by Karey White
One more thing Charles does for me, she thought with a smile.
As she headed downstairs to the kitchen to help her mother with supper, Charles remained in her thoughts. She rolled out two pie crusts, deciding to somehow mail the second pie to Charles and hope it arrived in one piece. He deserved a pie, and more. Or perhaps she should try mailing something less fragile, like cookies.
She hadn’t realized such men existed, ones who genuinely wanted to know a lady’s opinion, even if he disagreed, which he sometimes did. They’d gotten into playful arguments over the merits of a certain Dickens novel, for instance, an activity she couldn’t have imagined ever engaging in before, let alone enjoying.
She put the second crust into the tin and pressed it into place with care. How long would their long-distance friendship last, realistically? Another few months? A year or two? While some people managed to carry on such friendships for years and years, she worried that Charles would soon tire of her. She’d run out of interesting things to say, and his attention would be drawn away by the Emma Tanner of Toronto.
As she fluted the edge of the crust, she frowned. She hadn’t revealed that she was plain, that she had no extraordinary talents and tended to follow instead of lead. That she’d never stand out in a crowd unless it happened to be part of a competition involving calculus or a Latin conjugation.
Enjoy this while it lasts.
Chapter Four
For the first time in memory, Jane sat in the Aid and Culture Society meeting with the plan to say something specific. When Emma would ask for input or suggestions for upcoming activities, Jane would raise her hand and suggest they go to the theater while the touring troupe of Peter Pan was in town for the next week. Jane felt as if her heart was in her throat; she could hardly breathe for nerves. In one palm she held the folded note she’d written up with the suggestion, a small piece of torn paper which grew moister by the minute. If Emma didn’t ask for suggestions soon, Jane might very well leave without saying a word. Again.
She’d never dared speak up with something like a suggestion before. Normally she sat quietly, answering with affirmative replies when required, signing up for whatever charitable activity or performance was on deck. Today was different. Charles had given her the courage to speak up. She’d determined that she must attend the play so she could report on it in her next letter, as she had yet to finish all three of the books he’d recommended, which she was determined to do, and she had to have something new and fresh to write about.
But speaking up in the meeting would be hard; she wished it weren’t necessary. Alas, it was; attending the play alone was absolutely out of the question. She’d feel as if she’d been abandoned by a beau or not popular enough to attend with a friend. And she would face all of that in front of hundreds of people. No, she could speak up here, with only twenty or so young adults to avoid that kind of humiliation.
Looking about the room, she counted how many were in attendance. She reached seventeen before pausing in her count; Thomas Allred had his eyes trained right on her. He sat directly across from her, so there was no mistake. Odd. She blinked in surprise, and he smiled back, making her smile in return. She reined in her smile quickly, however; how forward of her to smile at a man. She was no flirt.
At long last, Emma opened the floor to other business, and Jane forced herself to stand right away, before anyone else got up and she lost her nerve entirely. Especially now that the Allred boy kept looking at her. Why was he doing that?
Emma’s eyebrows went up with apparent confusion at seeing Jane stand. “Leaving already?”
Jane had to swallow a knot forming in her throat. Emma had all but handed Jane a way to escape. She could walk out now, pretending that doing so had been her plan all along. As the thought crossed her mind, her hands tightened into fists, and the note dug into one palm. No, she had to speak up. For Charles.
I must have something worth writing to him.
“I have a suggestion for a future cultural activity,” Jane managed, so quietly, she wasn’t sure anyone had heard.
Emma leaned against the desk at the front of the room and folded her arms. “By all means, tell us.” She gestured to the floor before her, telling Jane to come forward and make her presentation.
Why couldn’t Jane have simply made her little speech from her spot at the edge of the circle?
Go and go now. Her gaze flitted nervously across the room and landed on Thomas again, who still had his focus on her and his smile aimed her direction. Odd. He’d always been kind and polite to all of the girls, but he’d never given Jane this much attention, not ever. Still smiling, he nodded encouragingly. Why he gave her attention today after more than a decade of virtually ignoring her, she had no idea, but his friendly expression calmed her frantically beating heart just enough for her to walk to the front of the room.
She cleared her throat and tried to speak loudly. “You all may have seen the announcements in the paper of a touring theater troupe in town. They’re performing J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan, which was later adapted into a novel.”
Several nods and murmurs in the affirmative. Thomas’ smile turned into an all-out grin. Did he enjoy the theater, then?
Or is he making fun of me?
His expression and rapt attention disconcerted Jane; for several seconds, she lost her train of thought entirely. Instead of her suggestion for the club, all she could think of was that Thomas had an aquiline nose, bright blue eyes, and strawberry blond hair with the slightest bit of a wave. That he likely needed a haircut, but how he looked handsome in a disheveled kind of way when his hair was longer and a bit messy, as it was today. And how had she not noticed before?
When Jane didn’t go on— how long had she been silent, staring at Thomas?— Emma continued for her, taking the note from Jane’s hand and reading the details. “The Saturday matinee has the most affordable price, but the Thursday show has the most tickets available.” She looked up. “I suppose we should put this to a vote. Who wants to attend the play as a club?” Emma set the note on the desk beside her then looked around the room with an air of someone who had no interest in the affair.
Jane looked about too, willing hands to go up. Don’t make me go alone. Mother would never come along, and I have no other friends to invite. This was a horrid mistake. She had to attend; she couldn’t let Charles down. But alone? Oh, I’ll die.
Finally, one hand went up. Thomas’. All eyes turned to him, several people wearing surprised expressions. “I’d like to go. I’ve always wanted to see that play. I hear it’s quite fun.”
From beside him, Priscilla rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it for children? We’re a bit old for fairy tales, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think anyone is ever too old for a good story,” Thomas said to Priscilla. Then he deliberately turned to face Jane, to Priscilla’s clear dismay. “I can go either day. You choose.” His response was so unexpected, so kind, that Jane had to scramble for words. When she didn’t answer immediately, his eyes dimmed. “Unless you don’t want to go only with me. I can fully under—”
“No,” Jane interrupted. “I’d be happy to go with you. How about the Thursday evening show?”
“At seven?” Thomas grinned broadly. “It’s a date.”
A date? Not really. Jane shot him a quick smile of gratitude, nodded, and returned to her seat. Her face felt awfully hot, but for the first time in memory, she didn’t particularly care if other people noticed her blushing.
Chapter Five
Thursday evening, Thomas arrived at the theater with forty-five minutes to spare, wanting to be certain he didn’t miss Jane’s arrival, and that they were in plenty of time to buy tickets. He went straight to the box office, where he purchased two. He’d prefer it if she didn’t attempt to pay him back. Paying for her ticket would feel more like they were actually courting. But he’d gotten the tickets for practical reasons too: he wanted to buy them both, because the tickets could be sold out later, or worse, that they’d
end up sitting apart. As he slipped the tickets into the breast pocket of his vest, he thought of openly courting Jane, something he’d wanted to do ever since they’d started exchanging letters almost three months ago. Ever since he’d realized what an extraordinary, beautiful woman she was. How had he not noticed before? The signs had always been there; he saw them at society meetings, now that he looked for them.
He’d been so blind. Now, every letter captivated him. He’d realized with stunning surprise that shy Jane Martin had grown up beside him into an intelligent, beautiful woman, and she’d done so without him knowing it. She’d always been quiet. As he paced before the theater, he wished she’d spoken up at least a little so he’d have known earlier what a jewel lay beneath the surface of her quiet demeanor.
Thomas checked the sidewalk for her in both directions and across the street. When he didn’t spy her, he pulled out his pocket watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed since his arrival. Of course she wasn’t here yet; the play wouldn’t start for another thirty minutes.
What would he say when she did arrive? Maybe it was a good thing she wasn’t here yet; he had time to compose himself. He shoved his hands into his pockets and once more paced before the glass doors of the theater, back and forth, consumed to distraction over what he’d say to Jane. More importantly, how could he win her over so she’d see him as something beyond another member of the Aid and Culture Society? She clearly cared for Charles, who was technically Thomas, although he’d worked on creating a voice for Charles that sounded refined and intelligent. But he was Charles. She just didn’t know it. Yet. How could she find out— and not hate him for it?
Anxious, he tugged on the hem of his vest, not that it needed straightening. Then he adjusted his cravat, which he’d already tied to perfection at home an hour previous while his best shoes had dried from being polished. He wanted everything to be just right. His challenge for tonight and beyond included far more than Jane finally seeing see him as something other than another boy from their school years. In a very real sense, he was competing with the image of himself he’d created on paper in the form of Charles Percival Wharton. What a stuffy name Thomas had invented. He was growing to hate Charles.
His eyes were trained on the ground as he paced in thought, brow furrowed. When a pale yellow dress appeared in his view, he caught himself, nearly tripping as he came to a stop to avoid careening into the woman. He sputtered an apology and looked up, his words cutting off at the sight of Jane. Her hair was down, reaching just past her shoulders, and gently curled. She wore a matching yellow headband that went across her forehead and had a beaded leaf design on one side. Her cheeks had more color in them than usual, which could have been from the cold, but he wanted to believe was because of their impending evening together. Even her lips seemed to have a bit more color than usual. She looked angelic. Had she, too, spent extra time getting ready tonight? The idea made his stomach twist pleasantly.
“Hello, Thomas,” she said. With a gloved hand, she indicated the box office. “Shall we buy our tickets?”
“Yes. I mean, no.” His fingers seemed all thumbs as he fumbled in his pocket. Finally he produced the tickets. “I already bought them. Mezzanine, right in the center.”
Jane smiled, her eyes brightening. In response, his mouth curved into a smile of its own. Had her eyes always sparkled so?
“That was very thoughtful of you,” Jane said. “Thank you.”
“You’re— you’re more than welcome,” Thomas stammered, grateful that the sudden tightness in his throat had eased enough for him to speak. “Shall we?” He reached for one of the doors’ large handles and pulled it open then gestured for her to go inside.
She thanked him and passed through. He followed, feeling a strange mixture of emotions. So far, things were going swimmingly. But after their letters and the deep conversations they’d had in written form— wherein they’d both shared so much straight from the heart— acting so formal, and as if he didn’t know her heart, drove him to distraction.
He had half a mind to take her by the shoulders, proclaim, “I am Charles,” and kiss her soundly right there in the lobby. He couldn’t do that, of course. Aside from the potential of embarrassing Jane by kissing her in public, he couldn’t bear to think that she’d hate him for pretending to be someone else. He needed to find another way to gently let her know. Or perhaps he could win her over as himself, and Charles’ letters could simply fade away.
They showed their tickets to an usher, who gestured up a staircase on one side of the lobby. They made their way up and looked for their seats. Jane walked ahead, and the entire way, Thomas couldn’t help waves of guilt from washing over him, replacing the pleasant thumping of his heart and flipping of his middle he’d enjoyed a moment before.
I’ve been lying to her.
But I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t supposed to last, and it wasn’t supposed to turn into this.
He’d expected to write one or two quick letters as a harmless way to smooth over Emma’s ruffled feathers and make sure Jane didn’t feel jilted.
“Is this right?” Jane asked, pointing to a seat.
“It sure is,” he said.
She took her seat, and he took the one beside it. They sat so close, he could smell her perfume, which had a hint of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on— hazelnut, perhaps? Vanilla? Whatever it was, he knew it intimately from the scent of her letters, and the smell had become dear to him. Except for his conscience nagging at him, he would have been quite happy to sit there all night, eyes closed, inhaling her aroma.
But he was also wearing his cologne. Did she recognize it? He calmed the worry by assuring himself that many men wore the same cologne. She’d never suspect.
Jane flipped through her playbill and read parts. “Are you familiar with the story of Peter Pan?”
“Somewhat,” Thomas said, banishing thoughts of her perfume and cologne and his deceit. He was grateful that the house lights would soon hide his face, including any expression or blushing that would betray his guilt. Plus, he’d be able to breathe in her perfume without anyone noticing. “I read the novel that was published after the play, but it was years ago, and I’m sure I’ve forgotten a lot of it. I’m curious to see the original on a stage.”
She gazed stage-ward. “I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice going softer as he took in her profile. She was beautiful, with soft curves, almond-shaped eyes, and skin that could have been mistaken for porcelain if she hadn’t had a smattering of tiny freckles across her nose and the tops of her cheeks— freckles he’d come to be quite partial toward.
He continued to marvel at how he’d lived so close to her for so long without being conscious of her beauty. Yet he knew the reason well enough: “flashy” girls like Emma, Priscilla, and several others created a different kind of effect. Their clothing, hair, jewelry, and hints of makeup tended to outshine the simple, natural beauties beside them. The attention inevitably stayed on them. Jane had slipped past his awareness until he’d seen her without the baubles and noise of the other girls masking her real self.
Jane turned to face him. “Thank you for coming with me,” she said, leaning toward him and speaking quietly, something Emma and the others would never do. They would speak loud enough for audience members rows away to hear. “I wanted to see the play so very much, but I couldn’t bear to come alone.” She didn’t know, of course, that he now knew all about her shyness and lack of confidence around other women.
“It’s my pleasure, I assure you,” Thomas ventured. “I never knew we shared a common interest in theater.” There. He’d made an attempt to connect their interests. A first step toward a courtship, perhaps. A tiny one.
“Truth be told,” she went on, “a friend wrote to me about how much he enjoys the theater, and in my last letter, I promised to see this production and report on it.”
Everything this evening seemed to return to Charles. Thomas’s teeth ground togeth
er with illogical envy.
“I had to see it,” Jane said. “I’m sure you understand.”
He had to force his jaw to unclench. “Of course,” he said, working on keeping his voice pleasant. Who’d have ever thought that he would become rabidly envious of a fictional man he’d invented? More, a man who had the same opinions, thoughts, and feelings Thomas himself held? Who, in all reality was Thomas, except for the name, a fake mailing address, and an occasional high-brow phrase? It made little sense, yet the envy was there, changing into grief and hopelessness. He’d lost her heart to someone else and had no chance of winning it.
Worse, he’d concocted a situation where Jane’s heart was bound to be broken, because Charles was a figment of his imagination.
Except that Jane actually sat beside her beloved Charles— Thomas was the man in the letter, but she didn’t know that, of course. A distinct disadvantage.
The house lights finally dimmed. He breathed out heavily and settled in to watch the Darling children in their bedroom. Although he’d anticipated seeing how the novel differed from the stage play, his attention kept wandering to Jane, who remained rapt, as if she was taking in every detail and committing it all to memory so she could write about it. Her next letter would likely include a long description of everything about the play, from the sets and costumes to the actors. Surely she’d leave out the detail about going to the play with a male friend. For the first time since the beginning of their correspondence, he dreaded getting a letter from her.
I was there, he’d want to say in reply. Right beside you.
Melancholy consumed him. He watched Jane out of the corner of his eye. Against the glow of the stage lights, her skin seemed almost alabaster, flawless. He couldn’t continue to pretend. He had to say something. Perhaps at intermission, he could find a way to tell her the truth. She’d have to stay for the end of the play, and when it ended, she would have had time to think through it all. If she’d become angry, her emotions would have had time to settle during the final act. Perhaps by the time the curtain fell, she’d realize that he truly cared for her as Charles did, because he was Charles.