To Dream Again

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  "Then stop this now. Give it up."

  He closed his eyes, and he heard her play her last card.

  "Do it for me."

  The idyllic picture shattered like a breaking pane of glass. He opened his eyes and turned to face her. "I can't."

  "Yes, you can," she whispered raggedly, dropping her hand to her side.

  He shook his head, watching her shoulders droop. "No. He'll try what he tried before, but this time it won’t work. I'll circumvent him every way I can, but I won't give up. I intend to fight like hell."

  "With what?" she asked. "For how long?"

  He didn't reply, and she turned away with a sound of frustration. Then she suddenly turned back to look up at him again. "You said you first began to see that your brother was responsible yesterday?"

  He nodded and watched the icy mask steal over her features. When she spoke again, her voice chilled him. "You knew about this before you...before we...oh, God."

  He knew what she meant. "I intended to tell you, but with the party last night, I didn't have the chance," he said, knowing it sounded like the poor excuse it was. "I was afraid of this," he confessed, reaching for her with a sudden desperation. "I intended to tell you what I suspected when I returned yesterday, but I knew you would look at me just the way you're looking at me now. I kept putting it off all evening, hoping for the right time, hoping to find the right way." His words tumbled out in a rush, trying to stop the inevitable condemnation. It was too late. "Mara, I love you."

  "Words again." She pulled back, out of his hold. "You truly love me? Then give this up."

  He shut his ears to the pain in her voice. All he could feel was his own. "What about you?" he countered. "You know how important this is to me. You wouldn't ask me to give it up, you'd stand by me and help me find a solution if you truly loved me."

  "It isn't the same thing."

  He folded his arms across his chest. "Yes, it is."

  "No, it isn't." Her eyes were cold, so cold, like ice on a millpond. "I never said I loved you."

  He sucked in his breath as if she'd punched him in the gut, but it was his heart that felt the pain. Her words hung between them, a wall he could not break down. "No, you never did. I suppose you never will."

  He tore his gaze from hers and walked away. "We are not stopping," he said, striding for the stairs to the roof. "We are making trains, I'm moving in here, and we will not discuss it again."

  "Don't I have any say in this?" she demanded. "Partners, remember?"

  He halted with one foot on the stair and squared his shoulders, but he didn't look at her. "Fifty-one percent versus forty-nine. Remember?"

  "I remember."

  He forced himself not to listen to the bitterness in her voice. "It's late. You'd better go home."

  He started up the stairs, but her voice stopped him again. "Nathaniel?"

  He gritted his teeth. "What?"

  When she didn't answer, he glanced back at her.

  “Don't—" She broke off and ducked her head, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Don’t you intend to walk me home?"

  His heart hardened, and a blessed numbness washed over him. "No. You're an independent woman. You don't need me. You said so yourself."

  She raised her head, and he saw the pain in her face before she turned away and left the office. He'd succeeded in hurting her as she had hurt him, but he felt no sense of triumph.

  He went up the stairs, telling himself that he no longer cared what she did. But up on the roof, he stood at the corner and leaned over the parapet, watching her walk up the street and enter the lodging house. He looked at her window, telling himself she was not his responsibility. But he remained standing there until her light came on and she was safely inside her room.

  ***

  Mara wanted peaceful sleep, but all night, her own bitter words kept repeating themselves in her mind like the rhythmic lash of a whip.

  I never said I loved you.

  She hadn't meant to say it. But the words had come tumbling from her lips without conscious thought, born of fear and panic and the desperate need to retaliate. They had wounded him deeply, and she felt ashamed now. He hadn't deserved that. Her words had been thoughtless and cruel, and she wished she could take them back, but the damage was done.

  Mara decided trying to sleep was futile. She got out of bed, shivering at the chill in the air as her bare feet hit the floor. She walked to the window, and the dim light that filtered down into the alley told her dawn was breaking.

  She looked up to the third floor of the factory. The lamps were lit, and she could see his silhouette, black against the light behind him. He was playing the violin.

  She watched him, almost able to imagine that she could hear the music. But the only thing she heard was the bitterness of her own voice, echoing back to her again and again.

  She turned away from the window and began to dress. She had to go up there, she had to face him. She couldn't hide in her room all day. But it was nearly an hour later before she finally left her room and walked to the factory. Her footsteps dragged as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. He was still playing the violin, and the music floated down to her, a poignant and lonely melody.

  She halted in the doorway. He was still standing by the window behind her desk, and the morning sun caught the polished wood of the violin as he drew the bow across the strings.

  He wanted her to believe in him with absolute faith, expected her to follow him with absolute trust, demanded that she love him right or wrong. There had been a time when she could have done it, a time when her heart had overflowed with love and dreams. But that time was gone. Her heart was empty. She could never love like that again.

  She wasn't capable of it anymore. She was too cynical, too proud, too afraid. It was too late. She watched him from the doorway, listening to the melancholy tune he played, and her throat clogged with longing. Why? she cried out silently. Why couldn't you have come when I could believe in your dream, when I had more than an empty heart to give you?

  He caught sight of her standing there, and the music stopped. Slowly, he lowered the instrument in his hands.

  She struggled for something to say, but she knew she'd already said enough. Her words of the night before hung between them as they looked at each other, neither of them able to forget, neither of them able to relent. The silence lengthened.

  I never said I loved you.

  His lips tightened, almost as if she’d spoken the words a second time and hurt him again. When he turned his back to herm she pressed one clenched fist to her lips. Behind her hand, she whispered, "I love you."

  But he didn't hear her soft confession. A sob rose in her throat, and she stifled it, watching as he walked away and disappeared into the other part of the room without a word, without a backward glance. Mara watched him go, and the pain fractured through her. Too little, and much too late.

  Later, when she went to fetch a midday meal for herself, she thought about asking if he wanted her to bring something back for him, but when she descended the stairs, she caught sight of him having a sack lunch with the workers in the break room.

  She paused on the stairs and watched him for a moment through the doorway as he sat talking with the men and women at the table. She thought about joining them once she'd purchased her lunch, but suddenly Nathaniel looked up, laughing. His smile remained for only the briefest moment, then he caught sight of her on the landing, and it faded away.

  She waited, but he made no gesture beckoning her into the room, and she knew she couldn't join them. Nathaniel didn't want her there. He didn't want her at all.

  She continued down the stairs. When she had purchased her lunch of cold tongue and an apple from Mr. Beckett's cart, she turned and retraced her steps, not pausing to glance into the lunchroom on her way back up the stairs. She ate her lunch at her desk and tried not to care that she ate it alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  By tacit agreement, Mara and Nathaniel avo
ided each other. She stopped coming into the office early; he stopped bringing morning tea. During the day, she stayed upstairs and watched their cash balance dwindle; he stayed downstairs and watched toy trains come off the production line.

  He still spent one hour each evening giving Billy lessons in self-defense. After he had taken the boy home, he resumed work on the production floor with Michael far into the night, while she worked at her desk. He no longer walked her home, but whenever she passed by him on her way out, she knew he followed her far enough to see her enter Mrs. O'Brien's. He was still concerned for her safety, but that gave Mara little consolation because the rest of the time he hardly noticed her at all.

  Billy became their only link, traversing the stairs a dozen times a day to report to each of them the everyday happenings of the other. He sensed the tension in the air and knew something was wrong, but his curious inquiries met with no response from either of them. "We're both very busy," became the phrase Billy heard more than any other.

  Nathaniel found alternate suppliers, and any vendors that had promised credit and reneged on that promise found their delivery refused. Although the situation provided continual delays, with a bit of ingenuity and a lot of help from Michael, he didn't lag too far behind. Mara had scoffed about his use of Lord Barrington's name with Mr. Abercrombie, but the earl proved to be a genuine friend, and allowed Nathaniel to use his name as a reference to find new suppliers every time he was forced to turn away a delivery.

  Nathaniel went to the local police station and spoke with Inspector Carlisle himself. The inspector assured him that they were investigating the vandalism, but they had no leads as yet. Nathaniel told Carlisle his own theory about the incident, acknowledging that he had no evidence to support it. The inspector confirmed what Finch had already told Nathaniel, explaining that without proof there was little they could do, but he promised to have his men patrol the area more frequently at night.

  Mara grew more tense with each passing day, waiting for Nathaniel’s brother to make his next move. She worried about bankruptcy and dreamed about fire. She fussed over the account books and refused to authorize any unnecessary expenditure. She kept herself informed of every decision made and every problem that came up. She reverted to her old habit of putting tuppence in her tin bank every day, wanting to have at least that if they went bankrupt.

  Mara stared down at the little tin bank in her hand. These rituals had once provided her with a feeling of security, but now they gave her surprisingly little comfort.

  During the past week, she and Nathaniel had exchanged scarcely a dozen words. She set the tin can down on her rickety table and sank into a chair. She rested her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, staring at the door of her flat, remembering the first time she had seen him, standing there motionless, yet burning with energy and life.

  Restless, she pushed back her chair and rose. She wandered around the room with no particular purpose in mind, and it was only a few moments before her aimless steps found her once again at the table.

  She glanced at the pendant watch that hung around her neck. It was barely seven o'clock in the morning. With Nathaniel sleeping at the factory, she couldn't go in yet. It was too early.

  A dull ache began in her midsection and spread through her limbs. When she did go in an hour from now, she'd find him on the production floor with Michael, too busy to give her more than a polite greeting. She'd give him an equally polite reply, then she'd go up to the office, he'd stay downstairs, and that would probably be their only conversation during the entire day.

  No. Mara shook off her dark mood with sudden rebellion. There had to be a way that they could bridge this chasm between them, a way they could compromise. She didn't know what the solution was, but she knew one of them had to take the first step.

  Twenty minutes later, Mara walked up the stairs of the factory, balancing a laden tea tray from Mrs. O'Brien's kitchen in her hands. "Nathaniel?" she called, entering the office.

  He appeared in the doorway, shirtless, a towel slung around his neck and a bit of shaving soap on his chin. He lifted one corner of the towel and slowly wiped away the dab of soap, but he said nothing. His eyes studied her with that piercing intensity.

  Looking at him, she longed to toss aside the tray and hurl herself into his arms, to feel him hold her, to tell him she loved him. She took a deep breath and walked over to the table, shortening the distance between them. She set down the tray. "I thought we might have tea," she said. "I thought..." She paused and glanced at him, hoping to see him smile.

  He didn't.

  She tried again. "I thought we might talk a bit."

  "What is there for us to talk about?" he asked.

  There was something in his voice she'd never heard before, a cold chill that stabbed her like an icicle. She clasped her hands behind her back and looked down at the table, trying to gather her defenses, trying to put on the armor that had once protected her from hurt. But just now, she couldn't seem to find it. "I don't know," she whispered.

  She heard his heavy sigh, and she raised her gaze to his face, waiting.

  "I can't," he said shortly and turned away. "I have an early meeting."

  "Nathaniel, wait!" she cried.

  He turned slowly around. "What?"

  "I'm sorry about what I said," she whispered. "I didn't mean it."

  "Didn't you?" The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile that held no amusement, no teasing mischief. He slowly shook his head. "It doesn't matter anyway. I won't give up my dream for you, and you won't give up your fear for me. So, where does that leave us?"

  "I don't know."

  "Neither do I." He went back into the other room without another word.

  She bit her lip and sank down in the chair, staring at the extra pot of cream she'd brought just for him, knowing he was right. There was nothing for them to talk about. Even if she told him she loved him, it wouldn't matter.

  She heard his footsteps, and pride stiffened her spine. She straightened in her chair and poured herself a cup of tea. It took everything she had, but she managed to keep her face expressionless until he had walked past her and left the room.

  Only after he had gone, only after his footsteps no longer echoed on the stairs and she was alone, did she allow the desolation and loneliness to overwhelm her. She lowered her face into her gloved hands, loving him for being the man that he was, hating him for not being the man she wanted. But most of all, she hated herself for the pain she had caused him and the fear that made her unable to take it away.

  She was not the optimist Nathaniel was. She had no illusions that he could win against his brother's wealth and power. Lord Leyland would destroy what they were trying to build, and Nathaniel would go off to seek new dreams. He might even ask her to follow him, but she knew she could not live that life again. So she would remain here, left to rebuild her life, alone again.

  Nathaniel would not be beside her to lighten the burdens. He wouldn't be there to tease her or make her laugh or provide a strong shoulder she could lean on. He wouldn't be there to boost her spirits with his smile or remind her of the magic in everyday things or hold her when life seemed unbearable. He would leave, and that was the most unbearable burden of all.

  ***

  Nathaniel went downstairs, trying to harden his heart. He'd never been very good at that. But he couldn't have stayed with her, couldn't have borne sitting across from her and drinking tea, loving her without being loved in return. He would not be a beggar, craving one smile, one kind word from a woman who had ice water in her veins. She might truly be sorry for what she'd said, but apologies didn't just make everything better.

  It made him angry, this effort of hers to make peace after she'd sliced him wide open. And it hurt. God, it hurt, like salt in the wound.

  He'd tried so hard to earn her trust, but it was all for naught. He wanted her love, but it was a futile desire. He never learned. Once again, he wanted too much, hoped too much, expected too much.


  A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?

  The words of Robert Browning echoed through his head, and he wondered wryly if he ought to have them carved into his headstone when he died. He'd had a fleeting glimpse of heaven a week ago—a heaven where Mara loved him and looked at him with faith in her eyes, where his dreams became reality and she stood beside him. But that brief glimpse of heaven, of desires fulfilled and sated peace, was gone now, and Nathaniel knew it was farther from his grasp than it had ever been.

  The days of November went by, and the tension built. Continual delays plagued them, but Nathaniel and Michael worked nearly round the clock to keep production from falling too far behind. Nathaniel knew that Mara worked long hours as well, keeping tight control over the expenses, but he also knew she was only doing it because she had no choice.

  They hardly spoke to each other. The chasm still lay between them, so deep and so wide that it seemed there was no way to cross. There was nothing that could bridge the differences between them, not even love. There was no way to take back the hurtful, angry words that had been spoken. There was no compromise.

  ***

  Adrian watched Owen Rutherford leave the study. He took a cigar from the box on his desk and snipped the tip. He then reached for his gold lighter and leaned back in his chair, staring at the polished walnut panels of the door with unseeing eyes.

  The news that the private investigator had brought him came as no surprise. Rutherford had confirmed that Nathaniel was digging himself in deeper and deeper, just as Adrian had expected he would.

  It had been expensive but not difficult to persuade suppliers that his business was more vital to their interests than Nathaniel's. Styles, too, had proved to be very valuable and had been well paid for his efforts. Now, Nathaniel was scrambling, working day and night, unable to keep production on schedule, plagued by the continual delays and aggravations Adrian put in his path, laying out more and more cash just to stay afloat. Everything was happening according to plan.