by Karey White
Her mother opened the door a crack. “Will you come down anyway? You have a visitor.”
Jane froze in place then slowly rotated to look at her mother. “Who is it?”
“Thomas Allred. He says it’s urgent, and I believe him. He looks quite ill.”
“Good,” Jane said shortly. At her mother’s horrified expression, she sighed and shook her head. “Tell him I’m unwell and can’t see visitors.”
Her mother opened her mouth briefly, but at Jane’s terse shake of her head, she relented. “I’ll tell him,” she said and quietly clicked the door shut.
The nerve of the man trying to talk to her now, after his lies had come to light!
She fumed, marching to her bedroom window, where she peered through a crack in her curtains and watched Thomas walk away. Part of her wanted to call him back so she could demand answers, but the other part reminded her in no uncertain terms that he was not to be trusted.
She’d almost come to the conclusion that she loved Thomas, and that Charles would always be nothing more than a dear friend. How wrong she’d been. After ten minutes of pacing and ranting against Thomas under her breath, Jane finally calmed down enough to see reason. Somehow she would continue to write to Charles, even if that meant giving her letters to his mother, Mrs. Allred, the postmistress herself. Jane could still attend school in Salt Lake to become a secretary. No one would know her there.
It’s that or never leave the house for the next decade, she thought miserably as she pictured life as a cloistered nun. Her eyes strayed to her bookshelf, which had a collection of the Brownings’ poetry. She straightened her back and decided to be the woman Charles believed her to be. She’d study the Brownings’ work then write Charles a nice, long letter all about it.
She fetched the book then settled on her bed with two pillows at her back and began reading. Robert Browning had plenty of satirical and dark poetry, with men killing off their wives and such. Yet he had a softer, and often tragic side, too. After an hour, she turned to Elizabeth’s work and read until the room grew dark and she had to turn one of the family’s new electric lights to keep reading.
She lost complete track of time as she’d immersed herself into poetry. Most of it had been a balm to her wounded soul, especially Robert Browning’s satirical pieces. She pretended that the duchess who was murdered was really Thomas. The fictional act had a feeling of justice in it, and she had to smile.
Then she came to one of Elizabeth’s poems, and all of her confused emotions, including the feelings she’d felt for Thomas, which she had started to call love, all came flooding back. The end of one poem in particular cut her to the center.
I must bury sorrow
Out of sight.
—Must a little weep, Love
(Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
Loved by thee.
A tear splashed onto the page. Only then did she realize she was crying. She still cared for Thomas. Or at least, she cared for the man she’d believed him to be.
Another knock at her bedroom door startled her. Once again, her mother cracked the door open, but Jane shook her head and wiped her cheeks with both hands. “I’m not seeing him.”
“He’s not here,” her mother assured her, opening the door further and coming inside. She crossed to the bed and sat on the edge then took Jane’s hand in hers. “I don’t know what’s happened between you, but whatever it is, I’m terribly sorry.”
Jane leaned into her mother’s embrace and cried hot tears. When she pulled away, her mother was holding out an envelope. “He did drop this off, though.”
Jane just stared at it as if it might be a viper.
“I think you should read it,” her mother said. “If you could have seen his face when he gave it to me, you’d know how tormented he is.” At Jane’s snort, her mother insisted. “Just read it. Will you do that much?”
With a deep sigh of resignation, Jane held out her hand for the envelope. “I’ll read it. I promise.”
“Good.” Her mother leaned in and kissed Jane’s cheek. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Mama,” she said with a weak smile as her mother left then shut the door behind her.
What could he possibly have written? And what could he say that could make any difference? With the desire to get the misery over with, she opened the enveloped and slipped out a piece of stationery that looked oddly familiar— ivory, with one deckle edge. The writing was similar too— a dark blue fountain pen, and long, slanted strokes.
Jane’s heart sank uneasily. What did this mean? This letter was from Thomas, wasn’t it? Not from Charles? She cautiously read the short letter.
Dearest Jane,
For you have become dear to me, although I hadn’t expected it when this all began. Please let me explain everything, and let me do so face to face. All I’ll say here is that everything I ever wrote to you as Charles was true, and everything I ever said as myself was true too. And whichever identity you choose to see me as, the deepest truth is that I love you.
Her eyes widened. Thomas was Charles? How was that possible? She gazed into the darkness out her window and tried to comprehend what it meant. She’d told Thomas the deepest thoughts and desires of her heart? As anger threatened to mount, she thought through what he’d written. He’d shared just as many private thoughts and feelings with her. And he said they were all real.
And that he loves me. Her mind spun, trying to create order out of the chaos her world had been shattered into.
I did wish for one man made up of Thomas and Charles, she thought. Oh, the irony.
There was more writing on the page. He had written out the entirety of number 43 from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
All my love,
Thomas
Beautiful words, but did he mean them? Oh, how she wanted him to mean them and to believe he felt them. But it was easy to quote words written by someone long dead. She noticed a post script.
P.S. Meet me at the park tonight at nine o’clock. I beg this one favor of you.
Should she go? Jane could hardly think. The clock said she had an hour to decide. She got off the bed and paced for a moment but then went to her writing desk, where she opened the drawer containing all of Charles’ letters, bound with a pink ribbon. And Jane spent the next hour rereading the letters with the understanding this time that the writer behind them had been Thomas all along.
Her Thomas.
If he really did care, if this wasn’t some joke, then maybe she could meet him.
And if he didn’t care, perhaps going would help her sort that out as well.
If I don’t go, I’ll always wonder.
Decision made, Jane went to her vanity table. She fixed her hair and powdered her nose, although she wished the powder would cover the splotches. She finished her attempt at beauty with a thin layer of pale lipstick. Perhaps it would be too dark for him to be horrified by her appearance. She checked the clock. It was already time to go.
Chapter Seven
Thomas sat on the bench at their usual meeting place at the park, his head in his hands, his fingers grabbing chunks of hair. He’d been there eve
r since leaving the note with Jane’s mother. It had been a long hour. Would she come? And would she give him a chance to explain? If so, would she believe him? Would she be so cross that all hope for a relationship was already gone? The thought of losing her was more than he could bear. Someone might as well shatter his heart into a thousand shards.
At long last, he heard footsteps against the dirt and gravel of the path. He looked up, his heart aching with anticipation. Dark as it was, and with a lamppost behind the woman, he couldn’t quite make out who it was at first. He stood, and waited, and hoped as the figure drew nearer and her features resolved. Jane.
“I’m so glad you came,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. But her wary expression made him regroup. Of course she was still angry. Hurt. And it was his fault. He went to her side and held out his arm. “Shall we?” he asked as he had several times before.
She didn’t take his arm. “Not for the moment, thank you,” she said in a painfully polite voice. She walked forward with her hands clasped before her.
He nodded. “Very well then. I suppose I deserve that.”
“Yes, you do,” she said as he caught up to her.
“You must believe that I never expected this.” He glanced over and noted her jaw tightening, so he hurried to go on. “I never meant to hurt anyone. I did it at first as a favor to Emma so she could save face because there weren’t enough letter friends for everyone. I didn’t expect that I’d come to—” His voice cut off. He wanted to say the words he’d written. To tell her face to face that he loved her. But he couldn’t get another word out, not unless she spoke first.
“Emma knows, then?” Jane asked, distraught.
“No. She thinks I found you a letter friend from a different area of Canada. Not that they were from me or that it became—” Again his voice failed him. He cleared his throat. “On my honor, Dorothy is the only person who knows, and I told her only to be sure that your letters weren’t actually shipped off to Toronto.”
“Why would you care if they had been?” Jane asked. “They’d eventually be returned when the postman couldn’t find the address.”
Thomas took a few steps before replying, weighing his words and hoping he’d pick the correct ones. “It mattered because I could not wait for your letters. You can’t possibly understand how hard it was to wait long enough between them for me to dare to send one back so it would look like your letter had gone to Canada, and then his— I mean mine— had traveled back.”
Jane’s face softened slightly, and she tilted her head toward him. “Really?”
“Before our letters, I had no concept of how truly wonderful you are, in every way. We’ve practically grown up at each other’s sides, yet you were hidden to me.” He stopped and turned toward Jane. He reached for her hands, and— glory!— she let him take them. “Jane, you have become dearer to me than any woman I’ve ever known. I wanted to find a way to put an end to the letters, to let you know the truth, but...”
A slow smile crept across Jane’s face. “I think I understand.”
“You— you do?”
She nodded. “Ever since Peter Pan, I knew you were different. At first, I wished you were Charles, and I felt guilty for wanting to be with you instead of him.”
The moment hung suspended in time as they gazed into each other’s eyes. Thomas softly grazed her jaw with his thumb. “You are so beautiful…”
Jane caught her breath. “What…” No other words came out, but her cheeks flushed the most fetching shade of pink.
“I can’t get your eyes out of my mind. Or your freckles. You have just the right number, you know. Your smile is warmer than the sun. Shall I go on?”
She smiled shyly and lowered her gaze as if hearing a compliment about her appearance for the first time. “I just never—”
He reached forward, and with one finger, he lifted her chin so their gazes met again. His heart pounding, he found himself murmuring part of an Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem. “‘Eyes in your eyes...’”
Jane’s smile spread, lighting up her eyes. She was even more beautiful when she smiled like that, especially now, with the lamppost’s golden light making her look like an angel. She leaned closer, enough that he could almost feel her breath. There was her perfume again. “‘Lips on your lips...’” she whispered, finishing the line, but her voice went up as if it was a question.
He pulled her closer and complied, pressing his lips to hers softly at first, then, as she responded, more fervently. He held her tight, unwilling to let the moment go as the warmth of joy and love erupted inside him.
Mrs. Browning’s sonnet repeated in his mind. He knew he’d spend years counting the ways he loved beautiful Jane Martin.
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ANNETTE LYON is a Whitney Award winner, a two-time recipient of Utah’s Best in State medal for fiction. She writes historical fiction, romance, and women’s fiction, and has also published a cookbook and a grammar guide. She’s a senior editor at Precision Editing Group and a cum laude graduate from BYU with a degree in English. When she’s not writing, editing, knitting, or eating chocolate, she can be found mothering and avoiding the spots on the kitchen floor.
Find her online at http://blog.annettelyon.com and on Twitter: @AnnetteLyon
Chapter One
1908—England
Lucy Quinn reread the solicitor’s letter as she sat in a jostling carriage that was taking her and her mother to Quinn Manor. She couldn’t quite believe the words of the notice she’d received three weeks before, even though she was now traveling with her mother to said Quinn Manor, located in Stanmer Park, several hours south of London.
As sole heir, you have inherited Quinn Manor, including all of its properties and possessions.
The place was built in the early eighteenth century, Lucy had learned in her research of her father’s family. Her father’s death three years before had apparently left Lucy as the only direct descendant. Her uncle Jonathan Quinn, the eldest brother, never had children and had recently passed away.
Lucy had never met any of her father’s English family, as she’d been born in New York, although she’d been named after her great-great-aunt Lucille Quinn, who’d never married and who had died in her thirties. Curious about the ancestor she was named after, and, of course, interested in learning more about her other relatives, were two reasons for making the long journey.
She glanced over at her widowed mother, who had finally dozed off. It seemed her mother had more questions than Lucy herself did. But one thing was certain, Lucy wanted to see Quinn Manor before she sold it.
Lucy turned to look out the carriage window and let out a sigh as she peered at the countryside rolling by, where the colors of green were touched by the autumn oranges, yellows and reds. It was beautiful in its own way, as was her home in New York. Lucy definitely enjoyed her family’s stately three-story home on a wide avenue where shops, restaurants, and theaters were only a short carriage ride away.
She was American through and through, so although the notion of living on an English estate was quite romantic, it was far from practical. Not to mention her practically engaged status with Robert Jamison. He had offered to come on the trip, but last-minute business had kept him in New York. Robert was always busy, it seemed, though when he did pay her attention, she felt like the luckiest girl in the world.
Robert had sent along some articles for her to read while she was in England. “Your sketching is nice, but not really a conversation piece,” he’d told her more than once. It was only natural that Robert expected his wife to be well-versed in economics and politics. Lucy didn’t mind Robert’s suggestions— she wanted to be the best companion, and if that meant reading boring articles on the state of the American economy so she could have intelligent conversations about it, then so be it.
As she thought of the sketch papers and pencils she’d also brought, she allowed herself a secret smile. She’d find the time to read Robert’s artic
les, but she also fully planned to never forget this trip— and drawing it would be better than writing about it.
Lucy kept her gaze on the window as they turned off the main road onto a narrow lane. Majestic trees lined this lane, seeming to reach the cloudy sky above. It was September, before the legendary English rainy season, but even so, the sky did not look promising.
Her mother stirred next to her. “How long have I been asleep?” Mrs. Julia Quinn’s hat was askew, and her brown eyes were a bit dull from sleep.
“Maybe an hour,” she said, then stifled her own yawn.
People said Lucy looked a lot like her mother with her brown eyes, wavy brown hair, and fair skin that freckled in the summer.
Her mother straightened, fixing her shawl about her shoulders. “We must be arriving soon, right? I had no idea this place was so far from London.”
Lucy turned her attention to the window again. In truth, she wasn’t exactly sure how far Quinn Manor was from London, but the fact that they were now on a lane more like a country path gave her some hope they’d soon arrive.
The carriage slowed, approaching a rather large gate, nearly as tall as the carriage.
She reached for her mother’s hand. “I think we’ve arrived.”
Sure enough, the carriage came to a stop, and the driver climbed down. Through the window, Lucy watched him push open the gate, then climb back up onto the driver’s seat. They jolted forward again, and Lucy couldn’t keep her eyes from the estate.
A massive lawn, littered with autumn leaves, led up to a two-story manor that looked like a painting from a storybook. A gorgeous fountain sat in the middle of the still-green lawn, and closer to the house was a mass of rose bushes, all intently blooming as if competing with each other. Dark green ivy climbed the edges of the home, reaching for the dozen windows. To the left side of the house stood a forest of trees, their leaves brilliant shades of orange, yellow, and red, bright even beneath the clouds.