Summer Is for Lovers

by Jennifer McQuiston

  David felt as close to shattering as he had that day, when the posted letter had arrived at Preston Barracks bearing the news of Elizabeth’s death. “That day, eleven years ago, I had just received a letter informing me that Elizabeth had died.” His voice might have belonged to a different man, so gruff and coarse did the words sound. “That is why I was in the water.”

  He could see her start to reshape the events of that day in her mind then, twist it from the fantasy she had been nurturing into the far more adult understanding it required. “I . . . I thought you had been drinking.”

  “I had been drinking. That is the usual way of things when you cannot face the world through sober eyes. You see, I didn’t just lose Elizabeth that day. She was carrying my child when she died.”

  “Oh my God.” Caroline went still, her face drained of the color that had just been flying high only moments before.

  David stared down, seeing Caroline again as she had been that day. A twelve-year-old innocent chastising him for circumstances she did not have the power to understand. Even now, she still didn’t appear to fully comprehend what he was saying.

  Then again, how could she? He wasn’t sure he understood. Eleven years had passed since he had turned himself over to these memories, and he found himself struggling to wrap his mind around the enigma that had been Elizabeth Ramsey. He could still taste the swirl of emotions that had come with his first taste of love.

  God, he had been such an idiot.

  “Her father was the town rector. Hell, brimstone, damnation. But that did not stop my desperation to have her.” David hovered on the edge of his confession, trying to remember. His very soul objected to dredging up the messy business, but he owed Caroline a more complete explanation than he had previously provided at the pavilion, given that she seemed to have imprudently decided his was a soul worth redeeming.

  “I was brash, bound for the army. It took scarcely a kiss to coax Elizabeth to send me off in style. I offered for her, after. Not that a mere offer could make it right. But it was a conversation we should have had before we tumbled into bed, because Elizabeth had no intention of becoming a military wife.”

  Caroline studied him, her eyes needle-sharp. “It sounds as though it was her choice, if she declined your offer. Why do you blame yourself?”

  “Because I failed her.” He recalled the pain Elizabeth’s rejection had wrought, as acute as the slash of a saber, but it had been tinged with the slightest bit of relief too. That, even more than her senseless death, was what had tormented him all these years. There had been no reckoning for him to face, no choice to make. He had not been required to abandon his dream of joining the army, even though in his heart he had known it was the right thing to do.

  Elizabeth had made the decision for him. He had been too selfish to insist.

  And he had lived with that guilt now for eleven long years.

  He drew in a deep breath. “I killed her.”

  That, finally, brought a bloodless gasp from her lips. “Surely you jest.”

  David shook his head. “This is not a joke, Caroline. I left Elizabeth in Moraig when I bought my commission, even though I knew the possible outcome of the choices we had made. I killed her through my neglect, as surely as if I had strangled her with my own hands. I told her to write to me if she found herself in difficulty, and I would come. But I did not understand that letters from home were held by the commanding officers until our initial six weeks of training was completed. I received Elizabeth’s letter telling me she was with child, and the letter from my mother informing me she had taken her own life, on the same day.”

  Beyond her shoulder, David could see that Branson had spied them. The man was even now threading his way toward them around the edge of the ballroom. David plowed on, knowing he had but seconds to finish this. “I am no saint, no gentleman, lass. You may think you see honor in me, but I assure you there is far more to fear than to admire. I came very close to killing myself that day, but I did not even possess enough decency to manage that. Living with the knowledge of what I had done, of what I had lost, proved a more fitting penance in the end.”

  Branson rounded the potted palm, a hopeful smile strung on his face. David extracted his hand from Caroline’s. He hadn’t even realized she had still been gripping it. “So now you know why I cannot love you. Even if I tried, I would destroy what is beautiful in you, the same way I destroyed it in Elizabeth. That is why I am not the right man for you.”

  He pushed her toward Branson. Toward a future she might not believe she wanted, but which was undoubtedly better than the one she sought with him.

  “That is why I am not the right man for anyone,” he added.

  And then he walked away.

  DEAR GOD, SHE was in love with him. Completely, irrevocably, stupidly in love.

  And he was in love with a ghost.

  Caroline watched him leave through the open doors of the ballroom, and all the air seemed to be sucked from the room with him. Her pulse was still bounding in her throat. She had laid her heart bare, not caring that he was a man of meager means, or that in choosing him she might be letting her family down. She could think of nothing beyond the fact that the man she had loved for eleven long years had just held her in his arms on the dance floor, and made her tremble with a want so sharp it hurt to draw breath.

  And then that same man had also just confessed a past so sordid, any sane woman would bolt for safety.

  “Is everything all right?” Mr. Branson peered up at her, his brown eyes round with concern.

  Caroline tried to smile, though she feared the gesture came out more as a grimace. “I am fine,” she assured him. “Just a minor disagreement with Mr. Cameron.”

  “It appeared to be more than a minor disagreement.” Branson’s jaw worked sideways, as if testing the veracity of an idea. “Shall I speak with him? Call him out?”

  Caroline smothered a hysterical laugh. “That will not be necessary, thank you.”

  She felt no compunction to expand on the nature of the argument. Indeed, she felt protective of David and his terrible secret. How must he be feeling? God knew she felt raw from the encounter. Even Mr. Branson’s confused gaze burned like an open flame. David claimed he had killed the woman he loved.

  How did one respond to a confession like that, particularly when she had just ignorantly petitioned to be the next woman he might love?

  He hadn’t been merely drunk and foolish. He had tried to kill himself, that day in the surf. She could not regret saving him. Never that. But in those moments before he had turned away from her, in the seconds it took to explain why he could never love her, she had glimpsed the stunted and scarred nature of his soul.

  She loved him desperately—she could see that now, how the seeds of infatuation had begun to change into something far more adult, almost from the point of seeing him again. She understood how rash mistakes could happen, particularly in areas of the heart. Her body’s own wild response to David’s touch told her there were primitive undercurrents to her soul that might be nigh on impossible to control.

  And so she did not blame him, not to the degree he blamed himself. He could claim he lacked all honor, but the fact he had spent eleven years in purgatory showed her the truth. But if he would never permit himself to move beyond the pain of his past, Caroline couldn’t turn that into a future.

  In that moment, she hated Elizabeth Ramsey. The girl had rejected David’s offer of marriage and then taken her own life. How peculiar to feel such a knife’s point of jealousy for someone eleven years dead, a woman who had fallen to such tragedy. But there was no doubting the emotion wrapping its green, strangling tendrils around Caroline’s throat. Elizabeth Ramsey might have died young, but she had taken David’s very soul with her to the grave.

  “Would you care to dance, then?” Branson asked, treading on her thoughts.

  There was no denying she needed a distraction of some sort. And yet tonight, the thought of spinning in Mr. Branson’s arms felt
about as appealing as splinters in her stockings. She didn’t want to dance. She wanted to follow David. She wanted to dissect the conversation, to remember how it had felt to dance in his arms when she had still believed he might want her.

  But it was clear, in the manner in which he had removed himself and in the way he had pushed her toward Mr. Branson, that David wanted nothing of the sort.

  No, dancing was not to be recommended, not with her feet so numb and her stomach tied up in knots. “I believe I might prefer a glass of punch,” she told Mr. Branson, chasing her words with what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

  The young man nodded eagerly and offered her his arm. “Shall we, then?”

  She placed her fingers lightly against the smart woolen fabric of his evening coat and let him pull her toward the nearby room where the refreshments were being served. It felt wrong to be here, a suitor on her arm. Somewhere in the night, David was mourning the love of his life.

  And here, in the brightly lit ballroom, with the vibrant music hammering her senses, Caroline was mourning the loss of her ignorance. Because if only she could skip back in time, she might still believe she could capture such a man’s heart.

  Chapter 27

  FOR THE THIRD day in a row, Caroline woke alone in her room.

  Though she had slept a few hours, she felt anything but refreshed. The ball had stretched on until two o’clock in the morning. But it was last night’s argument with David, rather than the late hour, that had her feet dragging as she went about her morning ablutions. She had thought she could help David overcome his tragic past, but now she realized his reasons for refusing her were more complex than a simple case of mourning his first love.

  David blamed himself for the girl’s death.

  And Caroline reminded him of her.

  She would have liked to talk things through with Penelope, to use her sister as a sounding board against the tumult of emotions that tossed inside her. But Pen’s bed was as neatly made as it had been yesterday, and it seemed clear that whatever else her sister might have done, it had not included sleep.

  This time, she did not need to pick up Penelope’s journal to sort out where her sister was. Pen had danced twice with Mr. Hamilton last night, although she had also danced with a handful of other gentlemen. And while Caroline found she could not begrudge her sister a few stolen moments with the man, she did resent being left to explain her absence to their mother.

  Because Penelope had not arrived by the time she made her way down for breakfast either.

  “What do you mean she’s gone out for a walk?” her mother sputtered over the rim of her floral-patterned porcelain teacup, the one with the chip on one side. “It’s only ten o’clock in the morning!”

  “She mentioned wanting to take in the sunrise.” Caroline looked down at her plate, her thoughts still swirling around David’s revelations of last night. She tried to distract herself with the more looming problem of breakfast, which this morning consisted of toast made from the remnants of last week’s loaf of bread and a single poached egg. The egg had been placed on top of the bread, preventing any attempt to dress the ensemble up with jam or butter. Caroline sighed as she recognized the telltale signs of Bess’s creativity to stretch the family’s food budget. Apparently the expense of her new gown was already showing up through the loss of breakfast staples.

  “Which doesn’t explain why she’s missing now.” Mama’s mouth turned down. “The sun came up several hours ago.”

  Caroline squirmed in her chair, unable to come up with anything more logical to explain Pen’s glaring absence from the breakfast table. And then she breathed a sigh of relief as the sound of the front door slamming reached her ears and Penelope came barreling into the dining room, a newspaper tucked under one arm.

  “Morning, Mama.” She kissed their mother on one cheek, then placed the paper down on the table before taking her seat. She bowed her head a quick moment, muttered something like a prayer beneath her breath, then opened her eyes to blink at her meager plate. “Er . . . where is the rest of br-breakfast?”

  “The more pertinent question is where were you?” Mama prompted, a hint of steel in her voice. “It is not like you to be gone so early.”

  Pen passed the newspaper down the table before reaching for the teapot. “I went out to get a c-copy of the Gazette. I thought we all would enjoy reading the social section. It is sure to mention Caroline, after her success at the b-ball last night.”

  Caroline looked at her sister with a rising sense of unease. Clearly, Pen had come prepared, with a ready excuse tucked up under her arm like that. There was much to admire in how neatly her sister, who was new at this process of subterfuge, deflected her mother’s questions. Then again, hadn’t Caroline provided her ample room to practice, asking Pen to cover for her afternoon walks?

  Mama’s expression softened to a more tolerable state. “That was thoughtful of you, dear. But we can’t afford to spend our money on such luxuries as the Gazette anymore.” Their mother pushed the unread paper back across the table. “I am afraid things are going to be tight around here in the near future. Our bill to Madame Beauclerc is due next week, and we still have several dresses planned for both of you. Purchasing a copy of the paper merely to read the on-dits is an indulgence we cannot afford.”

  Pen swallowed the bite of dry toast she had taken and offered a tight smile at their mother’s rebuke. “I shall try to r-remember, Mama.” She picked up the paper. “But as long as we have it today, why don’t we take a look?”

  Caroline paused, her bite of egg halfway to her mouth. Her memories of last night were not ones she cared to revisit in the company of her family. Had word of her disagreement with David found its way into the Gazette? Or worse, what if someone had overheard their conversation, and printed something about David’s past?

  But there was nothing to be done, because Pen was already opening the paper. “Oh my g-g-goodness! It says here that Duffington proposed to Caroline last night!”

  “What?” Their mother snatched the paper out of Pen’s hands in a display of sharpened claws that quite belied her common claims to having been born a lady.

  Caroline slid down in her chair. How had a Gazette reporter found out about Duffington’s proposal? Her stomach had already been feeling a bit off, but what little she had consumed threatened to make a return appearance now. Clearly Mr. Duffington was a man who could not be trusted to keep any sort of counsel.

  “Oh my word.” Mama’s blue eyes met hers. “Is it true?”

  “Er . . . yes.” There was little Caroline could do but admit it. Because wishing he hadn’t wouldn’t make it go away.

  “Oh, I knew the investment in Madame Beauclerc’s services was going to be our salvation.” Mama’s cheeks shone pink with excitement. “That dress was divine, if I do say so myself. Have you decided whether you shall accept him? Imagine, if you did, you would be potentially in line to be a countess, Caroline.”

  Caroline opened her mouth to say she didn’t want to be anything of the sort, only to be interrupted by her sister. “She should w-wait to give him her answer.” Pen busied herself refolding the paper with great care.

  “Why? Duffington would be excellent choice. Provided she gets on with him, of course.” Their mother’s blue-eyed gaze turned probing. “Do you like him at all, dear? I mean, enough to contemplate marriage? He isn’t the most handsome of your lot of suitors, but there is more to life than the way a man looks.”

  “Mr. Duffington is nice,” she hedged.

  “And his family is wealthy,” her mother prompted.

  Caroline studied her hands, examining the ragged beds of her nails. “I suppose.”

  “Mr. Branson d-danced with her last night too, after . . . well, after the first waltz.” Pen paused for breath, before plunging back into her stilted speech. “She never lacked for a partner, not once during the evening. And Mr. Hamilton mentioned to me he was looking to take a wife within the year.” Penelope fixed Caroline with a
look. “She should not make any rash d-decisions where Mr. Duffington is concerned.”

  “But I thought you liked Mr. Hamilton,” Caroline protested, her head swirling from the rapid volley of conversation that threatened to unseat her.

  “I have more of a b-business interest with him,” Pen said matter-of-factly. “He told me just last night that he was thinking of asking you to accompany him to the race on Monday.”

  Caroline narrowed her eyes at her sister. She could well imagine what kind of business her sister had with the young, red-haired, cheroot-smoking photographer, and she was not going to have any part of him.

  “I wasn’t the one who danced with him last night,” Caroline told Pen. Or snuck out to meet him this morning, she mentally tacked on to the statement.

  “He couldn’t get on your dance c-card.” Penelope offered her a sly smile. “Something about it being full.”

  “But—”

  Bess bustled into the dining room, chattering like a magpie whose nest had been turned over. “Oh, Mrs. Tolbertson, there are two gentlemen, and they are both insistent on seeing Miss Caroline right away. I tried to explain you were eating breakfast, but Mr. Dermott just walked himself back to the parlor and—”

  Caroline pushed back from the table, her knotted stomach loosening. “Mr. Dermott is here?”

  Bess nodded, wringing her hands. “And Mr. Branson too.”

  Caroline picked up her skirts, determined to sort this out. At the least, the morning’s new event promised a ready excuse to avoid finishing her miserable bit of breakfast. Branson she might have expected, but Dermott’s presence was an admitted surprise, given they had shared no more than a single dance last night.

  Well, and that single, unfortunate kiss two weeks ago.

  Both gentlemen were waiting in the parlor, pacing on opposite walls. Their heavy masculine footsteps sent her mother’s glass figurines rattling on the mantel, and their presence bristled above the feminine frippery, as if seeking which delicate thing to tear down first. Caroline pasted a smile on her face as she walked in and put a steadying hand on the fragile sculptures. “Good morning. What brings you here so early, gentlemen?”