But as soon as she cleared the threshold, she raced to the stairs, and tears turned the world into a smear.
Oh, how she longed to go home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Lies is lies. Howsever they come, they didn’t ought to come, and they come from the father of lies, and work round to the same.
Great Expectations
Will kept one eye trained on Mina while she strolled arm in arm with Alice, all the while listening to Percy blather on about the merits of steam engines. Something wasn’t right about Alice’s focused attention on Mina—and something was definitely wrong in the way Mina strode to the door with clipped steps and disappeared without a good night to anyone.
“Excuse me.” He held up a hand to Percy, cutting him off. “It’s been a long day. I bid you good night.”
“Oh? Do you need a good leg stretcher tonight as well?”
“I could ask the same of you, Cousin. Any more clandestine meetings to attend?”
A tic pinched the skin at the corner of Percy’s right eye. “Keep your nose out of my business, and perhaps I shall return the favor.”
Will wheeled about, tired of Percy’s games—and even wearier of his own.
“That’s it. Run off to your cold bed in the spare room.”
Percy’s retort stabbed him in the back as he dashed out the door. How like his cousin to hold his cards close to his chest and pull one out at the most inopportune moment. Hopefully Uncle hadn’t overheard.
But he’d have to deal with that later. For now, the way Mina flew up the stairway concerned him most. What horrid thing had Alice said to her?
“Mina, wait.” He took the stairs two at a time.
She turned at the landing, face impossibly pale. Eyes so wide, she looked as if she’d not only seen a ghost but held hands with one.
On impulse, he reached out and rubbed his hands along her upper arms, hoping to soothe. “What has you in such a state? What did Alice say to you?”
“She knows, Will.” A little sob punctuated her words. “At least she suspects. And if your uncle hears it from her—”
“Knows what?”
“That we are unwed.”
He shook his head. “She can’t possibly know that, not for certain. Please, Mina, don’t fret. All will be well. This shall soon be over, I promise.”
“I—” Her voice cracked. “I know.”
Huge tears welled in her eyes, brimming like raindrops and shimmering in the lamplight. His heart twisted at the sight. Grabbing her hand, he led her away from the landing and into the corridor, out of view should anyone chance to leave the drawing room.
He turned to her well before they reached her chamber door, unwilling to spend another second without easing the burden that drove her to weep. Reaching out, he cupped her face, catching her tears before they dampened her cheeks. “Tell me true, Mina. What is wrong? Did I not say this would soon be over?”
“That’s just it! This will all be over soon. And then what? We go back to being what we were, me serving you ale once a week while you and Mr. Fitzroy swap jokes?” She threw out her hands, the passion in her eyes far too alluring. “Is any of this even real?”
“It is.” Without thinking, he bent, and his mouth came down on hers. The heat of a thousand suns burned along every nerve and settled low in his belly. Everything went oddly quiet. The hiss of the gas lamps. The beat of his heart. There was nothing else but Mina’s sweet taste. Her breath. Her softness. A tremor shook through him, and he hungered for more. Every other kiss in his life had been wrong. He knew that now—and would never again kiss another.
“Mina,” he whispered against her lips, her jawline, her neck. Lost. Hopelessly, wonderfully lost.
A low moan sounded in her throat, sobering him. What was he doing? He pulled back.
Mina’s eyes were yet closed, lashes impossibly long against her cheeks. She lifted a shaky finger to her lips and absently rubbed a mouth yet swollen with his kisses. Was she remembering—or abhorring?
He sucked in a breath. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have taken such a liberty. I don’t usually—”
Her eyes popped open, and an unnatural brilliance shone in them … a fevered kind of fury.
“Don’t you? Did you kiss Elizabeth like that as well?” she hissed.
The question slapped him in the face—hard—and he recoiled a step. “How do you know of her?”
“Your cousins have mentioned her several times.” The red glints in her hair matched the colour rising in her cheeks. “Was she another one of your pretend brides?”
He spun away as if struck, tensing every muscle in his body. “No,” he gritted out. “She was to be my real bride.” The truth hung thick between them.
“I’ve heard enough. Good night, William.”
“Mina, wait!” He pivoted back. “I can explain. Let me explain.”
“No. I’m done with your explanations. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.” Her voice shook. “The twisted truths. The deceit. I …” She shook her head, knocking loose a single curl. “I will be leaving in the morning.”
“Mina, don’t do this.” The thought of losing her drove the breath from his lungs. He was as thoroughly sick of deception as she, but dare he voice the truth he could no longer deny? “I …” Swallowing, he reached for her and pulled her close. “I love you, Mina. With all my heart.”
She stiffened beneath his touch. Blinking. Face the colour of parchment. “I wish I could believe that. I really do.” Her voice was a shiver of cold wind. “But I meant what I said. I am leaving in the morning.”
Wrenching from his grasp, she whirled, the hem of her skirt snapping against his legs.
“Mina!”
He followed her frenzied pace, but too late. She reached her chamber door and slammed it in his face before he could catch her, the slide of the bolt overloud as it shot into place. He stood alone in the corridor with naught but the echo and far too many regrets.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down.
A Tale of Two Cities
Lethargic light, a sickly sort of blue grey, leached through the open drapery like a spreading bruise. Clutching the second-chance coin, Mina shoved off the bed, fully dressed, more wrinkled than the counterpane she’d wrestled with all night. Weary to the very marrow of her bones, she paced to the window and pressed her forehead against the glass. The coldness of it shocked and jarred—and she welcomed the bite.
“I love you, Mina. With all my heart.”
Will’s words of the night before haunted relentlessly, and she squeezed the coin all the tighter. Did he really mean it, or was it his desperate attempt to get her to stay? She’d give anything to believe his love was true, but though she tried, she just couldn’t. The coin pressed hard into her skin. She could give him another chance to explain about Elizabeth, but even if she did, how would she know for sure he spoke truth?
She blew out a breath, fogging a clouded circle on the window. Mostly she just wanted to go home. She missed Father’s bellowing and Cook’s mumblings of “peas and porridge.” Life at the Golden Egg was a lackluster existence compared to the eminence and elegance of this country estate, but it was her existence. And more importantly, it was real. Not a charade. Without truth as a base, even living the lifestyle of the wealthy didn’t give her life meaning. Maybe—perhaps—true meaning in life had nothing to do with outward trappings but with inward genuineness.
A foreign longing welled to run back to the inn and embrace her dull life. She was done with pretending. And done with casting Will as a hero, for he had been a dream. A fleeting, make-believe man she’d invented—and who’d fallen woefully short. She’d love to blame him, to rage and rail against his shortcomings, but truly, was she not as culpable for expecting more out of him than was humanly possible?
Oh, God. I have been so wrong. Please, forgive me.
Outside, an ember of sun lit the charcoal sky.
Across the courtyard, the door to the stables opened, and a young man strolled out, dressed for the day’s work of tending horses. Good. Then it wouldn’t be too soon to request a ride into town.
Turning from the sight, she hurried over to the dressing table and sank onto the stool. There wasn’t much she could do about her wrinkled gown, but she ought to at least see to her hair, especially with a full day of travel ahead.
As she wrangled out snarls, she studied her face in the mirror. Her eyes were too big. Her nose, overly long and dotted with freckles. Her lips were too full and remembered far too well the feel of Will’s mouth fitted against them. The hairbrush slipped from her grasp, and she caught it before it hit the carpet. No, not again. She’d spent the entire night trying to forget that kiss.
And failed.
She cast the brush onto the table and poked pins into her hair, grazing her scalp. Had Will spoken the same words of love to Elizabeth? Had Elizabeth been as naive as she to wish they were true?
No more. She shoved up from the table and retrieved her coat, tucking the second-chance coin into the pocket. It was too early to trouble Miss Whymsy’s door, but perhaps by the time she finished talking with the stable hand, the older lady would be stirring.
The corridors were yet dim, and she tread as quickly as she dared without bumping into a side table or tripping down the stairway. She paused in the foyer, debating if she ought to use the front door. But no, better to use the back servants’ entrance, for that’s what she really was despite her pretending otherwise.
Outside, cold air violated the hem of her skirts and climbed up her legs. It wasn’t far from the house to the stables, but by the time she ducked inside to the smell of hay and horses, she wished she had thought to grab her muffler.
The same young man she’d seen earlier turned from a workbench at her entrance and dipped his head. “Can I be of service to ye, ma’am?”
“Yes. I was wondering if you could bring around the carriage and drive my travelling companion and me to Bishop’s Stortford. We shall be catching the morning train to London.”
“Aye, ma’am. I’ll bring it ‘round within the hour.”
“Thank you.” Clutching her coat tighter at the neck, she headed back out into the nip of the winter morning. Hopefully Miss Whymsy was up, though it was a shameful task to have to ask her friend to leave so soon after convincing her to come in the first place. In the four days they’d been here, the woman had seemed to enjoy herself, especially when Uncle Barlow was in the room.
Halfway across the courtyard, she paused, wishing to brand into her memory the elegance of the white-stone estate. Would she ever have another chance to Christmas in the country? It had been lovely—while it lasted. Sighing, she swept her gaze from the snow-crusted windowsills of the ground level, up to the first floor, then paused on the nearest window on the second. The drapes were pulled back and a face stared out, framed with white, tufted hair.
She gasped. Why was Uncle Barlow frowning at her? Had Alice already gone to him with her suspicions? Her shoulders slumped as she imagined his disappointment. Good thing she’d arranged for transport, for surely Will’s uncle would be asking her to leave within the hour.
With a halfhearted wave at the face in the window, she continued toward the house—but he kept staring at a point beyond her. Had he never really been looking at her to begin with? She turned, then squinted for a better look.
On the side of the road leading into town, two dark shapes stood in conversation near a horse swishing its tail. One man wore glasses—easy enough to identify as Percy. The other was a rotund fellow, nearly twice the breadth of Percy, and wearing a ridiculously tall hat. Did he think that made him appear any less roly-poly than the great ball of black wool that he was? An odd time for a conversation and an even odder place in which to conduct their business.
But it was no business of hers. Not anymore. She ducked her head into the cold breeze and pressed on toward the house. It was time to rouse Miss Whymsy—and leave all this behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
If our affections be tried, our affections are our consolation and comfort; and memory, however sad, is the best and purest link between this world and a better.
Nicholas Nickleby
Will descended the stairs two at a time. Was he too late? Was Mina already now on her way back to London?
His foot landed crooked on a step, and he grabbed for the balustrade. Falling headlong would slow his pursuit—but not end it. If he had to run through the snow all the way to the Golden Egg, he would explain the full truth to Mina. He owed her that. He owed himself that. And most importantly, he owed it to God.
Both his feet landed on the foyer floor, and the sound of swishing skirts turned him. With one hand yet on the railing, he memorized Mina’s graceful shape—for she’d likely never want to see him again after this. “Thank God you’re still here,” he spoke more to the heavens than to her.
“Not for long.” She stopped at the foot of the stairs and lifted her chin. “Goodbye, Will.”
Her words were cold. Final. Like nails being hammered into a coffin.
He reached out and grabbed her arm, gently yet firmly. “Mina, listen, just for a moment, and then you may be on your way.”
She stared at his fingers on her sleeve. “There can be nothing more to say. You will not talk me out of leaving.”
“I don’t intend to. I simply want to explain about Elizabeth. That’s all. I swear it.”
Pulling from his touch, she met his gaze, her blue eyes a sword, seeking to cleave away any more lies. “You don’t owe me an explanation. It is your uncle you should be talking to.”
“I know. And I will.” He plowed his fingers through his hair, the movement as wild as the beat of his heart. “But a word with you first, please.”
With a sigh, she leaned her back against the stair rail, resignation bending her brow. “What is it you have to say?”
He widened his stance, for speaking the past aloud was sure to knock him sideways. Just thinking of it put him off balance. “Though I hate to admit it, in my younger years, I lived solely for wine, women, and making merry. It was then I met Elizabeth Hill, at a house party, for much to my shame, I was the life of the party.”
His head drooped, and he studied his shoes. Memories twisted his gut. Too much drink. Too many indiscretions. Unknowingly, he’d lived the same debauched life as his father before him.
“You don’t have to tell me this,” Mina murmured.
“No, I …” He jerked his face back to hers. If he didn’t get this out now, he never would. “Even then Uncle was gracious, urging me to stop the ribald lifestyle and settle down. I thought taking a wife who enjoyed a good time as much as I might be a way to pacify him while continuing to live unbridled; for you see, Elizabeth loved her social life as much as I did mine. She was agreeable to my proposal, and I even fancied myself in love with her.”
Mina’s jaw clenched, the fine lines of her throat hardening to steel. “The very words you spoke to me last night.”
He drew a deep breath, willing the truth he’d known all along to finally pass his lips. “No. It’s not the same at all. You have taught me that there’s a great deal of difference between self-love and self-sacrificing love. You didn’t have to come here. You didn’t have to help me try to save Uncle Barlow, yet you did so, willingly. Elizabeth never would have done such a thing unless she had something to gain for herself.”
Mina bit her lip, her teeth worrying the flesh, almost in time to the corridor clock ticking away.
And Will prayed, pleading for truth to win, for past sins to be forgotten. For Mina to give him a second chance.
Stepping away from her post at the railing, she paced a small figure on the rug, and a quick slice of fear cut through him from head to toe. Did she mean to run off now? To turn her back to him as Elizabeth had?
But she stopped, inches from him, her face unreadable. “What happened to her? To Elizabeth, for you said she w
as to be your bride, not that she was your bride.”
It wasn’t much, but the barest flicker in Mina’s eyes birthed a hope in him. Maybe—perhaps—she actually would hear him out and come to believe his feelings for her were true. Oh, God, make it so.
“Elizabeth broke off the engagement,” he began, “for she’d worked her way into the graces of an earl. I don’t blame her—now, that is. I did then. That was a black period. An angry one.”
Ghosts of the past curled about him like thick smoke, and he tugged at his collar. “My bitterness drove me to worse sins, chief amongst them gaming. Were it not for Uncle Barlow, I’d still be wallowing in debtor’s prison.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Uncle Barlow paid all that I owed—and more. He arranged for me to be taken on as a law clerk. God knows I didn’t deserve that kind of mercy, and I couldn’t understand why he did such a thing. Yet for his sake, I tried to live in a more respectable manner. Shortly thereafter, Fitz invited me to a church service, and then I knew. Funny, is it not, that one doesn’t know how bad one really is until trying hard to be good.”
Pausing, he revisited that holy day. The sacred union. The wonder of it even now was enough to pump warmth through his veins. A small smile twitched his lips. “Uncle’s extravagant act of compassion paled in comparison to the grace God offered me that day. I’ve never been the same. Oh, how that must sound coming from my mouth. For you know better than most that I am not a saint.”
Small, white fingers appeared on his sleeve, and she pressed hope into his arm with a little squeeze. “Thank you for telling me.”
A lump clogged his throat and he fought to clear it. “I’ve been such a fool. I should have left Uncle’s well-being to God instead of taking it on myself.” Collecting her hand in his, he dropped to one knee and tipped up his face. “I don’t deserve it, but will you forgive me, Mina, for pulling you into this deceitful plan of mine?”
3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 28