He snorted. “That’s impossible. It won’t work.”
Elizabeth flung her head with disdain; clumps of hair stuck to her neck. “Watch me.”
Henry tethered the horses to a birch tree and began to survey the dam, pointing out the flaws and explaining why, regardless of her efforts, she’d fail. Edward waited until they were thick into their first argument before perching next to me and reaching into his pocket. He withdrew a handkerchief containing wrapped treacle toffees and extended it to me.
Half-expecting him to yank it out of reach when I attempted to take a piece, I moved cautiously, eyeing him for any hint of deception. When my fingertips cooled as they touched the shade, I decided against the treat. Mama was worth more than all the toffee in the world.
Edward grinned as he figured out my oddity; then, with a smile, he thrust the toffee fully into the bright ray. “Here, take them all. I ate so many I got a bellyache last night.”
Within minutes, Henry was knee-deep in the creek, carrying the rock for Elizabeth to prove that her plan wouldn’t work by showing her himself. And Edward had fisted a reedy crimson dragonfly, which he pinched between his thumb and forefinger so I could admire it.
Within an hour, I’d forgotten all about Mama and was following Edward up a tree, scraping my knees in order to see a nest with baby robins.
That afternoon when we returned home, I found Mama reclining amongst the roses, watching Mrs. Windham’s garden. Her mouth stretched as if smiling, but her eyes remained sad. They lit up with surprise, however, when I deposited the untouched toffees in her lap. “My word,” she said. “How thoughtful you are.”
My heart throbbed with gratitude toward Edward for the ability to give her something as I quickly unwrapped a piece for her.
To hear Edward’s confession that I mistook that day as the one we met elevated my heart rate. It is an awful experience to have the scaffolding of your life in continual collapse. “What do you mean that wasn’t the first time you saw me?”
“I caught sight of you the year prior, when you were playing alone in a field near Am Meer. My tutor was sick with grippe, and I’d fled the estate before he could wake and assign me work. You couldn’t have been more than four or five winters old and you were leaning over, kissing the flowers, telling them if they were good, you’d sing them to sleep. Your hair was unbound and nearly reached your knees.”
I turned completely onto my stomach to better view him. “Are you certain that was me? It doesn’t sound like me.”
“It was you. Your song was a shamble of childish ideas, but fascinating to listen to. Amused, I lowered myself into the tall grass to ponder you for a bit longer.”
I frowned, wishing I could be certain the memory was of me. “What happened?”
“Your mother stormed out of nowhere and yanked on your arm, scolding you. I watched as your soul closed itself like a poked woolly caterpillar. I felt as I had the day I saw someone stone a dove. It was hard to watch your spirit become crushed. But I saw, Juls; I saw. Later, when we met at that stream, I recognized you. Your countenance was withdrawn, but I already had glimpsed you. It’s why I could always coax you out of your shell. I’ve witnessed your truer self.”
Why those words should have made me feel threatened and near tears, I could not say. But I did at least finally recall the incident, though vaguely. My stepfather had been particularly cruel before we took our absence, and Mama had arrived in pain and was out of sorts for the first fortnight of our visit. Apparently I’d wandered off and Mama had spent nearly an hour searching. When she found me, she was already frantic and then discovered I’d ruined my only pair of stockings.
“Consider now.” Edward’s whisper distilled over the empty chamber. “Consider the One you’ve never been hidden from. The One who watched you while you were yet in the womb, dreaming his plan, waiting to make you his lover. His goal for you isn’t me, but him. The more you understand him, Juls, the more you’ll turn toward his guiding light.”
I pressed as much of my body against Edward’s side as I could, unable to release my need for the tangible enough to reach out and cling to the shadowy infinite. “Even so, I rather prefer you.”
I chuckle now as I envision how alarming those words must have sounded to a vicar. For to any member of the church worth his salt, I’d just confessed idolatry. Thank heavens Edward had keener insight and was less judgmental with me than others. Rather than rebuke, threaten that God might remove him, or lecture me on how to think, he just pulled me tighter, though his voice grew drowsier. “I can’t always be your lodestone, though God may permit it for a time.” He shifted a shoulder, adjusting his position for comfort. “Ask him to mature you.”
His chest rose in a deep breath, something I would learn was a sure sign he was falling into slumber. I lay with eyes open, not quite sure what conclusion to draw from today.
As Edward’s body loosened with sleep, I wondered what his former parishioners would make of his tenderness toward me. How could he so firmly rebuke them, yet so patiently lead me—and yet be the same person? I stared at the wavering firelight on the ceiling, feeling secure in the warmth of Edward’s presence.
The idea flitted through my head that there was a sort of holiness to this moment, that God was closer than a hairbreadth—that he hovered, waiting to see whether I would heed Edward’s advice and invite maturity. All it would take was a prayer, a simple mental invitation.
I still hadn’t forgotten my belief that I’d been told my path included suffering.
The invitation was like being told to reach your hand into fire without foreknowledge of whether or not it would burn.
What if I didn’t want anything more than this? What if I was content to simply be a wife and not one of those radical people who shunned all else in their pursuit of God?
I shut my eyes, trying to tell myself it was all my imagination, to go to sleep. Eventually, to my quiet dismay, the sensation passed.
PINPRICKS OF ALARM pierced through my sleepiness. As groggy as I felt, my first inclination was to turn onto my stomach and return to a deep slumber. But gradually I became more aware that Edward was missing. I sat up, taking stock of my surroundings. Outdoors it was still dark enough for me to view a sprinkling of stars, though they were diminishing in the tinge of light that grew over the distant hillocks. His clothing and shoes that I’d seen near the hearth were gone.
I rubbed my tired eyes. How was it possible that Edward was already awake? He’d had less sleep than I had.
Though exhausted, I mustered enough energy to stand and enter the murky hall. There, shades of night webbed the corners.
“Edward?” I whispered, praying I wouldn’t wake Thomas or Jameson.
The only response was a distant creak.
“Ed?” I tried again, slightly louder.
My voice distilled throughout the hall and into the empty rooms, amplifying the unnatural silence. I pressed my lips together, not liking how creepy Windhaven was when clothed in darkness. Where was he?
Pressing my elbows against my sides, I turned, trying to decide which direction to go first. This certainly solidified the need to tell him about Macy. He needed to know that we weren’t exactly safe, and if he was going to wander off, the very least he could do was tell me where he was going and when I could expect his return.
I bit my lip, imagining what his daily routine might look like. He’d been living by himself so long, he’d probably just woken and was going about his daily business. Which was what? He didn’t have a parish. The unemployed have no business to tend to.
I squeezed a fistful of my skirt, trying to remember what Sarah did first thing in the morning. I had a vague notion she used to start her day in the kitchen, boiling water. I frowned. Had Thomas packed the cast-iron pot I’d seen hanging yesterday over the hearth?
Lifting my skirts, I carefully felt my way toward the back of the house. Using the stone walls to guide me, I took tentative steps. It was impossible to see, for the doors were al
l shut and I didn’t want to open them, being uncertain which chambers Jameson and Thomas were in.
I waited until I reached the end of the hall and had started down the small flight of kitchen stairs before risking a louder call. “Edward? Are you down here?”
There was no answer, and the kitchen too was dark. Stumbling, I made my way back up the steps. In the hall, I opened the first two doors but found only the stiff garments that Jameson and I had hung to dry yesterday. I looked again in the room I’d woken in, but it contained only the blankets Edward and I used last night. The room next to ours revealed Jameson and Thomas slumbering near the hearth.
For half a moment, I lost my resolve to remain calm. All I could think was that I couldn’t stand losing one more thing, one more person—especially not Edward. Drawing a deep breath, I shut my eyes and forced myself to admit how ludicrous my thoughts were. If Macy and his men were on the property, they wouldn’t have just stolen Edward in his sleep without awakening me.
I carefully shut the door so as not to wake the servants and proceeded down the hall in the other direction. Already it was less dark. The next chamber I checked was larger—the one I’d have used as a parlor, for it afforded a near-panoramic view of the enfolding countryside. Here, at last, through the window, I located Edward.
I sagged against the timber of the doorframe, fearing my knees might buckle.
He stood with his arms outstretched to the rising dawn. He made motions as if pushing against the sky and exclaimed aloud with a passion I could see, if not hear. Even though I was afforded a view of only his profile, the words he lustily cried out seemed to rend his soul.
I stepped farther into the room, entranced.
Here were depths of Edward that I was helpless to plumb. Not even I, his beloved, had ever evoked such pathos. Instinctively I knew he was praying. No rote supplication was this, given by a bland-faced vicar, spoken in sibilant tones to a benign congregation. Here was a living flame on touchwood, ready to start a raging blaze.
I bit my lip, wanting to know what sort of a prayer evoked such intensity.
Before I could think better of it, I went to the window, climbed onto the bare window seat, and unlatched the brass hook holding the fixture shut. Wind purled through the chamber as I gave the window an outward push, bringing in the fresh scent of morning.
Edward had finished whatever he’d been petitioning for, and he stood as if drinking in the carmine light of the sunrise.
Then he stretched forth his arms toward the flaming sun. His face was inscribed with a tearing passion as he cried, “And this, Lord, this too I will not withhold. I lay down this parish and give it back to you. You know, O God, you know that I have faithfully served them. That I did not neglect my duty. But have mercy on me where I failed through neglect. Bind the broken and bleeding ones that I failed to see. Have mercy on me if, by my marriage, I’ve caused the little ones to stumble.”
He remained in a posture of worship by sheer determination—Atlas holding up the sky. “And this home, Lord, and all the plans that I had for it—” anguish colored the tones of his strained vocal cords—“I lay it down. Not a mite do I withhold. I am yours. Yours to direct and to send, though this path pains me. I petition that you open the doors for us to stay here, but even if you do not, I will serve you.”
One moment it seemed to me that grief devoured Edward, but in the next it was replaced with an ardor that also consumed him. To any outsider, he might have seemed like a zealot, but it roused in me memory of London House—where I’d prayed and a sense of the vastness of eternity pressed down upon me and I felt undone.
I tightened my hold on the brass fitting. How did Edward manage to remain so long in its wind-fire? For it was plain to me that it wasn’t the sunrise captivating him.
“And my wife, Julia,” Edward released next, “Lord, her too—”
With a swift tug, I shut the window, blocking my ability to hear his next words.
As I backed away from the window, my shoulder hit the mantel, and I placed the backs of my hands on my cheeks, which felt flushed.
That morning as we jounced in the carriage, I sat opposite Edward and studied him anew. Without expression he fixed his gaze on the pastoral views and quaint village of his boyhood home. He reposed in ease. Not even his fingers moved with restlessness.
Frustrated with him, I turned my head and forced myself to watch the brown cows pick their way through the gorse. I shifted in my seat, still unable to accept his prayer from this morning. Part of me was in complete disbelief he’d included me. After all we’d been through, it felt unbelievable.
God would find no such offer from me.
No Abraham was I. My number wouldn’t be counted amongst those who risked the person they loved most by placing them on the altar. I would raise no knife with the brash hope an angel would cry out for me to stop. Especially not after my fright that morning.
To use Edward’s image of being shipwrecked, I had been on the verge of drowning when a large enough piece of wood finally washed within my reach.
The cold, distant light of a star above was comforting—as something familiar, as a reminder that there were fixed points I could use to better navigate next time. Yet when one is floundering in the water, stars are impractical compared to the immediate hope of driftwood.
By that time, I knew the mantra that Edward could never fulfill God’s place in my life. But that platitude was like commanding a drowning person to stop sinking and simply swim.
My soul possessed an edge, like a sharpened knife, and I wasn’t afraid to cut through the should-be’s and address what was actually there. Instead of joy abundant, I felt deep, pressing grief. Instead of peace that passed understanding, my soul screamed—every minute of every hour—with grief and loss and worry over how and when Macy planned to retaliate. I wanted to demand of Edward whether my mourning was acceptable to God as well. Or whether doubt was ever allowed to be part of the canvas of someone’s life.
Nevertheless, I hungered for a taste of what Edward possessed, but I knew how extravagant that price tag was.
Thus I closely watched him as our carriage lumbered through the last remnants of his former life, and I wondered how he disentangled himself so easily. Only as we passed the region of the church did he finally show something other than acceptance. His eyes lingered briefly on the steeple, which jutted from behind the hillock. His countenance took on the very quality of sorrow before he resolutely shifted his eyes to the road, where opaque puddles reflected the cloudy sky.
At twilight, Edward found shelter with a merchant who was willing to house our party in his barn. He’d eyed Edward’s collar, then my father’s carriage, before giving us a curt nod. Thomas studied me with bewilderment as he and Jameson bunched together hay for bedding. Though he didn’t say anything, his wonderment that I’d chosen Edward over Isaac couldn’t have been clearer.
I clung to Edward that night as rats ran along the crossbeams above us, knocking straw and dust over us. The musk of manure blended with the sweet smell of hay, competing with the ammonia stench that rose from a century of dried horse urine. I shut my eyes, still able to distinguish Edward’s scent, knowing I would prefer to be with him there than in any palace.
The following evening as we neared Maplecroft, I twisted my wedding ring beneath my glove, finally allowing my mind to touch upon Isaac. The thought that he might be in attendance at Maplecroft when we arrived unstrung me. The more I reflected, the more I realized how traumatic our disunion had been. I’d left with the vague hope that in years to come we might meet again as friends. I never imagined we’d be forced back together within a week. It was horrible knowing I’d broken his heart, but I could think of nothing crueler than to intrude upon his healing. How many people who’d been jilted weeks before the wedding were forced to live with the newlyweds?
I eyed the first dim stars, realizing if Edward didn’t find employment that included a living situation for us soon, I’d have to face Isaac across the
breakfast table on the morning that would have been our wedding date.
“Are you ill?” Jameson asked. “Do you need fresh air?”
I clutched the side of the carriage and shook my head, feeling too heavy to speak.
“We’re nearing Eastbourne,” Edward explained in a low voice. He crossed over to the seat next to mine and placed a supporting hand on my shoulder. He leaned forward and started to tug on the shade. “Shall I draw the curtain?”
“No,” I said, touching his arm. “I want to see it.”
Edward’s lips pursed, but he released the shade.
In the darkling twilight, Eastbourne was as mesmerizing as Macy himself. My breath caught to think that I was its rightful mistress. In the only portion of the house that displayed life, yellow light poured from staggered lancet windows onto the massive lawn. Though the daylight was dimming, I clearly made out the grotesques hunched on their parapets and the various spires rising from the rooftop, adding to its grandeur. Elsewhere I traced shadowed rooflines of various edifices, stunned anew at how sprawling the ancient estate was.
Without intending to, I touched the cool glass, filled with longing. I peered at the countless windows and vast halls.
Surely the first time Macy laid eyes on this estate, it was on this very spot. Had his thoughts been similar? Had he wondered how he’d manage such an expense? Or had he started planning even then to descend upon society as a cruel and avenging angel?
Unaware I was doing so, I touched my neck where he’d given me those marks that had tipped Edward’s anger.
I settled back into my seat and found Edward watching me with disappointment.
Jameson, likewise, peered from beneath tufted brows. Realizing how it must appear, I opened my mouth to explain but then snapped it shut. It was wrong to expose them to such deadly knowledge. I swallowed instead. When the silence expanded past endurance, I finally whispered, “I learned something of Eastbourne’s history while living with my father, that’s all.”
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