by Leah Scheier
“Promise me,” he murmured, his head still bowed over my hand.
I could not answer at that moment; my throat had gone completely dry, and I was afraid that I would squeak if I attempted to reply. A nod was all that I could manage, and even that was stiff and ragged, like a tiny shudder.
How much can race across one’s mind in just an instant! Before he spoke again, a hundred questions had already flashed and faded, a hundred hopes had pitched their waves inside of me. What did he want from me? I wondered. What was he about to ask? Would it be something unoriginal and bland like Promise that you won’t forget me?—a question begging for a declaration while pledging nothing in return? Or, worse yet: Promise that you will keep our friendship secret. He did not need to tell me that. And besides, secret friendships did not stop the heart. Or maybe this would be a true confession, a final note of passion that I could carry home with me, which I could then relive each night. Promise me that you will wait for me.…Promise me that one day…someday in the future…
I do not know if I gave myself away. I truly hope not. The only comfort that I have when I recall the evening was that he could not have known what I was thinking, what I was wishing for. Indeed, I was struggling so desperately to assume a calm expression that I may have overdone it slightly. I might possibly have scowled at him. He looked up at me before he spoke, and his eyes were quiet, searching, and undecided. I realized suddenly that my hands were shaking, that he would certainly feel my right hand trembling in his own. So I balled my fingers into fists.
He dropped my wrist and stepped away from me, his features smooth, amused.
“Promise me, Miss Joyce?” There was a dangerous lilt behind his smile.
“Yes?”
“Promise me that you’ll stop telling the entire world that we’re in love? It is destroying my reputation.”
If there were any words to answer that, I certainly could not find them at that moment.
“But—I never—I never—” The rest was lost in gasping sounds.
“Porter nearly sacked me when I got home. Then, after he’d remembered that my departure might actually be bad for business, he settled on a lengthy lecture about propriety. Propriety! He said some unfortunate things about your honor, I’m afraid. If he wasn’t so much older than me, I might have knocked him down.”
I had found my voice by now and a decent store of injured pride. “Mr. Porter’s opinions are not my concern, sir. I said nothing to support his wild ideas.”
“Oh, and I suppose your servant friend at Hartfield—what was her name—Agatha? She came upon the two of us outside the cemetery and naturally assumed that you had come out to a graveyard to accept my marriage proposal?”
“Well, not naturally, no. I may have led her to believe that we were, that I was—that my character was—rather—”
“Overcome with passion?”
“No!”
“Not even a little?” He was grinning wickedly at me through gritted teeth.
“Oh, very well. My character, my servant character was hopelessly in love with your rude, impossible, conceited character. That is all.”
“I see. And the intrepid Dora Joyce? Untouched and undisturbed, of course?”
I frowned and looked away. “Of course. What did you expect?”
“Very little, I’m afraid.”
There was a brief silence, and then far away a distant cry, a voice I knew, shouting out my name. “Ah, that would be your cousin,” he said. “I suppose you can always tell her that you got lost. She will be close to frantic. It is very late.”
His voice had grown softer as he spoke, and when I turned to face him, I saw that he had begun to walk away from me.
“Farewell, Dora.”
The two sounds echoed off each other, Adelaide’s urgent tone, and Peter’s last good-bye, one growing nearer while the other faded.
“Peter—”
But he had already gone. Around the corner I could see my cousin’s black-plumed hat shivering its way toward me, the rustle of her petticoat whispering her hurry and her concern. I called out to her and heard her gasped relief; the tapping heels ticked closer.
“Here I am!” I shouted. “Adelaide, I’ve been searching everywhere—”
OUR TRIP HOME was even quieter than our journey to the cemetery. Both of us stared out of our respective windows. Adelaide did not ask me where I’d disappeared to, and I did not ask her why her eyes were dark and swollen or why she had ash stains on her gloves. We had come to a silent understanding. I was happy to feign ignorance if she returned the favor. So when we entered the house we headed in opposite directions, Adelaide to the parlor and me to my bedroom to pretend to pack.
Before I’d left for Highgate, I had emptied all my dresser drawers and my wardrobe. The pile of skirts and petticoats upon my bed had reached quite an impressive height. I parted the mountain in the middle and burrowed a little den beneath the heap, then crawled into the hole and closed the gap. There was something very comforting about my chintz cocoon; it was so warm and dark and intensely floral, the perfect place to dream about the past and draw back from the future.
I had barely settled on my bed when a faint knock roused me from my thoughts.
“Miss Dora? May I come in?”
“Yes, Mary, I’m awake.”
The door creaked open and our housemaid entered, holding a letter on a silver tray.
“I am sorry that I didn’t give this to you sooner, miss, but I thought—I thought perhaps you might want to read this on your own. A young man delivered it, you see—”
I smiled and held my hand out. “And you guessed that I might not want anyone to know that I’d received a letter from a gentleman?”
She grinned at me and handed me the envelope. “Was I wrong, miss?”
“No, Mary, you have the best of instincts. Thank you.”
I tore it open and a slip of paper fell into my lap.
“Mary,” I inquired as she moved to leave the room, “When did this letter come?”
“Oh, hours ago, miss. Before you left for Highgate. There simply wasn’t time to give it to you sooner. No private time, I mean.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Mary.”
“Good day, miss,” she replied and shut the door.
I held the letter to the light; the paper shivering in my fingers, the words dancing before my eyes. The message was unsigned and read:
I would have said good-bye, my friend, but then I realized: It is not over yet. This work, this life, it calls to you.
You must come back.
You will come back.
And I will wait until you do.
I am so thankful for the encouragement and support of my family and friends throughout this process.
I want to thank Irene Kraas, my amazing agent, whose faith in me and my first novel never faltered. My wonderful editors at Hyperion: Lisa Yoskowitz and Catherine Onder, who took my raw first draft and helped me shape it and realize its potential. Thank you so much for your hard work and insight.
To my wonderful parents, Irina Elashvili, my first reader and biggest fan, and Ilya Elashvili, whose amazing stories made me want to tell my own; and to my sisters: Anna, Dinah, Sarah, and Tammy.
To my beta readers: It’s terrifying to show your work to your friends and family for the first time. Thank you for making it so easy and for giving me the confidence that I needed to continue writing. Clara Chen, Kelly Canale, Yael Levy, Donna Scheier, Rachel Scheier Kaplan, Neil Scheier, and Rhonda Woods, I can’t thank you enough.
To Shana Gros, for patiently listening to me kvetch about the ups and downs of this process, thank you my dear friend.
For my daughters, Aviva, Miriam, and Talia, my greatest joys. And for Eric, my husband, I love you.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapt
er 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
