, a sort of admiration I couldn’t describe. His hand was still on the keys of the pianoforte, but slowly he lifted it, brushing his fingertips across my face, moving my hair from my eyes. A hot, tingling blush erupted where he touched my cheek. I wanted desperately to pull away, but found I lacked the strength. His gaze grew more intense when it met mine, seemingly searching every inch of my face. He breathed in, moving closer as he did. I didn’t move, heart pounding, waiting.

  All at once, something shifted in the air, in his eyes, and he pulled back, putting several inches where there had just been only one breath. The warmth I had felt moments before vanished, and I stood, unable to sit so close to him for another second. He stood too.

  I turned, facing the window, trying to focus my attention on counting snowflakes. What had just happened? I wrapped my arms around myself to distract from the awkwardness and keep myself warm. Was he about to kiss me? I shook my head, excusing the thought. But then another, more disturbing thought followed—did I want him to?

  I decided to face him again, to say something to lighten the tension. “The song was … perfect. How did you know it would work?”

  He was looking at me in that same strange way but for just a moment longer. Then he smiled. “I told you music would not abandon you.”

  I swallowed hard, fighting back a sudden surge of emotion. Music would not abandon me. A realization struck and fear caught up to me. But what if it did? How could I play music without James? Surely he would not stay with me forever. I had already been abandoned before. By Papa. Mama.

  “But will you?” I asked in a quick voice. I was immediately embarrassed by the question, but something deep inside me needed an answer.

  He stared at me in silence for a long moment before saying, “No. I will be here, should you need … anything. Anyone.”

  I smiled in gratitude, wondering why I had been sent to cross paths with such a kind person. He had given back what I thought I lost forever. Together we could play music, and I didn’t want him to ever leave. For more reasons than one. “Thank you for being such an exemplary friend these last few weeks, James.”

  He drew closer, smiling down at me. More than anything, that smile was the perfect gift.

  “Since you have proven me wrong twice now,” I said. “I suppose it is my turn. I failed once,” I paused, holding up my hand, giving a sideways smile, “but my next attempt will be easy.”

  He scowled in a gentle rebuke. “Don’t do anything dangerous.”

  I shook my head. “It is safe. I mean to promise you that I will not send your love letter to anyone. In fact … I will return it to you if you wish.”

  I waited for his reaction, studying his features. His mouth was a firm line, and his eyes were deep, thinking. “Keep it.”

  I threw him an inquisitive look.

  “I have no use for it now.” He smiled, but it seemed forced. “But thank you.” He leaned closer. “And I never thought you would send it.”

  “Yes, you did.” I crossed my arms.

  He grinned. “You just wanted it for yourself.”

  I shook my head fast, laughing. “No!”

  “Surely you have inserted your own name in the address and read it to yourself each night, begging fate to make me love you.”

  I gasped. “You are being ridiculous. No. I thought we had agreed that it was I who didn’t love you. You, on the other hand, could be very much in love with me.” I was surprised at my own words.

  “Then your dearest wish will have come true.” He ch
uckled at my expression that followed. There was no possible way to turn the joke on him. He was too quick.

  I sighed in frustration. “Well, if you don’t believe I intended to send the letter to Lucy, then I will just return home right now and dispose of it. Will that be sufficient to prove you wrong?”

  He feigned a thoughtful expression. “No.”

  “How so?”

  He smiled in a teasing way, tipping his head closer still. I was leaning against the windowpane now, and found that there was nowhere else to go. James put his hand against the window, just above my shoulder. “The pain of unrequited love was simply too much to bear, so you destroyed the letter in a fit of heartache and misery.”

  I found breathing incredibly difficult, and my heart raced.

  After a moment, he dropped his hand and took a step back. I could speak again. Rolling my eyes, I said, “Very well. I shall find another way to prove you wrong.”

  “Nothing dangerous.”

  I nodded. But I found myself captivated yet again by the color of his eyes, the width of his smile, the memory of his most recent laugh. The line of his jaw and the sound of his voice. James had once written his heart into that love letter. Little did he know the most dangerous thing of all would be for me to keep it.

  I had no experience with love, but what I was feeling now, looking into his eyes, was certainly new. I didn’t know if I believed in it, but if anyone was capable of proving me wrong, it was James. I was in danger. Falling in love with him would be much too easy. And love was a hinderance, a weakness, and I couldn’t afford it.

  But there was one more thing that was bothering me. I hesitated. “Who is she?”

  He frowned in confusion.

  I took a breath. “Who is the woman you loved before? Who was the letter intended for?” I hadn’t known I had these questions, but now that I was speaking them, they all came spilling out. I tried not to look at his face, for fear I was offending him. I remembered what he had said before, that she had married a man with a large fortune. Had she truly loved him at all? Or had she just chosen to be smart?

  James rubbed his forehead and looked at me from under his eyelashes. “I’m afraid I must postpone that story for another day.” He pulled out his pocket watch and his smile turned rueful. “I must be getting to the docks.” He snapped the watch shut and nodded, suddenly reserved and proper. Why did he always do that?

  “You are leaving?” I asked. Without thinking, I reached out and stopped him, gripping his arm. He froze and his gaze traveled to my hand. His jaw was firm as he looked back at my face. I dropped my grasp and he shook his arm, as if my touch had disgusted him. I stepped back, embarrassed.

  “Yes. I must be going.” He gave another obviously forced smile. “Good day, Charlotte.”

  I frowned. “Good day, then.”

  James nodded and turned around for the last time before leaving the room. I listened closely until the butler shut the main doors behind him. My cheeks burned yet again, but this time in shame. What had I done wrong? Had I spoken too freely? I stared at the door, wondering why his rejection stung so badly.

  I crossed my arms and sat down on the settee and decided it was best that he leave. It would be best if I didn’t see James Wortham for a very long time, in fact. I did not appreciate what he was doing to my heart. It needed to stop. Mama expected an advantageous match from me, and I expected that of myself. I had grown too weak and careless. Even if I was not going to catch a husband here in Craster, I was most certainly not going to fall in love.

  My new endeavor was clear, and after bidding Mrs. Abbot farewell, I hurried home with determination in my step. When I arrived home and walked into my room, I closed the door behind me and sat at my writing desk. My right hand would not suffice, so I wrote with my left. The words were sloppy, but it didn’t matter. I blew the ink dry and looked at the title of my newest list:

  How not to fall in love with James Wortham: Charlotte’s list of requirements.

  1. Never spend time alone with him.

  2. Never laugh with him.

  3. Never admire the color of his eyes.

  4. Never think about kissing him.

  5. Never let him make me blush.

  6. Never look at his face for more than three seconds.

  I finished the list with that for the moment and sat back in my chair, feeling stronger and more in control. I studied the words, silently praying that I would be able to read them tomorrow. My left-handed penmanship was atrocious. I took a deep breath, focusing on my list and my determination. For good measure, I inscribed the words on my heart, the only place I would never forget them.

  Chapter 15

  “So shines a good deed in a weary world.”

  Lord Trowbridge walked Clara home the next afternoon, and I watched from the window as they approached the cottage. Half my face was concealed behind the moth-eaten curtains, and I strained my vision to see their expressions. I could see the pink of Clara’s cheeks even from my vantage point. I also couldn’t miss Lord Trowbridge’s adoring grin. He reached for her hand and kissed the top of it in farewell.

  I slapped a hand over my mouth, trying to hide the sudden and unwelcome giggle that bubbled from my chest. It came out anyway, loud and girlish. Well, that was certainly uncalled for.

  Lord Trowbridge walked away and I threw the curtains back over the window and bounded down the creaking, narrow staircase. I met Clara at the front door just as she pulled it open. She shrieked in surprise.

  I stifled a squeal. “He adores you!”

  The shade of her cheeks made the scarlet shawl she wore look pink. “You were watching us?”

  “Of course. And I have seen enough to know that he adores you. He could very well be in love with you.”

  She walked past me and slumped down on the sofa. She fanned her hands around her face in a dramatic fashion. “‘Love is not real.’ ‘Love is a weakness.’ ‘Men do not love, they only desire.’ What has happened to you, Charlotte?” She gasped and grinned knowingly. “You have fallen in love.”

  I raised my eyebrows and put a hand against my chest. “Me? That is an absurd idea, and you know it.”

  She leaned her face on her hand. “Do not deny it. I observed the way you looked at Mr. James Wortham at the Abbots’ two days ago.”

  I panicked, but refused to admit any feelings I had toward that man. Acknowledging it would only worsen the problem. I frowned, trying to appear nonchalant. “How exactly did I look at him?”

  “Like he was happiness personified.” She waved her hands in the air and laughed. “Like he was a silken, lace-and pearl-embossed gown. Or a lemon tea cake.”

  I gasped, sitting beside her and swatting her arm. “I did not!”

  She was still laughing, but caught her breath. “And the way he looked at you … I daresay he adores you as well.”

  I shook my head, refusing to believe her. “Nonsense. He despises me.”

  She gave me a look of disbelief. “That is not true.”

  “I have given him every reason to despise me, Clara. It makes sense. He is just a very kind man who cannot leave a damsel in distress.”

  “And what of you? Do you despise him too?” Her smile told me she didn’t think so.

  I sighed. “No. I don’t. And I don’t love him either, I assure you.”

  “Why?”

  I was surprised by her question. “He is—he isn’t titled. He isn’t wealthy, and Mama would never approve.”

  “That did not answer my question.” She was studying my face, searching for clues. I felt raw and exposed by it.

  “I do not love him because I cannot. That is why. You aren’t required to understand.”

  She watched me for a short moment longer, then shrugged. “Very well. But if you wish for others to believe that you don’t care for him, then I suggest you keep the adoring gazes a bit more discreet.” I warned her with a look, but she ignored it, changing the subject. “Mr. Watkins will not be making his usual visit tonight, but
tomorrow he will be coming by to remove the stitches.”

  Drat. I had forgotten about that. I took a deep breath to steady myself. “Perfect.”

  z

  Mr. Watkins’s spectacles were crusted in ice when he walked in our cottage. I poked at the fire in our hearth, trying to coach the orange, flicking light to grow, to make the house warm and to ease my nerves. I brushed bits of ash from my skirts and moved to the sofa where the surgeon was organizing his supplies on the side table.

  I swallowed my fear and let him unwrap the bandages. True to tradition, I fixed my eyes on the ceiling. The pain had been minimal over the last week and Mr. Watkins had assured me it was healing well, but I was still afraid to look. The absence of fingers was terrifying. Once I saw it, I would never be able to forget—and I would never be able to remember the way my hand used to look.

  “Sit back and relax, miss. I will try to be quick.” The surgeon lowered a tool to my hand, and I saw his arm tense out of the corner of my eye. Then he set to work removing the stitches. I bit my lip to keep myself from making any noise, although the pain was intense. And he was not quick.

  After what felt like several minutes, he sat back, wiping his tools clean with a towel, then moved on to clean my hand. I let the water soothe my raw, healing skin, and released a shaky breath. My heart pounded in anticipation. I had to look at my hand. It had been several weeks, so surely it couldn’t be so very bad. I slid my eyes slowly down my shoulder, across my elbow, over my wrist and …

  I gaped, a heavy stone of dread settling in my stomach. I squinted. A sudden lightness swam in my head. My hand was an absolute disaster. The skin was misshapen and edged in lines, hanging on by pink scars that were still learning how to be skin. A stub of my fifth finger remained, and the index was gone just below the fingernail. My middle finger was missing above the second knuckle. I swallowed, feeling sick. It was even more ugly than I had imagined. Whatever unwarranted hope I had held that James might have cared for me was quickly whisked away. He had seen this. He could never love me. I told myself not to care, but something sunk inside me all the same.