It was difficult to decipher the meaning behind his expression. His lips parted, and for a moment, I considered what it would be like to kiss his lips. The idea left me breathless. I brushed my hand across my cheek, clearing my throat. “How did you know to bring a coat in late July?” I asked.
George awakened to his senses, and a guardedness overtook him. “Someone I know once told me, ‘A wise man always carries his coat.’ I’ve tried to follow that counsel ever since.”
The tension of the moment passed, and I sniggered. Daddy was the author of that phrase. I had heard it more times than I could count.
“We better get out of the rain. There’s a cluster of trees down the lane. We can wait out the storm there,” George said.
We sat beneath the trees, shielding ourselves from wet wind. The storm passed almost as quickly as it had come, and the sun peeked from the clouds as George drew the horse back to the path.
“More berries?” George said, flicking his chin toward the mountainside.
I pursed my lips. I could not walk. “Only if you wish to carry me,” I said.
A smile touched his lips. “Don’t tempt me.”
I almost choked on my laughter. “Then perhaps we should return home.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
THE LETTER FROM WILLIAM WAS AS unexpected as the deliverer.
George handed me the envelope after returning from the post office. A question loomed beneath his downcast eyes. “Your Mr. Caldwell has finally written,” he said.
I took the envelope and studied it. I knew the handwriting better than the man who had written it. “Thank you,” I said to George. I tried to conceal my limp. It had been four days since my sprain.
“I’ll be leaving you to your letter.” He turned on his heels.
I struggled to my tree and sat on the wood swing, setting my journal beside me on the seat. Nora wished me to consider William Caldwell. She had told me that love was built over time, that I might still find a place in my heart for him.
I grasped the letter to my chest and swayed beneath the shade. Was it possible I could love him? I searched my heart, but the effort was forced. I could hardly recall William’s features. Were his dark eyes round or narrow? Why had I not taken notice? Was there warmth in his gaze? What shape were his teeth? Each question came without an answer, each thought devoid of sentiments.
I did not love William.
Nora would be disappointed. I sighed and opened the letter.
Dear Elizabeth,
You have been on my mind as of late. Please accept my kindest wishes for your health and happiness as you continue to work through these troubling times.
Your uncle is not himself since your departure. He, like all of us, misses you and wishes you back. He tells me that he must find a way to help your mother and father, even if it goes against their wishes …
I peeled my eyes from the pages and scowled. William did not understand country pride, and he certainly did not understand Mama. She would never be coerced into anything.
As for Clara, she is heavy with child. Your aunt anxiously awaits the birth. She resides with Clara until the baby is born.
As for me, I keep busy with my father’s firm. I cannot complain, except for your absence. I do hope this financial business will be finished soon and that you can come back to us. I feel there is much unfinished between us.
William
I dropped the letter to my lap. William had given me little news of Clara and Nora. He stated only the obvious. And even more alarming were his words at the end. Much unfinished between us? Was that his way of implying a courtship?
I tucked the letter in my pocket. I would write him back; I had to tell him it was pointless to hope for a future with me. I would remain in the valley with my parents.
“So what will you say to his proposal? Have you decided?” George asked, leaning against the tree trunk. He smiled, but it lacked its usual assuredness.
I gasped, shaking my head. “Are you spying on me?”
He crossed his arms. “I couldn’t resist. Will you be replying with a ‘yes,’ then?”
I glared. George delighted in teasing me; he relished in making me blush. It was not fair. He teased and teased, yet I could not vanquish him from my thoughts. At times, his expressions would play in my mind over and over, and I worried I would go mad. I cleared my throat. “I would never discuss such things with you.”
“Why?” He leaned closer. “Afraid I might dissuade you?”
I could have wrung his neck. I stood instead, knocking my journal to the ground. “Because it is not decent, that is why. It would not be proper to discuss William’s affairs, nor mine, in such a casual manner.”
George’s smile grew. “Ah, so he hasn’t proposed then. You must be disappointed. At least tell me, is this fancy Mr. Caldwell as good a kisser as he is at slicking his hair?” He bent to retrieve my book.
I crossed my arms. “How dare you. You haven’t a thread of decency in you. I happen to like his hair, and—” A paper slipped from the cover and onto the grass. My heart came to a halt, and I dropped to the ground, fumbling for the paper.
George reached it before I could. “Rules of a lady …” he said, ignoring my protests. His eyes skimmed the page. “Never stand by a trough?” he asked, using his finger to mark his place. “I remember that one. Let’s see … Never gulp tea …”
I lunged forward and pulled at his arm.
“It seems you forgot number six—‘Practice restraint.’ ”
My cheeks burned. “Stop it. Give it back. I would rather you not continue.”
He held it from my reach, still reading. “Never kiss a man until you are engaged?”
My eyes widened. I had added that after witnessing Thomas and Clara kiss in Uncle Johnny’s garden two years before. I hung on his arm. “George Hughes, you are without any feeling. That is private.”
“Mmm.” He lowered the list and lifted a brow. “William hasn’t even kissed you yet, and already he’s planning on marrying you.”
I shoved the paper in the cover of my diary once more and clutched it to my chest. “The things you insinuate are utterly ridiculous. Why, I cannot even stand to listen to another question about my private affairs. I suppose it is your lack of manners, or perhaps it is only your curiosity. In any case, I won’t say another word about it.”
George nodded, but his eyes betrayed him; he found the whole situation amusing. As always, he mocked me. “I reckon you’ve never even been kissed—at least not properly—have you?”
“I beg your pardon?” I could hardly believe what I was hearing.
He stepped even closer, and for a moment, I worried he would laugh in my face. But instead, his voice lowered. “Let me give you some pointers, Elle—ones you won’t find on any list or lady lesson.”
My voice went throaty. “Elizabeth.”
He ignored me. “When it comes time—and believe me, you’ll know it when it comes—don’t try to talk your way out of it.”
“I would not dream of—”
He silenced me once more, this time with his finger against my lips. “Being nervous is understandable, but whatever you do, don’t go turning fiery. It drives most men away.”
I pushed his hand away, but George caught me by the wrist and pulled me closer.
“A man might start by touching your hair.” He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear.
I tried to pretend I did not notice his touch or the way my heart picked up speed. My stomach was doing funny things. I chided myself. Why didn’t I leave? Why did I continue standing there, as if my feet were anchored next to him, and allow him to touch me?
“Now, when the moment is near, he might cradle your cheek or chin.” He rubbed his thumb along my cheek, following my jawline to my chin.
I was too weak. His eyes bore into mine, like the glow of the summer sun, and I did not pull away. I tried to remind myself that George was only teasing me. This was the boy who had teased me all my life; his only
goal was to torment me. It was, however, hard to remember when he smiled down at me like that.
George stopped, dropping his hand from my face, and turned.
I closed my eyes, swallowing. It was not fair to tease me like this.
“Now, this Mr. Caldwell seems to be a real piece of work, and he might recite a poem before he tries to kiss you, maybe spin you on the dance floor. Not quite as romantic, if you ask me.”
I gritted my teeth and placed one hand at my hip. Tears threatened. I wanted to run into the house. “But that is just it—I did not ask you. How dare you touch me, pretend to teach me such things—”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, cutting me off. His voice grew soft, and his defining playfulness disappeared. “Elle, have I hurt you?”
A lone tear stole from one eye, and I accidentally sniffled. “I assure you, I am quite all right,” I said, much too quickly. “It is just, you are always teasing me. I am not a little girl anymore, George. Can’t you see that?”
He grasped my shoulders. “Elle, it isn’t that at all. It’s just—” He sighed and pulled me into an embrace.
The feel of his arms around me served to open the floodgates, and I began to cry uncontrollably. It felt natural to lean into his chest and arms, like a blanket of comfort and a tower of strength.
George rested his chin on my head. “I’m sorry, Elle. I never was good at knowing how to talk to you. It’s different with you.”
I tensed and my sobs subsided. I stepped away from him, surveying his expression. “Different how? Different because I am not Clara, just the little girl you have always teased?”
“No, not like that.” He stepped forward, and he touched my cheek once more, wiping at my tears.
I dared to look at him.
He stared at my lips. And just like George had said, I knew he was about to kiss me. I could not decide if I should let him or if I should push him away. That is all I had ever done to George—push him away—and I did not know how to let him closer.
He leaned, and I remained. My body had made the choice for me. His lips met mine, and suddenly I kissed him back. My lips pressed against his and moved in surprising rhythm, like a song I had always known. The taste of his lips mixed with the saltiness of my tears, and I savored the kiss, knowing it would not last. My lips had betrayed me, fallen prey to the moment. It was like the apple tree in the backyard—ripe, sweet, and much overdue for a picking.
George drew back, kissing my cheek and nose before pulling me to his chest.
I was crying again, but this time it was silent. I had crossed a bridge, one that I had not even known existed, and I knew things could never be the same between George and me. We had both crossed it, both fallen in a moment of weakness.
He would regret it; he would wish me away. He did not want me; he never had. It had always been Clara. I did not want to be second choice. It took all my courage, but I pushed from his chest. “Enough.”
George’s brows knitted in confusion.
“That IOU from when we were children. You remember—when you saved me from that makeshift elevator of Paul’s? It was your price for lowering me. Now you have had your kiss. Please leave me alone.”
He jerked his head, and his hands balled into fists. “You’re serious?”
I was too vulnerable, too exposed, and I could not retreat from self-preservation. It tugged at me. I would not allow him to play the joke this time.
Disappointment etched into the line by his lips. George staggered backward, and his voice turned callous. “Well, you know what they say. Practice is practice.”
I turned and marched to the house without a backward glance.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
BIRDS CHIRPED OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN WINDOW. The sun glared against the glass, making it impossible to see outside. Besides the quiet passing of the razor over Daddy’s cheek, the house lay silent.
There was noise enough inside my head. My restless night and wet pillow had made for a splitting headache. George had kissed me. It was the kind of kiss I had dreamt about in weak moments—heartbreakingly beautiful and haunting and transcendent. The memory left me blushing and longing for another.
Yet, as always, I pushed him away. I was sure he did not want me, not in the way I wanted him. I loved George Hughes. I had fought the fact all night, as if my tears and anger could change the reality of it. It was clear. My childhood jealousy of Clara—it was only because I cared for George. My affection for George felt as natural and essential to my happiness as the valley and trees beyond the kitchen window; it was a part of my soul—as was my frustration with him.
He must have sensed it. Only a blind and unfeeling man could have overlooked the signs. George was anything but blind and unfeeling. He was strong, observant, kind. So why did he string me along? Why did he cause me so much grief and then dare to kiss me so unabashedly? He had adored Clara, and I was a poor alternative.
Daddy flinched. A spot of blood evidenced my distraction.
“Oh, Daddy,” I said, dabbing the towel at his chin. “I apologize.” I worked the blade around his stubble with renewed care. “This morning has me awfully distracted.”
Daddy tried to hold still, but his head wobbled. When he opened his mouth to speak, only an “ahhh” came out.
I tightened my grip on the razor. “Perhaps we will try our luck at a walk this morning?” Mr. Kearns had brought a cane by the house two days before, and we had yet to try it out.
He clicked his tongue.
I smiled. “I am sure you will be walking in no time. Now, let’s get you some breakfast.” Wheeling him to the table never felt normal. Wheeling him anywhere did not feel natural. It was strange seeing Daddy like this. He was still there, a prisoner held captive by his own body. I tucked a rag in his collar. “All right, open up,” I said and held a spoonful of porridge.
One side of his mouth drooped, and he leaned toward me.
I jumped at the rap against the front door. “Here, Daddy,” I said, handing him the spoon.
The door inched open before I reached it.
“George,” I said, straightening the front of my dress. A lump formed in my throat, and I could not meet his eyes. “Good morning.”
“Your mama told me to fetch your list. I’m headed to town.”
I shifted my weight. I had nearly forgotten about the jams for the festival. I retrieved the paper from the counter and handed it to him.
“Sugar, jars, lemons,” he read aloud. “Got it. Anything else I can get you?”
How could he act as if nothing had passed between us? Perhaps it was nothing to him. “Nothing at all.”
George paused at the door. “Are you sure?”
My eyes met his.
“You are welcome to come with me if you’d like.” An apology lay behind his green eyes, and his lips parted in a smile.
I pulled my gaze from his and shook my head. “Thank you, but no. I am caring for Daddy while Mama is out.”
He shuffled past the door. “See you around.”
I closed the front door and pressed my back against it. It was over; I had faced him, however poorly. I had spent the night believing that meeting George again, after that dreamy kiss, would prove fatal to me. Tears settled along my lower lashes. I blinked them away and sighed. It would get easier with time; it had to.
The spoon in Daddy’s hand dropped to the table, clattering as it ricocheted to the wooden floor. At the sound, my breath hitched in my chest, and I jerked, knocking against a picture on the shelf. It fell, and I lunged to catch it.
Daddy’s eyes widened.
“Pardon me,” I said, setting the frame against the shelf once more. “I appear to be a bit jittery this morning.”
The edges of his lips rose, and he chuckled. It sounded more like raspy breaths, but I knew better. Daddy had laughed.
I swallowed. Daddy hardly smiled before the stroke, let alone after. “Are you all right?” I asked. I took to his side and wiped the napkin along his lips. “Perhaps y
ou should rest.”
He twisted his lips together and directed his chin to the front door. “George.”
I sucked in a breath. “Yes, George was here.”
He smiled once more, and my cheeks flushed with heat.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I PUSHED THE BOX ACROSS THE DIRT, toward George, stirring up a cloud of dust. “Another one is ready,” I said, turning to a new stack of jars. I still could not bring myself to face him. It had been two weeks of avoiding him.
George bent to take the crate. “How many more do you expect? I’ve never seen so much jam in my life.”
“Just another two boxes,” I said, ignoring the sound of his deep laughter.
“Another two,” he repeated, lifting the box to the back of the wagon. The glass jars jingled as they hit against one another, and George seemed to stumble against the back of the bed.
I started forward. “Careful,” I said, running to catch one edge of the crate.
His hand caught mine, and a grin stretched across his face. “You didn’t really think I would drop it, did you? Your most precious jams?”
I looked away and tried to pull my hand from his.
He tightened his hold, determined to keep my hand and my gaze. “I figure, whatever it takes to get your attention. You’ve been doing your very best to ignore me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
Heat flooded my face and burned against my neck. Why couldn’t he leave me alone? It was difficult enough as it was. “Let me go this instant,” I said, stomping a foot.
He grabbed my wrist with one hand, setting the crate against the wagon bed with the other. “Not on my life,” he said, inching closer. “Not until you speak to me and tell me why you left me hanging the way you did.”
“Speak to you?” I asked, eyes widening. It was anger that burned in my cheeks; I knew it now. “And what would I speak about, George Hughes, that you do not already know? Perhaps I could tell you all about your little comment, ‘Practice is practice,’ or about—”
Forever Elle (Regency Romance) Page 17