But was love enough, given all he needed to overcome to make a proper life with her?
“I am ready,” she whispered, grasping the papers in one hand. If only Thomas was as well.
Her father stepped to one side as she brushed past him. “Lucy,” she heard him sigh. “Will you stop for one second and talk to me? I don’t know why we always seem to be at such odds.”
She stopped with one hand on the stair rail and looked back over her shoulder. “I am not trying to be quarrelsome, Father. I am just being . . . well, me.”
“Yes, well.” Her father’s voice softened. “The decision you have made about Heathmore . . . are you very sure of it?”
“I am.”
“Does this have anything to do with Lord Branston?” He frowned. “Or the fact there is a good deal of grass in your hair?”
Lucy’s cheeks heated. She lifted a hand to her tangle of hair. Her fingers danced over bits of twigs and the like, the evidence both comforting and damning. “Perhaps.”
He bristled. “Do you want me to speak to him? I’ve another pistol in the coach.”
“No. And if I have grass in my hair, you must know it is by my own choice.” She permitted herself a thin smile. “If I have changed my mind about selling Heathmore, it is only because he has shown me the truth, and then left the choice in my own hands.”
“As long as he’s kept his hands to himself,” her father growled.
Lucy sighed. No, Thomas hadn’t kept his hands to himself. And she hadn’t wanted him to either.
“Just tell me why,” her father pressed. “Why give up such a potential fortune?”
“Because there are some things in life more important than money.” Lucy thought of the sunrise, and all Thomas had shown her. “I don’t know what I will do with the property, but I do know I do not wish to exploit it, especially to a company like that. Aunt E considered protecting this town one of her grand causes, and I do as well. There is no harm in letting the cottage and the property sit untouched for a while as I sort out what to do about it.”
“Your aunt was involved in this?” Her father frowned. “I might have known. You are so much like my sister, it frightens me sometimes. I still don’t know what she wanted, what made her happy, what made her stay here.” His voice broke with emotion. “And despite it all, you have grown up to be just like her.”
Lucy swung around to face him more fully, her fingers tightening about the papers she still held. “Is it really such a terrible thing that we are so much alike?”
Because if it was, it was far too late to fix.
“I . . . that is—” He broke off, seeming unsure of his answer.
“Aunt E chose to stay here to protect our family against the gossip she feared stirring.” Lucy hesitated. “She loved me, you know. She loved you, in her own eccentric way. Family was important to her, though she didn’t always show it. She felt she couldn’t come to London because of the danger her eccentricity posed to us, but you never came back to visit her. Why? What harm would there have been in letting me know her?” Lucy stepping toward her father. “Why not send me to her? And why, when you learned she had left me Heathmore, were you so dead set against me even coming to see the property?”
Her father’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I suppose I feared you might decide to stay here, as she did.” His voice broke with emotion. “All those years, with no word from her, not knowing what had happened, or if she was even alive. And then to discover she was here, only to then scarcely ever see her again . . . Lucy, can’t you see? I don’t want to lose you. It would break my heart to only receive a single card from you at Christmas.”
Lucy stared at her father. Oh God.
Oh, bugger it all.
Was this what their awkward feud was about? He didn’t want to lose her?
With a small, fierce cry, she moved into her father’s arms. “But you would never lose me,” she protested, her throat thick with emotion. “I am returning to London.”
Even though the thought of it made her want to cry.
His arms tightened around her until she was breathing in the familiar scent of tobacco and peppermint, the scents of her childhood. Above her head, he gave a shuddering sigh. “I love you, Lucy. I only want your happiness. And if keeping Heathmore Cottage makes you happy, I shall have to find a way to accept that. Just . . . don’t disappear. Not without a word, as my sister did.”
“I won’t,” she promised, pulling back with a tremulous smile. “I’m not exactly like Aunt E, you know. I am not at all sure I want to live in a falling-down cottage in Cornwall. I’ve come to appreciate a few things in life that I had previously taken for granted on this trip.”
Things like laundry, and warm fires that didn’t go out, and kindly, aging servants who looked out for her, even when she forgot to look out for herself.
And kisses. She had definitely come to appreciate kisses.
Her mind tripped to Thomas’s proposal and how tempted she was to accept it. No, she wasn’t like her aunt. Aunt E would rather tie someone up or light a fuse than even consider the possibility of marriage. But in spite of the pages and pages of guidance warning against it in her aunt’s diaries, marriage had shifted to something more possible in Lucy’s mind.
“But you should know,” she told her father through her slow-blooming smile, “I may want to come back to Lizard Bay and visit on occasion.”
He smiled back. “Well. You are of an age to make your own decisions.”
“Oh there you two are,” came Mrs. Wilkins’s voice. She appeared at the bottom of the stairs, motioning them down. “Come on, then. I’ve stirred up Mr. Jamieson and Mr. Bentley to see you properly off to London.”
Lucy looped her arm through her father’s, as much to find an anchor as to show her affection. But as they stepped out onto the front porch into the bright sunshine, her knees threatened to buckle to see the small crowd that had gathered to see them off.
She wanted to go back to London, and yet she didn’t.
Lizard Bay had become very dear these past few days, and she was going to miss each and every face in this crowd. And if he was here, watching her with that crooked, compelling grin, she knew there was no way in hell her feet were going to carry her into that coach.
Not unless he was there to help her up into it and climb in behind her.
She craned her neck, searching, but there was no sign of him. And the realization, then, settled over her like a wet, heavy blanket. Thomas wasn’t coming to stop her. He wasn’t coming to join her. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“Don’t cry, Miss L,” Mrs. Wilkins said, patting her back. “We’ll miss you, too, child.”
Lucy sniffed as Jamieson slipped a handful of licorice into her hand. “To hold you over until you return,” he said, whiskers twitching.
She moved on to the postmaster, who looked a little lost. “Good-bye, Mr. Bentley,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“They said you were aggrieved,” he said, looking confused.
Behind her, Mrs. Wilkins raised her voice. “No, I said she must leave, Bentley.”
Lucy smiled through her tears, realizing, suddenly, how much she was going to miss this place. How was she to properly manage a life when her heart lay in two very disparate places? She held out the sheath of papers that had spilled from Thomas’s satchel, her fingers trembling against the edges. “May I beg a favor, Mr. Bentley? Would you please give these to Lord Branston? They do not belong to me.”
“Eh?” He cupped a hand behind his ear. “You want a song?”
She shook her head. “No, belong.” She pressed the pages into the postmaster’s hands. “Remember, give them to Lord Branston. He needs them most.”
And hopefully, with this gesture, he would see she was delivering the decision back into his hands.
THOMAS RETURNED TO his lonely house and tossed his lonely satchel onto his lonely table.
It fell awkwardly, the contents spilling. A handful of wilted plants and a few lizardi
te rocks fell out, the stones rolling noisily across the table. He stared at the mess, his brain slowly registering the obvious. His proposal was missing. Not that it mattered anyway.
It wasn’t his decision. It never had been.
His gaze landed on the clock that sat on his mantel. It was a quarter past noon. Had it really only been a few hours since he’d held her in his arms? Kissed that wide, laughing mouth, and other secret places, the very act of loving her so right, so heartfelt, he felt as though it had been his future spread out before him?
And now she was on a coach to Salisbury, bound with all due haste for London.
Christ, but what had he done?
Or rather, what hadn’t he done?
Lucy had invited him to come with her and he’d hesitated. No, that wasn’t quite the truth. He’d refused. It had been an automatic response, borne of three years of practice. But had he done so to protect his sister, or because he was afraid of how Lucy might see him there?
After all, he had gone to London. Just last week.
But therein, he suspected, lay the problem.
His last trip to London had been disastrous. He’d succumbed to the temptation of the bottle far too easily, and the glimpse he caught of his sister had left him more haunted than relieved. But it wasn’t the thought of his sister that had him tied up in knots now.
It was the thought of Lucy.
What if she saw him as he used to be, out of control and angry with the world?
There was so much more at stake now that he knew he loved her.
A knock on the front door startled him from his thoughts. Surely he’d heard wrong. He hadn’t heard a knock on his front door in . . . well, forever. Everyone in town understood his need for solitude and respected those boundaries.
Everyone, that was . . . except Lucy. She was not a woman who respected boundaries.
And God, how he loved her for it.
He charged to the front foyer and pulled open the door, only to choke back a snarl of disappointment as he realized it was only the vicar standing on his doorstep.
“Good afternoon, Lord Branston.”
“Reverend Wellsbury. I am afraid now is not a good time.”
“No, I can see it is not. And that is why I really must speak to you about a matter of grave importance.”
Thomas swiped a weary hand across his face, knowing he was being rude, not sure if he cared enough to correct it. Finally, he offered a grudging nod. “All right. Come in, then.” He stepped aside, motioning the vicar in. “What brings you here?”
And why couldn’t it have been her, instead?
“A mistake, I hope,” the vicar informed him, stepping into the foyer. He looked around. “Good heavens, boy, where is your bag? Do you want to throw it all away?”
Thomas gaped at him. “I beg your pardon?”
The vicar drew himself taller. “You let Miss L return to London without you.”
Understanding dawned. “She wanted to go.”
“Bollocks, boy.”
Thomas stared at the man. Had the reverend just said . . . ?
“I’ll say it again. Bollocks.” Reverend Wellsbury began to pace. “Bollocks to your pride, to hers, to all of it. Pride is a terrible sin, particularly when it suffocates love. I don’t care what she’s done or where she’s gone. The only thing that matters now is what you will do. Do you think love is so plentiful, so easy, that you might ever expect to love another the way you love her?”
“But . . . how did you know?”
“That you loved her? I have eyes in my head, don’t I? I can see the way you look at her, and the way she looks at you. I recognize the signs because I can look back and see them in myself. You love her. And yet, you are letting her go?” He shook his head, disgusted. “I let my pride get in the way of forty years of potential happiness. A life I might have shared, if only I’d seen fit to bend a little, at the start. And I see it all happening again. Well, bollocks to that.”
“Er . . . should you be saying that word?” Thomas asked uneasily.
“Because I’m a man of God?” The reverend rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m a man first, and I’m saying it for her. It’s what Miss E would have said. And she’d also want me to say this as well: don’t wait too long to make this decision. Not as we did.”
Thomas blinked, beginning, finally, to understand. He’d long suspected an attraction between the pair, however much they seemed to deny it. There was too much anticipation in their exchanges. Miss E had actually seemed to look forward to church on Sundays—an odd reaction, considering how she all too predictably heckled the sermons.
“Reverend Wellsbury,” he sighed. “I appreciate you coming, and you should know, I want to go. To follow her. And yes, I love her. So much it hurts to breathe around her. But . . . if I go to London, I may prove myself unworthy of her. And then I shall have even less than a chance of changing her mind.”
“Bollocks to that as well. Miss E had faith in you, you know. Not only that you would stay sober, but that you were a good man. But if you stay here, you will prove her wrong.” The vicar’s mouth, finally, began to stretch into a smile. “And you and I both know, Miss E was never wrong.”
Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore
April 2, 1853
Stubbornness, I’ll allow, is one of my most significant flaws. Even now I am stubbornly resisting my body’s weakness. Some say your life should flash before your eyes as your last breath draws near, but in truth, I see only the life I hadn’t the courage to live.
I would like to say I have no regrets.
But a lady shouldn’t lie—even to herself.
When he heard I was ill, Reverend Wellsbury came to hear my confession, and oh, what a confession it was. His confession, not mine. He held my hand and told me he has loved me for nigh on forty years. Moreover, he asked me to marry him and gave me the most beautiful serpentine necklace as a token of his love. I declare, if I’d known a little infirmity was the key to unlocking this truce, I might have pretended to be dying decades ago.
But I am not pretending now. Whether we have days or hours left, I will make them count. I accepted his proposal, and gladly. And if I could reach out to my younger self and offer a bit of advice . . . I would encourage myself to listen to my heart a little more and my pride a little less.
A life well-loved is a life well-lived.
Even if that realization comes nearly too late.
Chapter 27
Lucy closed the cracked leather cover of Aunt E’s final journal and leaned back against the seat of the Cardwell coach as it carried them away from the train station. Tears blurred her eyes, and her hand crept up to tangle with the serpentine pendant she still wore about her neck. A token of love nearly lost.
At least she understood its significance now.
No matter how she might wish it, there were no more pages to read. The date of the final entry in the last of her aunt’s diaries was the date of her aunt’s death.
Outside, the chaotic streets of London were giving way to the order of Mayfair, which meant Cardwell House would soon be looming into view. But she was too distracted by her aunt’s final words to focus on her homecoming. To read her aunt’s dying revelation felt like the cruelest of jokes. Was this why Aunt E had asked Reverend Wellsbury to send her the diaries? Her aunt had not, after all, actually been able to reach back in time and give her younger self the advice she’d longed to.
But perhaps Aunt E had realized she could still offer that advice to her niece.
And the advice imparted in that final page . . . it changed everything. Lucy had imagined she was following her aunt’s guidance, holding herself apart from love, a determined spinster to the end. But the truth was, she had missed Thomas from the moment the wheels of the coach began to roll away from Lizard Bay. She should have tried again to convince him to come to London.
Should have accepted his proposal and lived wherever fate dictated.
Should have told him she loved him in return.<
br />
Should have, should have, should have.
Aunt E’s life was made entirely of that regretful refrain, it seemed. But what refrain would best describe her own life?
And was it too late to change?
“I know your mother will be pleased to have you back,” her father said beside her, by way of making conversation. “She’s been frantic with worry, trying to sort out how to keep the London gossips from catching wind of your little adventure.”
Lucy wiped a quick hand across her eyes and sighed. Her mother was worried. Over her safety, or over the embarrassment of a missing daughter? After all, the Season had already started, and she had gone missing for the first crucial week, when impressions were best made and flirtations established. In all likelihood, her mother was livid beneath that purported worry.
Finally, the cab was slowing, a footman helping her down. The polished marble steps of Cardwell House seemed to go on for miles. But before she could climb them, the front door burst open and Lydia came tearing down the steps.
“Oh, you beast,” her sister cried, wrapping her arms around Lucy and shaking with emotion. “I can’t believe you left without saying a word! But I am so, so glad you are back. I’ve missed you terribly.” She pulled back, her blue eyes shining. “I want to hear everything about your adventure. Did you really go to a town called Lizard Bay? It sounds quite odd.”
Lucy shook her head, smiling. “It isn’t odd. It is lovely.” And in truth, she was already missing it. But she could scarcely explain before apologies were made. “Can you forgive me for not telling you I was leaving?” She looked beyond Lydia’s shoulder to see her mother step out onto the front steps as well. She winced to see her mother’s rigid posture, her fixed smile. “Can you both forgive me?” she asked, louder now. “I . . . I’m sorry I destroyed the Season you worked so hard to plan, Mother.”
“There is nothing to forgive.” Lydia’s voice rang firmly, and she glanced over her shoulder at Lucy’s mother. “And nothing has been lost. We conspired a way to cover for you.” She turned back, a delicate blush staining her cheeks. “I . . . I may have gone to two balls and a musicale this week, pretending to be you.”
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