“I took your virginity,” he said baldly. “I took it, believing you had no choice—”
“Oh!” She reared back and kicked him in the leg.
He barely felt it—she’d not been aiming to hurt him—but she hopped briefly on one foot as if her own toes stung with the blow.
“No choice? Even if the promissory note had been real and enforceable, I had a choice. I could have pawned my mother’s wedding ring for the funds. I could have let James take his chances with the magistrate and debtor’s prison. I could have married another man—I’ve had offers, you know, from well-to-do gentlemen who wouldn’t blink at paying ten pounds in pin money. Do not think me such a poor creature as to be confined so easily without choice. I chose you, and I would choose you again and again and again.”
It was sheer torture to hear those words, to look into those blazing eyes and not take her in his arms.
“And, as we are speaking of debts,” she said grimly, “what of my debt to you?”
“What debt?
“Ten pounds. You paid ten pounds to save me from having to choose between those unpalatable options. And do not tell me you did it to force me into your bed—because you and I both know that if I had said no, you would never have enforced the note. I am deeply in your debt.”
“You’re talking nonsense. It’s nothing.”
“Nothing? Bread with no butter? Tea, persuaded to give up its flavor seven or eight times? Don’t tell me ten pounds means nothing to you, William. I know you better than that. Tell me—with all the uses to which you could have put that windfall, did you even hesitate to dedicate it to my service?”
“It certainly doesn’t signify,” he continued. “Mere money, in comparison with what you’ve given me.”
“So it’s nonsense, what I owe you. But what you owe me is a tremendous burden, one that can never be repaid? Love is not about accounting. It’s not lines on a ledger. You cannot store up credit and redeem yourself at some later date, not with gifts or deeds or any number of coins, no matter how carefully you bestow them. You repay love with love, William.”
She watched him expectantly. All he had to do was move forward, into the space she claimed. His hands would find hers; her lips would naturally lift to his. And she would be his. His partner—but in this game of better or worse, and sickness or health, all he could offer her was poorer and poorer and yet poorer again.
If she’d built an unstable house around the two of them out of romantic notions, it was best to kick it to twigs quickly.
“It’s nonsense,” he said. “It’s nonsense because I don’t love you.” He forced himself to look in her eyes, to take in the hurt spread across her face. Her pain, her rejection of him, would be his just reward. But better to hurt her once than to drag her into joint misery with him.
But she did not flinch away. Her eyes did not cloud with tears. Instead, she shook her head, very slowly. A shiver ran down William’s spine. She stretched up on tiptoes and set her hands on his forearms. Her warm mouth pursed a finger’s breadth from his. It would take her only an instant to place those soft lips against his. And if she did—if she kissed him now—she’d recognize his words for the obvious lies they were.
“William,” she said softly. Her breath was the sweetest cinnamon against his lips. “Do you think me such a goose as to believe your idiotic assertions, after all this?”
“Oh?” The word was all he could manage—one syllable, trying to breathe a world of distance between them.
“Oh,” she said with great finality. “You are hopelessly in love with me.”
He’d tried to run. He’d tried to keep himself from that realization. But she pronounced sentence upon him as a matter of fact, as if she were reading the price of cotton from the morning paper. And she was right. He could not admit it, not aloud. Instead, he leaned down and rested his forehead against hers in tacit acknowledgment. Yes. I am hopelessly in love with you.
It didn’t change anything.
She stepped back and let go of his arms. He felt her departure like a palpable blow to his gut.
“As it turns out,” she said quietly, “I haven’t any use for hopelessness.”
He couldn’t have her. Still, her rejection felt as if she’d kicked him not on the leg, but rather higher.
“Lavinia, I dare not—”
“Dare,” she said, her voice shaking. “That’s a command, William. Dare. Hope. If you won’t accept my gift, I won’t accept yours. And you really, really, do not want to know what I shall have to do to come up with ten pounds.”
And with that, she turned and walked into her family’s circulating library.
EVEN THOUGH IT FELT as if three days had passed, it was still early morning when Lavinia came quietly up the stairs. She came as she’d left, her quilted half boots in her hand. But when she reached the top landing, she discovered she was not alone. James sat, awake and dressed, at the kitchen table. He watched her come into the room, watched as she hung her cloak on a peg and set her footgear on the floor. He didn’t ask where she’d been. He did not accuse her of anything. He didn’t need to; she accused herself.
She felt adrift. Her gaze skittered across the room and fell on the books where she’d kept the family accounts. How many times had she stared at those figures? How many times had she wanted to make them right, hoped that if they were correct, that everything would be right?
She’d imagined herself saving enough pennies so she could pick out a scarf for James—something soft and warm. She’d wanted to swaddle him up and keep him safe. But she’d held him so tightly he’d never learned to do for himself.
Instead of giving him safety, she’d handed him powerlessness. Instead of gifting him with stability, she’d robbed him of the capacity to survive in rough seas. She’d smothered him with competent, loving efficiency.
Lavinia swallowed a lump in her throat and walked across the room, away from James. She’d left the account books open on the desk last night. Careful entries on the page looked up at her. Hadn’t she just said it?
Love is not lines on a ledger. You repay love with love.
She shut the books gently and placed the smaller atop the larger. Even now, it bothered her that the two ledgers were of slightly different sizes, and so could not be aligned properly. She gathered them in her arms, uneven though the stack was, and walked across the room to where James sat.
He didn’t say anything. She sat down next to him and placed the heavy volumes on the table.
Still he didn’t open his mouth.
Finally, Lavinia let go of the doubts bedeviling her heart and pushed the books across the table toward him. “Here,” she said abruptly.
It turned out, her brother was not the only one who spoke a foreign tongue. A stranger off the street might have thought she was giving her brother so much bound paper. But she knew without even asking that James had understood precisely what she’d just said.
I was wrong. You were right. I’m sorry. I trust you.
She’d once heard a Scotsman boast that up north, they had a hundred words for rain. Mizzle clung to coats in wet, foggy mists; rain dribbled down. On dismal, dreich days water fell in plowtery showers. When liquid falling from the sky was all the weather you had, you manufactured a lot of words to capture its nuance.
Maybe there was no language of Younger Brother or Older Sister. There was only a language of families, a tongue woven from a lifetime of shared experiences. Its vocabulary consisted of gestures and curt sentences, incomprehensible to all outsiders. Inside, it wasn’t difficult to translate at all.
I love you.
James didn’t say a word in response. Instead, he put his arm around her and pulled her close. She ruffled his hair. A hundred awkward and unwieldy words, all coming down to the same thing after all: I love you.
WILLIAM HAD THOUGHT he’d made up his mind to refuse Mr. Sherrod’s solicitor. But Lavinia had dared him to hope. If she was willing to forgive a black stain on his honor, ought he not be pre
pared to swallow a little oiliness in exchange?
He’d met the man at first light, early on Christmas Eve. They’d had an appointment in a dingy upstairs office, just off Fleet Street. The solicitor had dressed for their morning appointment with sartorial stupidity. He wore a ghastly waistcoat of red-striped purple—or was it purple-striped red?—paired with a jacket and trousers in a cheap, shiny blue fabric. An ostentatious gold-headed cane leaned against his chair.
“Right,” the solicitor said, shuffling a pile of papers on his desk. His tone was all brisk business. “I assume we’ve come to an understanding, then. You’ll file for relief in Chancery, contesting Mr. Sherrod’s will on the grounds of insanity. I will protest, saying that the foibles of his mind were precisely what one might expect in a man of his age.”
“And then I’ll get the money?” Two weeks ago, five thousand pounds might have meant surcease from drudgery, an escape from his cold world. It would have meant hot fires and fresh meat and large, comfortable rooms. Today, he could think of only one thing he wanted. Five thousand pounds meant Lavinia. It meant he could ask her to marry him, selfish idiot that he was. He could lift his eyes to her face. He could offer her everything she deserved—riches and wealth, without any hint of privation. She would have everything of the best.
No. Not everything. The man that came with it would not be up to her standards.
“Well,” the solicitor hedged, “you might not get the money immediately. You might have to wait until after Chancery has sorted matters out, after it has conducted a hearing or…or two on the matter. But surely then, you’ll have his fortune.”
She would want him to grasp at any chance for her. Wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she want a man who was able to hope?
William swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. “What would I have to tell the courts?”
“Simple. Tell them Mr. Sherrod was mad. Manufacture stories, explaining that he saw things that were not present, that he spoke to pixies. Find folk who would attest to such tales. It would be a simple matter, if you paid—ahem, I mean, if you found enough of them.”
“You expect me to lie, then.”
“Goodness. I would never suborn perjury. I want you to tell the truth.” This supercilious speech was somewhat weakened by a wink. “The truth, and nothing but the truth. A hint of embroidery, though, would not be amiss. Think of a court case like a woman’s frock—you hide the parts of the figure that are not so flattering, and frame the bosom so that everyone can look at the enticing bits.” The solicitor made a gesture in the direction of his own chest. “Just enough embellishment to convince the court of your claim, hmm?”
No matter what this greasy lawyer told him, William was fairly certain he had nothing but a tiny chance at success. He might not find people to testify. The court might not believe them. Sherrod’s widow would undoubtedly claim otherwise. Still, a tiny chance was a chance nonetheless.
Was this hope that he felt, this grim determination to see the task through? Was it hope that wrapped around his throat, choking him like a noose? Was that morass, sinking like a stone in his stomach as he gritted his teeth and prepared to do business with this oily man, what he needed to accept?
Yes.
He opened his mouth to give his assent.
But as he did, he heard that voice again.
You don’t have to do this.
The voice was wrong. He did have to do this. Today, when he went in to work, he might lose everything. He might have no position, and Lavinia could be pregnant. He had to accept any chance, no matter how small, that could help.
No, you don’t. You don’t have to do this.
This time, he recognized the words for what they were. They didn’t come from some outside agency. He was the speaker. Even if he denied it—even as he betrayed himself—he’d always retained some semblance of his honor. It had not disappeared. It had simply been here, waiting for him to follow.
For so long, he’d simply believed he had sunk so low in society that he did not dare to lift his face. Oh, yes, he’d dishonored himself. But he couldn’t find honor by seeking forgiveness. He could not wait for Lavinia or anyone else to absolve him of his sins.
If William ever hoped to have some measure of honor, he had to be an honorable man.
The solicitor must have seen his hesitation.
“Think,” he said, “on the revenge you could take on the man who destroyed your father.”
He’d dwelled on that dark thought for a decade. But how could he expect forgiveness for his own sins, if he could not grant absolution to the man who’d wronged him?
He would have to give up any chance at those five thousand pounds. That meant he would give up any chance at having Lavinia—but then, when Lavinia had told him to hope, she hadn’t meant that he should hope for her.
She’d wanted him to hope for himself.
“No,” he said. It felt good in every way to know that he could choose to be honorable, even knowing the cost.
Confusion lit the solicitor’s face. “No? What could you possibly mean by no?”
“No, I won’t embellish the truth past recognition. No, I won’t tell lies. No, I won’t seek revenge to keep you in Chancery fees. I’m not that kind of man.” He had been, once, but he was no longer.
“Who will ever know that you lied?”
William shrugged. “Me?”
“You?” The solicitor laughed in scorn. “Well, trust in yourself, then. You’ll not deliver yourself from poverty.”
William stood. He’d thought his soul had depreciated until it was worth less than nothing. Strange he’d not realized: it always had precisely the value he chose to give it.
As he left, the man called out after him. “I hope you take great pleasure in yourself. Likely it’s all you’ll ever have.”
The words no longer sounded like the curse they once would have been.
ON CHRISTMAS EVE MORNING, Lavinia shared the responsibility of running the shop with her brother. The two of them, even in that small downstairs room, should not have made the room feel so close. Yes, there were nearly fifteen hundred volumes packed into a tiny space. The shelves stretched head height and above. But Lavinia had never found the two tiny rooms confining before, not even with a surfeit of customers. But today the books seemed to tower over her, choking her with memories.
She would look up from her desk and remember the first time she’d seen William, standing so ill at ease in front of her, asking for a subscription. She would place a volume back on the shelf and remember the sight of him in that very spot, searching for a title. He would run his finger carefully down a leather binding. In those days, she’d envied the books. But now, he’d touched her with greater reverence.
He’d not been able to hide the meaning of those gestures. Over and over, he’d told her he loved her. He loved her, and so he made her wretchedly watered-down tea. He loved her and he longed to touch her, but instead he warned her she’d have no butter with her bread. He loved her.
And yet she’d brought him hopelessness rather than happiness. Together, they’d managed to share a fine portion of guilt. She might gladly have suffered deprivation for him, but he was not the kind of man who could watch the woman he loved be deprived.
Over at the small table near the door, Lavinia watched as James entered a book loan in the ledger. He slipped two pennies in the cash box and then wrapped a book and waved farewell to Mr. Bellow. As he recorded the transaction, he avoided her gaze. She came up to the table anyway, approaching it from the front, as if she were a customer instead of a fellow laborer. Still, he winced.
“I did it exactly as you instructed,” he whispered. “Did I do it wrong? Oh God, I did it so completely backward you can tell it’s wrong without even reading what I’ve entered.” He put his head in his hands.
“You’re doing very well.” She resisted the urge to turn the book upside down to check. “Perfect, even.” No, she was not going to even glance down. “You’re doing so well, in fact, that
I am going upstairs to rest.”
He lifted his face. His eyes shone in pleasure. “I’ll take care of everything.” Then he paused. “But perhaps an hour or two before we close up the shop, would you be willing to take over again? There is one thing I should like to take care of this evening.”
She patted her brother’s hand. “Of course,” she said with a smile.
She headed upstairs. She would not have minded deprivation for herself. But William…If her gloves had holes, William’s hands would freeze in sympathy. If she ate brown, unbuttered bread, the bitter taste would linger on his palate.
She’d given him hopelessness. She’d made him miserable. If she truly loved him, perhaps she needed to let him go.
CHAPTER SIX
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER, William had cowered in the office where he worked, for fear of losing his position. Today when he walked in, he felt not even a hint of disquietude.
Why had he been so afraid? He was young. He was competent. And even if he were turned off, he would find something else. Losing a position where he was regularly treated like the grimiest gutter refuse was not something to fear. It was something to celebrate.
When the door to the office opened just after nine and in walked Lord Blakely followed by his glowering grandson, William felt triumph.
When he was let go, it would be a financial setback. It might take weeks to find work again; his wages might even be reduced. He ought to have been terrified. But this was not a punishment, to be allowed to walk out of this dark and dismal place. It was an opportunity.
The two lords stepped into the back office. After a few minutes Mr. Dunning walked up to William and whispered that he’d been asked to enter the room. They were unlikely to be inviting him to a picnic lunch. Just before he stood, Mr. Dunning laid his hand on William’s shoulder—an empty gesture of pointless support.
William smiled and stood, calm. Let them sack me. Please.
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