“Aisling, please,” Jack tried once more, his voice so tender that Aisling thought her heart might break. Again.
“I can’t,” she choked out. “I can’t tell you what’s happened, Jack. I wish I could, but I can’t.”
For a full minute, Jack simply started at her, not saying a word. And then realization lit his eyes. “It’s a man, isn’t it? You look heartsick. I hate to say it, but you look just like Mother does right now.” He stood, an angry flush stealing up his neck. “Who’s done this to you? Tell me, so that I can wring his bloody neck, the bastard.”
Aisling inhaled sharply, refusing to give in to the blasted tears yet again. No, she was done crying. Done feeling sorry for herself. It was time to pull herself up by the bootstraps and get on with life, such as it was.
“It’s done, Jack. Over. Besides, if anyone’s neck should be wrung, it’s my own.”
He shook his head. “You may be stubborn, tenacious, even. Irritating at times, yes. But deserving of whatever is making you look so damn miserable? No, I don’t believe it.”
“Then I don’t know what else to say, Jack.”
“Whoever he is, he’s not worth this, I can tell you that,” he snapped.
“That’s just it. He is worth it. And I’m the biggest bloody fool in all of England.”
Jack paced a circuit back and forth, his hands thrust into his pockets. “I can’t even imagine who. It isn’t as if there have been any eligible men around here, not lately. The Dalton brothers, I suppose, but you barely glanced at either of them.”
Aisling fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. “The Dalton brothers are a pair of boorish pigs.”
Jack stopped his pacing and knelt beside her, the color drained from his face. “Dear God, Aisling, please tell me you haven’t been dallying with Lucas James!”
“Good God, no!” she answered, taken aback. Lucas James was the butcher’s son, two years her junior, and as thick and dumb as an ox. “Just how desperate do you think I am?”
Jack raked a hand through his hair. “Well, it isn’t as if there’s been anyone else around these past few weeks. I mean, besides Will Cooper, of course.”
Aisling willed her face to remain blank so as not to betray her. “And weren’t you chastising me just last week about him, calling me a snob?”
Jack laughed uneasily. “I was, wasn’t I?”
Aisling said nothing in reply, hoping that Jack would drop the subject and leave her in peace.
“Though mark my words, you could do far worse than Will Cooper, gentleman or no. Just don’t tell Mother I said so. I mean, of course she wouldn’t approve, not at first. I imagine she’d come around eventually, though. After all, Will’s a good chap.”
Jack rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Now that I think about it, you two are as well suited as any two people I’ve ever met. You’re so much alike, the pair of you. And truthfully, I’ve always thought that perhaps he secretly fancied you, though he’d never in a million years admit to it.” Jack sighed loudly. “If only you weren’t such a blasted snob. Ah, well. I suppose if you won’t tell me…”
Aisling shook her head, trying her best to appear calm when beneath the surface she was anything but. He’d come too close to the truth—far too close.
“Will you at least promise me, then, that you’ll stop moping around? Go write one of your scandalous stories or something. The editor at the Boudoir is positively begging for more of your work—I can’t get it to him fast enough. If you can’t be happy, at least make us some money while you’re busy being miserable.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she asked with a wry smile. “Money for nothing.”
“I’d like for you to be happy, Ash,” he said, all serious now.
She swallowed a lump in her throat, thinking just how much she loved her brother. “I know, Jack. Please…just give me time.”
“Very well.” He leaned down and kissed her on one cheek. “Carry on, then.”
She just nodded, unable to say a single word in reply.
Several hours later, Aisling sat in bed, propped up with feather pillows behind her back, the heavy eiderdown quilt pulled up to her chin. The little wooden box with the poem inside sat there in her lap, though she resisted the urge to open it and examine the old parchment yet again. Instead, Jack’s words were playing over and over again in her mind.
He’d thought Will had fancied her all along. Was it possible? Hadn’t Will himself said something to the same effect? If only she could remember his exact words.
Something about a spark that had always been there, about wanting her, and hating her for not wanting him. But what if she had wanted him? What if she’d been angry—with him, with herself—all these years because she had realized they were perfectly suited, but assumed that she could never have him?
Hope flamed brightly in her breast. Perhaps these feelings they had for one another weren’t so new, after all. Perhaps they’d been there, taking root, blossoming all these years, until they were both ready to recognize them, until Aisling was brave enough to defy her parents—because that’s what it would require for her to cast her lot with Will. She knew it to be true, despite Jack’s approval, his optimism.
Her mother was not nearly as liberal minded as her brother was, no doubt about that. The bastard son of a washerwoman would never be good enough for Lady Wainscott’s daughter, no matter his education, no matter who his father might be. Perhaps Aisling could only recognize her feelings for Will once she was old enough, strong enough, to go against the opposition she was sure to face in the form of her mother.
And if that were true, then it had nothing to do with the poem, nothing to do with the wish she’d made on the solstice. Or perhaps the poem only made her realize her true feelings, made her subconsciously wish for someone exactly like Will, so that she could finally acknowledge that he was her winter’s desire. Her summer’s desire, her autumn’s desire, her spring’s desire.
He was her every desire.
Throwing back the bed linens, Aisling swung her legs over the side of the mattress and reached for her dressing gown, standing as she belted it tightly around her waist. She retrieved the little wooden box from the bed and placed it on her desk, beside her typewriter, and sat, reaching for a pen and piece of paper.
She would write Will a letter; she would tell him what was in her heart, what had always been in her heart. She would tell him that she’d been mistaken. And then she would beg him for another chance, another opportunity to prove herself worthy of his love, his ring. They could start over, lovers and friends this time.
First thing tomorrow morning, she would drive to the village and deliver the letter herself. She only hoped it wasn’t too late.
11
AISLING SWALLOWED HARD BEFORE REACHING up to rap on the door. Clasping the letter in front of her, she took a step back and waited, listening as the sound of footsteps grew louder.
Please let it be Will, and not his mother.
The door swung open. “Miss Wainscott,” Mrs. Cooper said, her brow furrowed as she stared down at her.
Aisling cleared her throat, her resolve wavering. “Good day, Mrs. Cooper. I…um, I do hope you’re well.”
Mrs. Cooper’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “I’m very well, thank you. Have you come to fetch your mother’s gown? I’m not quite done with it, I’m afraid.”
“No. I came…that is to say…” She trailed off miserably. Now what? The truth. There was no other way. “I was hoping to have a word with Will.”
She wiped her hands on her apron. “You’ve come to see Will?”
“Yes, I…. ahem, you see, I need to speak with him. I know this is a bit irregular, but—”
“Well, miss, I’m afraid you’re too late for that,” she interrupted. “He’s gone back to Cambridge, left this morning on the early train. Judging by your appearance here today, I suppose I have you to thank for his sudden departure.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cooper. I don’t know what he’s
told you—”
“He’s told me nothing,” she snapped. “Not a single word of it, though I’ve got two eyes and ears. I know my own son, and I know when he’s hurting. Hasn’t he had a hard enough time of it, all these years, without you toying with him?”
Aisling didn’t know what to say. She’d never felt so small, so ashamed as she did at that very moment. She’d driven him away—and not just from her, but from his mother, too. All because she’d been too afraid to listen to her own heart.
“I…I came here today to try and make it right,” she stuttered, her cheeks burning uncomfortably under the woman’s scrutinizing stare.
“Well, as I said, it’s too late for that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” She pulled the door shut with a thump, leaving Aisling standing there on the front step, her legs suddenly weak and wobbly.
She hadn’t counted on this. He’d said he was staying ’til after the new year. As she’d lain in bed waiting for the sun to rise, she’d pictured several different scenarios in her mind, imagining exactly what she’d say to make things right. But this? Never. In each of her imagined scenarios, she’d had the chance to speak with him, to give him her letter.
Turning away from the door, she shoved the letter inside her coat pocket and began to walk through the thick fog, back toward her motorcar. What now? She hadn’t any idea how to proceed, short of taking the train to Cambridge herself, and she was lucid enough to realize that she needed to think it through more carefully before she did something like that, showing up unannounced on his doorstep.
First of all, her mother would never allow it. Second, she had no idea where, precisely, he lived in Cambridge. Perhaps Jack would agree to accompany me, she thought as she reached her motorcar. But that would require telling him everything, confessing her sins, she realized.
No. She couldn’t tell Jack, not yet. Damn Will for taking the coward’s way out, for fleeing Bedlington the way he had! What was she to do now? Simply mail him her letter and sit patiently awaiting his reply? For all she knew, he might reconcile with this Helena woman before her letter even arrived.
With a huff, she opened the car’s door and scooted inside.
A telegraph, perhaps? No, she could never say the things she needed to say in a telegraph. It’s hopeless, she realized. Entirely so. She’d lost her chance, just as she feared.
Reaching into the compartment on the dash, she retrieved her veil and goggles, putting the silly-looking glasses on before pinning the veil to her hat and pulling it down around her face. Feeling almost numb, she went through the motions of starting the car, pushing the plunger on the dash, then hopping out to turn the crank. The engine roared to life, and she returned to her seat, gripping the wheel tightly as she forced herself to concentrate on the fog-obscured road.
I should have walked, she told herself as she guided the car off the village’s main thoroughfare and onto the wider, tree-lined road that led to Wainscott House. The dense fog made it near enough impossible to see, even with headlamps lighting the way. It was just after noon, and it was already as dark as dusk. Somewhat eerie, she thought, tightening her grip on the wheel.
At least the fog had brought with it warmer air. It almost felt balmy compared to last week’s frigid chill. Still, the dreary gray skies did nothing for her mood, nothing to—
“Damnation!” she cried out, slamming on the brake, the force of the sudden stop slinging her so far forward that she nearly cracked her forehead on the wheel. A figure had appeared in the road directly in front of her, seeming to materialize out of thin air.
Aisling blinked several times, trying to focus her vision on the woman who stood there, not five feet in front of the car, wrapped in a black woolen cloak. Dark, curly hair peeked out from the hood’s folds, the woman’s face cast entirely in shadows.
“Pardon me,” Aisling called out loudly over the engine’s hum. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there. Can I offer you a ride?”
The woman shook her head, then lifted one arm and pointed toward the woods to her right.
Whatever did she mean by that? There was nothing over that way, no houses. Nothing but the circle of stones, off in the distance…Of course! It was the woman she’d seen on the solstice—she was strangely sure of it.
“I must speak with you,” Aisling called out, her heart pounding in her breast. “Just let me cut the engine.” She glanced down at the dash for a single second, then looked up again, gasping in surprise. The woman was gone. Vanished, just like that, in the blink of an eye.
All the breath left her lungs in a rush. No, it couldn’t be. She reached over the door to pull the hand brake, then stood, looking in every direction, searching wildly for the woman through the thick curtain of fog.
“Miss?” she cried out. “Please, come back!”
Nothing. She’d simply disappeared. Good God, but she was losing her mind. Reaching back over the door, she released the brake and continued. She was overwrought, that was all. It was the fog, making her see things that weren’t there. That had to be it.
A quarter hour later she reached Wainscott House, pulling up into the driveway and cutting the engine. She unpinned her veil and hurried inside, listening carefully to see if anyone was about. The house was quiet as a tomb. Peering down the corridor, she saw a light shining from her brother’s study. He must have heard her car motoring up the driveway, but mercifully he did not open the door and call out to her, so she walked up the wide staircase toward her room.
She knew what she had to do, and quickly, before anyone waylaid her. She would put an end to this nonsense—and now.
Not five minutes later she stepped out the back door, the little wooden box clutched in her hands. The poem was folded up inside, just as she’d found it. She moved silently across the park, past the swimming pond and off toward the copse of trees in the distance.
Ducking through the bare, spindly branches, she hurried on, easily finding her way despite the limited visibility. After all, her feet knew this path well. Finally, the stones came into view, wispy fog seeming to cling to them.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she continued to the center of the circle and placed the box at her feet. Kneeling beside it, she removed her gloves and opened the box’s fastening, just as she’d done on the solstice. She took out the parchment and unfolded it with shaking hands, her anger mounting, gathering strength, burning like fire through her veins.
It had to be done. The poem had brought her to this—this deep despair, this dark melancholy. All because she’d allowed herself to believe in it, however briefly, however reluctantly.
But now…now she knew better.
“Take it back,” she cried out, her voice echoing off the stones. “I don’t want it. I don’t believe in your magic. Do you hear me?”
With that, she ripped the old parchment into tiny little bits and tossed them into the air, watching as the torn pieces rained back down to the damp earth, littering the center of the circle around her.
And then she heaved a sigh, her shoulders sagging. Never again would she allow herself to feel those things—love and longing, passion and desire. She couldn’t. Her heart felt as ripped to shreds as the poem, and nothing could put it back together again, no more than she could reassemble the scattered pieces of parchment.
Stooping down, she retrieved her gloves from the ground and shoved her hands inside them, flexing her fingers as she rose and turned to leave, to head home. But a figure standing there, off in the distance, stilled her feet. She couldn’t see properly—the blasted fog made it impossible. But it looked like…Dear God, but it looked like Will!
No, I’m imagining it. She shook her head, hoping to clear it, to make the vision disappear. Just like the woman in the road.
But the figure didn’t disappear. Instead, it started moving toward her, moving out of the fog, becoming less specterlike and more solid with each passing second. She could’ve sworn it was a man—a man wearing a dark coat and bowler hat. He stepped into
the circle, entirely revealed now.
It was Will. She didn’t know how or why—didn’t care, really. All that mattered was that he was there, not a dozen feet away now. One hand rose to her throat as she swallowed hard, unable to speak, unable to move a single muscle, afraid he would disappear if she did so.
At last he stood directly before her, close enough to touch. His mouth lifted into a smile, his bright blue eyes the only spot of color in the otherwise bleak, gray surroundings.
“This isn’t real,” she murmured. “I’m imagining it. You can’t be real. You went back to Cambridge on the morning train.”
He nodded, removing his hat and holding it against one hip. “I made it as far as London. Changed for Cambridge, and as I sat there waiting for the train to depart, they called another leaving for Dorset. The return train. Something told me I had to get on that train, had to come back to you. I couldn’t do it, couldn’t leave you.”
“I’m so glad,” she breathed. “So very glad, Will.”
His gaze met hers, held it for a heartbeat’s second before he turned away from her, looking around the circle as if he were seeing it for the first time. “I had a feeling I’d find you here.”
“You were right,” she said hurriedly, before he could silence her. “Entirely right, about everything. It wasn’t the poem, wasn’t the magic. I think whatever it is we’re feeling was always there, just waiting for us to discover it. I should never have doubted it, doubted you. Will you ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Ash,” he said with a shrug. “How many times must I say that to you?”
“I should have been more sure of my own heart, more sure of yours. But now…”
“Now, what?” he prodded. “Will you let me kiss you, make love to you and then change your mind again? Decide it is the magic, after all? Back and forth, all over again?”
“I won’t,” she answered, entirely sure of it. “Never again. I know I have no right to ask you to trust me, to believe me. I would not fault you if you didn’t, if you turned around and left right now. But please, hear me out first. It’s all I ask of you.”
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