by Lily Maxton
Sarah stared. “There’s nothing on it,” she said quietly—she didn’t want to upset the girl if she thought there was something written on it.
“So you think! I’ve used lemon juice to write a message. Right now, you can’t see it, but when the lemon juice is exposed to heat, it should produce carbon and turn dark, thus revealing the secret message. And that,” she declared, “is a chemical reaction!”
Sarah didn’t know what carbon was, but she was interested to see if it would work anyway.
“You may do the honors,” the girl said.
Sarah took the parchment carefully and held it to the flame.
“Move it slowly from side to side. Don’t catch it on fire.”
She did as she was told. She would never admit this, but as she stood there, grimacing with concentration as she tried to heat the paper without burning it, and nothing happened, she had the passing thought that the other girl might be making a joke of her.
But it was only a passing thought. One that she hoped desperately wasn’t true.
Slowly, like magic, words began to form on the parchment, and Sarah’s heart lifted with delight.
It read, in a large, sloping hand that reminded her of lace: Friendship enhances prosperity, and relieves adversity of its burden by halving and sharing it. (So wrote Cicero)
Sarah laughed.
The girl peered over her shoulder. Her breath tickled the back of Sarah’s neck in soft, even puffs.
“How remarkable,” the girl murmured. “I said I would show you something extraordinary. What do you think?”
Sarah turned her head and was caught in the other girl’s intent gaze. Her eyes were the warmest brown Sarah had ever seen, like milk and chocolate. “It is extraordinary.” She wasn’t only talking about the ink.
“I’m Winifred, by the way. Win Taylor.”
“Lady Sarah Lark.”
“Lady?” Win said. “I’ve never known a lady before, but you seem amiable enough, even so. Well, then?”
“Well, then, what?”
“Will you be my friend? What did you think that quote was all about?”
“You have a rather roundabout way of asking,” she pointed out.
“Be my friend,” Win said more emphatically, “and we can read about chemical philosophy and do more experiments and chat with each other and write secret messages and all sorts of things.”
Sarah thought it all sounded rather wonderful.
She smiled, a little embarrassed, but mostly happy. “I would like that.”
And that, as they said, was that.
They became like two halves of a coin. Best friends who liked nothing better than to be in each other’s company. Something about them simply fit together, perfectly, no matter what one saw on the surface.
In many ways, they were opposites. If, as a child, Sarah had been praised by her parents for being sensible, Win had been scolded for being reckless. If Sarah had been well-behaved and proper, Win had had a penchant for rushing headlong into adventure.
Win was a whirlwind who came bursting into Sarah’s life and threw everything into disarray, and Lady Sarah Lark, sensible and proper and well-behaved, loved every single second of the chaos.
Win’s father often used the word too to describe his daughter. Too bright, too loud, too boisterous.
Sarah thought she was just right.
If chemistry was the science of change, then Win Taylor became Sarah’s catalyst, transforming her into someone she hadn’t realized she could be—someone a touch bolder, a little lighter, a little less serious. She liked who she was when she was with Win. And she liked the quiet moments between them, too—after their adventures and their science experiments, when they simply sat next to each other and one of them read aloud from a book, or when Sarah steeped tea and they drank it with too much sugar and talked about everything and nothing at all.
For years after that fateful day, Sarah was happy. She hadn’t been unhappy before, exactly, but then, she hadn’t been awake, either. Now she was, and the days seemed brighter, fuller, a blossom in bloom. They stretched ahead in endless anticipation.
And then, one day, Gregory intruded on the little world they’d built for themselves, and Win’s behavior toward Sarah changed. Something between them shifted, never to be put back again.
And Sarah was forced to reexamine everything she thought she knew.
Chapter 4
Win remembered the first time she’d seen Sarah, ten years earlier. She’d been spying over the wall that separated their small city yards and had caught sight of a girl, about her age, walking a gravel path with a frilly parasol in hand as her governess droned on and on. She’d looked like a lacy white crane who stepped lightly on the earth, graceful somehow, even in her youthful awkwardness. Every time her governess turned away, she tilted her delicate face toward the sun.
Win wanted to know her. And once she’d known her, she’d realized she was not quite so delicate as she appeared—no, she wasn’t delicate at all, really—people who thought Sarah was only demure and well-mannered and nothing more than that didn’t know her. She was a sensible creature on the whole, and smart, but she wasn’t immune to fanciful things, and she had a strong will, when it came down to it.
When Winifred had uncovered all these things, she had liked her even more. They’d talked about anything they could think of, and Win had wanted to know everything about the other girl, from the biggest things to the most mundane.
There was one subject, however, that they approached with a caution she wasn’t even aware had existed until now.
Boys. Courtship. Marriage.
Sarah, who was being groomed for a good match, never actually discussed what she hoped for in said match. She never described the traits she might like in a husband, and Win, who thought about it from time to time and might have shared if Sarah had broached the issue, was simply happy to be in Sarah’s company and didn’t really care too much that they weren’t discussing it.
In other words, it was a topic she could take or leave, so she’d left it.
She’d never realized there might be a reason they didn’t discuss it. She’d simply thought they were too busy talking about more important things.
She didn’t know what to do with the knowledge now. It swirled in her like a tempest. It awakened a new knowledge within herself—something that might have been there all along, but she’d never quite recognized it. Not until the exact second she’d seen the way Sarah was looking at Eleanor and felt her chest tighten in response.
Win was jealous. The feeling writhed, as if it were a living thing that might devour her.
Green-eyed monster, indeed.
But it wasn’t because Eleanor and Sarah were friends, and Win felt like she’d been replaced. Oh, no. It wasn’t anything so simple as that. She was jealous because she wanted Sarah to look at her the way she looked at Eleanor MacGregor…with admiration, with tenderness, with want.
She wondered if some part of her had always wanted those things, and she’d somehow pushed those desires down until they were nothing but a whisper at the back of her mind.
Until now. Until they were so strong and loud she could no longer pretend they didn’t exist.
Until now, when it was too late to do anything about it.
You fool. You dreadful, dreadful fool.
The silence was starting to wear on Sarah. It was early afternoon, and she and Winifred were alone in the drawing room. Sarah looked up from her embroidery to find Win frowning down at her own fabric. She’d tugged at her hair so much that several tendrils had escaped their pins, and the sunlight brought out the soft pink of her skin.
Sarah felt a pang in her chest.
Her grip tightened on the wooden frame and she ducked her head with new determination. She focused better when she wasn’t looking at the other woman.
But less than five minutes later, Win disrupted her concentration by standing abruptly and coming to sit on the settee next to her.
; Not right next to her, though. Sarah noticed she left a foot or two of space between them.
Win craned her neck to study Sarah’s work. “Where is that pattern from?”
“It’s my own.”
“Your own?” Win repeated. They both looked at Sarah’s partially finished embroidery—delicate white work on muslin with flowers and leaves that she’d designed to look as realistic as possible, like a bouquet bursting from the fabric.
Then, at the same time, they glanced at Win’s fabric. Win had chosen a basic pattern, more outline than a detailed depiction—Sarah thought it was supposed to resemble wheat, but she wasn’t sure.
She had to bite her lip to stave off a sudden smile.
“Are you laughing at my work?” Win said, in a hushed tone.
“No,” Sarah said hastily. “No,” she repeated. “It’s simply—”
Win’s eyes narrowed. “Simply what?”
She did laugh then, startling them both. “You haven’t improved much.” She wasn’t certain why she found it amusing. She wasn’t certain why it made her chest feel lighter, this knowledge that some things had changed but others had remained more or less the same.
Win sighed, but she didn’t sound offended. “It was one of the easiest patterns in Ackermann’s Repository.”
“Everyone has different strengths…” Sarah began tentatively, not wanting to disrupt this moment of accord.
“Oh, hush,” Win said. “Your own pattern. Good Lord, Sarah, if I didn’t like you, I might be tempted to hate you.”
Sarah blinked, startled. Did Win truly like her? Even with the distance between them?
She decided not to dwell on it and went back to her work, only to be drawn from her troubled thoughts a moment later by a muffled curse.
Win was shaking her hand, wincing. When she caught Sarah staring at her, she tried to smile. “It’s nothing.”
Sarah shifted closer. A small drop of blood welled from Win’s finger.
Without thinking, doing the same thing she would have done six years ago, she reached out and took Win’s injured hand in her own.
Sarah’s pulse quickened. This was the first time she’d touched her, skin to skin, in so long. The sensation was both sweet and painful, like coming home after a journey only to find the house empty. And it was tinged with a bright new awareness—once, there’d been a hundred little touches between them, a thousand, as easy as breathing. Now, though, her heart hammered in her ears and her body ached for something she’d never let herself voice out loud.
She distracted herself from the press of warm skin by studying the wound. It didn’t seem very deep, but she dropped Win’s hand and went to get the medicine chest.
The heavy medicinal scent of various herbs and tinctures wafted toward her when she lifted the mahogany lid, but she only reached for a small strip of clean, dry linen—clenching it tightly when she noticed the way her fingers trembled—and returned to the drawing room.
Stiffly, she sat by Win and took her hand again. Win was very still, head lowered and her eyelashes a dark downward sweep. Sarah had to fight the sudden urge to cradle her jaw, to tip back her head until they were face to face again. But she had the feeling that if she succumbed to one temptation regarding Win, the rest would all come tumbling down, each one more demanding than the one before.
With brisk efficiency, Sarah tied the bandage around her finger, then let go, settling back with a safe amount of space between them.
Even if she liked the warmth of Win’s skin against her own. Even if a part of her craved it.
“You’re impatient,” Sarah said. It had been meant as a reprimand, but her tone was soft. Nearly tender. Before she could think back on all the times an overeager Win had dragged her off on a new adventure, before she could remember just how much she’d liked Win’s impatience, she cleared her throat. “If you slowed down, you would do better work.”
“Clearly. And I wouldn’t injure myself,” Win responded lightly. “I suppose there’s something to be said for patience.”
Sarah reached for her embroidery.
But before she could start, Win touched her elbow. “Thank you.” Her lips curved wryly, wistfully, and her eyes were far away. “You’re still taking care of me.”
That wasn’t quite true. Win had always been forced to take care of herself. Sarah had simply tried to show affection in whatever small ways she could.
Now she stared at Win, wondering where the years had gone.
She thought, if she let herself, she could drown in the other woman’s presence, drown in those deep, dark eyes. But would Win be there to pull her back up, to help her breathe?
She didn’t know what they were to each other anymore. Not quite friends. But definitely not nothing. The memories between them were too strong. The ache of Win’s absence too sharp. Sarah felt the barrier between them starting to crumble, piece by piece. She didn’t know if she should simply let it fall or try to put it back together.
She didn’t know if she could bear letting Winifred in only to lose her again.
Sarah began making small, neat stitches in the muslin. “You’re welcome,” she said, after a moment.
Nothing would be solved in the space of an afternoon. For now, she’d simply let herself enjoy the fragile peace between them.
Chapter 5
“Do you miss him?”
Sarah’s voice made Win pause. She’d just decided to go to bed and had set aside her latest failed attempt at embroidery—Sarah’s parents had already retired from the drawing room, and Sarah was reading a book by candlelight. Or Win had thought she was. But as she glanced up, Sarah’s eyes met hers across the darkened room, the book abandoned on her lap.
Him. There was only one him she could be talking about. It felt, suddenly, like his ghost stood between them, had been standing between them, all this time.
“I do,” she answered honestly. She couldn’t lie about this. She hadn’t lived with him for six years without coming to care for him. She still felt a pang of sorrow when she remembered he was gone.
“I miss him sometimes, too,” Sarah said, surprising her.
“He was very silly,” Win said.
“More charming than any man should be,” Sarah added.
She nodded, agreeing. “Absent-minded. But kind-hearted. He was one of the kindest people I knew. ”
“Did you love him?”
Win blinked, a little taken aback. “I liked him,” she said. “I was fond of him.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“I know.” She smoothed her hand over the top of her leg. The black fabric seemed impossibly dark. She should switch to half-mourning soon. “I think I was just doing what I was supposed to do. What everyone told me I should do.”
“Is that why you seemed so brittle?”
“Did I?”
“Yes. You still do.”
“It’s not very nice of you to point it out,” she said, huffing slightly.
Sarah’s answering smile made something flutter, deep in her stomach.
“You didn’t follow,” Win added before she could think better of it.
“Pardon me?”
Win pushed some loose hair behind her ear, feeling herself flush slightly. What a stupid thing to say, but it was too late to take it back now. She cleared her throat. “I expected you to follow. After a few years, I thought you would find a suitor, too, and marry, but you never did. I even imagined you coming to London, maybe living close by.”
“Living close to you? With my husband?”
“Yes.”
“You assumed a lot of things,” Sarah said, the first hint of annoyance in her voice.
“Not assumed,” she corrected. “I hoped. That was all. I invited you to visit, remember? But every time I asked, you brushed off the invitation, made some vague excuse, so eventually, I didn’t ask again.”
Sarah’s lips pressed together. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I should have gone. We were friends, and I di
dn’t treat you as a friend should.”
Her apology sounded sincere enough, but there was something about that—we were friends—that felt like a knife to the heart. “Are we not still friends?” Win asked. She had to wait a long moment for the answer, pulse quickening with a sort of sick anticipation.
In the dim light, Sarah’s blue eyes were the color of dusk. “I keep telling myself that we’re not—not like we used to be,” she said quietly. Win’s chest pinched suddenly, tight and painful. “But then you’ll say something that makes me want to laugh, and it’s like nothing has changed between us, even after all this time.”
Win’s heart lifted on a surge of hope. “I was always good at that,” she said.
“What?”
“At making you laugh. I was convinced it was the only way you’d keep me around, you know. You were such a serious girl when we first met.”
Sarah’s mouth tipped, an amused, wry, nostalgic thing.
And Win found that she could not tear her gaze away from the woman in front of her. There was a confidence, a self-possession that hadn’t quite been there before. Sarah had had it back then, perhaps, but it had been shaky, not fully formed. A bud with only a few petals open. Now she was like a flower in full bloom. And Win was suddenly intimidated.
Had she always been a little intimidated by Sarah, and never realized it?
“You haven’t told me about what happened with Eleanor and James MacGregor,” she said, turning the topic to something else, to something that didn’t feel so fragile in her hands. And it wasn’t as though she had no interest in the answer. She was quite interested, especially in light of recent observations.
“It’s a bit difficult to explain… I suppose the important thing is that James was courting me, but he fell in love with Eleanor.”
Win stared at her. “And then she fell in love with him and they married?”
“More or less.”
“And that doesn’t trouble you in the least?”