She shook her head. “No. It’s this: if you hadn’t believed, long ago, that I deserved to take apart clockwork, I wouldn’t be here. I didn’t want to admit that I had any reason to be thankful to you. But… It doesn’t hurt now. Thank you.”
His hand closed. Not just around the sheep; around her fingers, clamping around them. He pulled her closer.
“This is a really, really, terrible idea,” he said.
Her heart was pounding. “I know all about terrible.” Her voice was a whisper. “Enough luck, enough time, and terrible…”
For a moment, it was if they stood in that apple orchard. As if all the years of hurt had washed away.
“Yes?” he asked. “What happens with enough time?”
She exhaled and looked up at him. “Even terrible turns to magic.”
For a moment, he could not quite believe that he held her, that she was looking up at him with those wide, guileless eyes once more. It felt as if the empty years between them had vanished, as if they might start not with the new, but with the very, very old. The substance of what they’d been to each other had fallen into disrepair, but the foundation had been good. Hadn’t it?
She rose up to him as he leaned down, her breath sighing. Their lips touched, and all the years disappeared in a moment of pure sweetness. It felt as blinding as the sun flashing across the clear water. Her lips were soft; her hand was warm in his. His other arm curled around her and she came to him, pressing against him, opening up to him.
Like that light glancing across the water, though, it did not take long to change. A minute, no more, until that first heady thrill of holding her, kissing her, gave way. Until he remembered her looking up at him and telling him she hated him.
Those eight years could not vanish, not with the first kiss, nor with the second. He remembered every one. Every night that first year, looking out his window and wondering how she did. Every night he’d imagined her coming to him. Every empty soirée he’d attended, every perfectly lovely young lady who would never do because she was not Judith. His hand slipped up her spine; her mouth opened to his.
Sweet gave way to bittersweet.
He couldn’t erase those eight years for her, either. She’d put a good face on things—Judith always put a good face on things. But she had only conquered horrible because horrible first sought her out.
They couldn’t kiss and forget. There was too much to remember on either side.
He took the sheep from her hand and set it on the table. Then he took her face in his hands and kissed her again.
“Judith,” he said, “I wish I could take the shadows from your memory.”
She looked up at him and shook her head. Her jaw shifted in the palm of his hand. God, he’d missed her so much. But the Judith he missed—the Judith of innocence and sunlight and orchards, the Judith to whom he’d handed half his soul, no longer existed.
This was the Judith of clockwork and rickety houses.
“You were right,” Judith said. “We are more alike than I thought.”
“How so?”
“I had thought to myself,” she said, “that when you had to choose between me and your principles, you chose your principles.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “I have just realized that I did the exact same thing to you. You asked me to choose you above my wounded heart, my pain, my pride, my love for my family. I didn’t choose you either.”
He let out a breath. “It’s not comparable, Judith. The things you’ve lived with…”
“Maybe not. But I don’t need to compare who has lost more to know I’ve hurt you. And if I hurt you a fraction as much as you…”
She stopped and shut her eyes.
Kissing her hurt. He did it again, letting himself feel every ounce of that pain. This, this is what they might have had. He might have had this tenderness without the accompanying shards of glass piercing his heart. He might have had this sweetness without regret or pain. He might have been able to kiss her without casting shadows.
He’d rather kiss her with shadows than not kiss her at all.
“This isn’t going to work,” Judith whispered as he kissed her again. “Too many things have broken between us. You can’t trust someone with your soul twice.”
“Maybe,” Christian said. “But I’ll help you pick up the pieces anyway.”
She exhaled and leaned against him. The house creaked around them. She was here in his arms for now, at least.
“Thank you,” she said. “Don’t forget your sheep.”
He smiled. “What do you mean by that, Fred?” he asked in a Cockney accent. “I never forget my sheep. How else are we to make Christmas jumpers for all the cygnets on the pond?”
There was a pause, and he could feel her shaking her head against his shoulder. But when she spoke, her voice was amused. “Christmas jumpers. Not Christmas jumpers again, Bill. Can’t we just purchase sweets from the store like normal swans? You always buy the yarn; I always end up doing the knitting. My wings are getting tired.”
No doubt they were. She’d faced down terrible, but from what he’d cleaned up today, and what she’d told him about Camilla, terrible kept coming back.
“Take a rest,” Christian said. “This time, I’ve got it all in han—in wing.” And he did. He knew precisely what he had to do.
She snorted at him. “I left a letter in your office,” she said. “On accident. If you could send it back to me?”
“Of course.” He reverted to his non-swan voice. “I’ll be out of town for a little time on some business. If you need me, send a note to Jeffries and he’ll cable me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“And if I don’t need you?”
“Send a note to Jeffries anyway,” he said. “And he’ll send it on to me, wherever I am.”
“This isn’t going to work,” Judith said.
“I know. But…” Words failed him, and so instead of speaking, he pulled her close and kissed her again—one last time, one last kiss, drowning in the feel of her until he could scarcely breathe.
He let go only when it hurt too much to continue.
Chapter Nineteen
Judith’s head spun as she ascended the stairs. It felt as if today had been a year compressed by some housekeeper’s trick to fit in the space of twenty-four hours. She’d lost one sister, found Christian, kissed him, and lost him yet again. She didn’t know which direction was which, or what she should be doing.
She did know which direction she needed to address next: upstairs.
The bedrooms appeared dark as she ascended the creaking stairs. She checked on Benedict first. He was asleep, as best as she could tell, slumbering on his side under the covers. She opened the door to the room she shared with Theresa with more trepidation.
It looked like a cyclone had struck the room in her absence. Clothing had been yanked from the wardrobe and was strewn about the room, dangling over chairs and cavorting in piles on the floor. The blankets were piled high on the bed. Her sister clutched the edge of the pillow she held over her head. She might have been asleep…but as Judith was pondering the matter, Theresa turned, burrowing deeper into the bedclothes.
“Theresa,” Judith said softly. “Tee.”
Her sister didn’t respond.
Judith sat next to her. “Tee, sweetheart. I’m sorry I shouted at you. I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have done.”
A sniffle met her.
“I love you, though,” Judith said. “I will always love you, no matter how many cabinets you break, how many cats you bring home. I can’t promise never to be angry with you, but I will still love you.”
Her sister sniffed again, and then rearranged herself under the covers to curl against Judith’s leg. Judith set her hand on the lump that was presumably Theresa’s shoulder.
“I want so many things for you,” Judith said. “I want you to be able to marry as well as you can.”
Theresa didn’t respond.
Not everything hurt, but one thing did. Judith looked at the anger, th
e bitterness that she’d carried for so long. She hadn’t wanted to acknowledge any of it. But now…
“You were right, too,” Judith said. “I am harder on you than on Benedict. In part, it’s because you’re…you. But also…” Her chest hurt thinking of it. “Our uncle offered to take in everyone but you. It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart. You were six. But I think I’ve been unfair to you because of that. I’ve held it against you. Just a little, but it’s always been there. I’m sorry. I’m going to do my best to let go.”
Curious, how that admission lightened her heart. That ugliness that she’d tried to avoid… She remembered sitting by the stream after visiting her uncle, opening her hand in cold water. She felt as if it were all swirling away now.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I love you. I wish you never had to worry about anything ever again.”
A hand hooked over the edge of the blanket, and Theresa’s face peered out.
“Judith,” Theresa said, “I don’t want to be a lady. You have to be a lady to not worry.”
“Why don’t you want to be a lady?”
Her sister looked away. “Because they have to sit still and smile.”
Judith exhaled.
“Judith, do ladies make clockwork?”
“No.” They didn’t kiss men they weren’t married to, either.
“So.” Theresa pondered this. “Why do I have to be a lady if you don’t?”
“Because I didn’t have a choice,” Judith said. “I did what I had to, for us to survive. I did what was best for you and Benedict. The truth is, I doubt I could ever go back, even if I wanted to do so.”
“Oh.”
“If my little clockwork habit came out, I’d be a terrible scandal. I haven’t a choice.”
“Oh.” Theresa sounded a little too contemplative.
“I want you to have a choice,” Judith said. “Because you might have a chance at so much more, if I keep out of the way and don’t draw any scrutiny.”
“A choice means I can choose not to be a lady,” Theresa said.
“Yes. When you’re of age.”
Theresa inhaled. “I’m sorry, Judith,” she finally said. “You’re right. Is it…going to be dreadfully expensive to replace everything?”
“Dreadfully,” Judith said. “But don’t worry. You’re going to help.”
Theresa sat up. “How?”
“We’re not buying bread for two months,” Judith said. “You’ll be making it instead.”
Theresa fell bonelessly back against the covers, her pale hair spilling against the pillow. “Nooooo. I hate making bread.”
Judith looked up at the ceiling. “We all do, Tee. But if you make bread, I’ll have more time for my clockwork, and the money must come from somewhere.”
“Wait.” Theresa looked at her slyly. “Do ladies have to make bread?”
“Yes,” Judith said decisively. “When ladies make a big smashing mess, they make bread.”
“Damn.”
“Theresa?”
“I know,” Theresa said. “Ladies don’t swear.”
“Well. I’m glad you’re aware, at least.”
Theresa shrugged. “I’ll stop, if I decide to be a lady.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Judith said. “I started swearing on waterfowl when I was eleven, and now I can’t manage the real thing. Not even when I really, really need it.”
“Well, then,” Theresa said hopefully. “I definitely won’t copy you. I’ll swear on pig meat instead. What kind of fool wants to spend the rest of their life saying, ‘Duck you all!’ when you can say ‘Ham it!’ instead?”
“Goose.” Judith mussed her sister’s hair. “You shouldn’t be able to make that joke. By the way, what happened with your clothing?”
Theresa frowned, and then looked around the room, as if seeing her stockings strewn over chairs for the first time.
“Oh, that,” she said matter-of-factly. “I was going to run away from home because you didn’t want me, but I had no way to put all the cats on leads. And then I got tired trying to gather them up, because they will not stay in one place, and there wasn’t enough milk, and then I realized that I couldn’t carry enough potatoes for more than a single meal if I wanted to bring extra stockings. Which I did, because extra stockings are an absolute necessity. I accidentally fell asleep until I heard you come home. Then there was nothing to do but hide.”
Judith exhaled slowly. “Don’t run away,” she said, kissing the top of her sister’s head. “And if you do, please have a plan for the future beyond potatoes.”
“I would have brought salt.”
“Oh, well.” Judith shrugged. “That’s good then. Salt makes everything better. Now scoot over. You have to leave some room for me.”
Theresa moved over—nominally—as Judith dressed for bed.
But when Judith blew out her candle and climbed in bed, there was one last question.
“Judith,” Theresa said, “When you were gone, Benedict said Anthony wasn’t really…didn’t really…that he wasn’t…”
“Dead?” Judith asked.
“Yes.” Her sister’s voice was small.
No. Not another year of this. Judith rolled on her side and attempted to pat her sister’s shoulder.
“Ow!”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. It’s dark. I shan’t need my eye until morning.”
Judith settled for a comforting noise rather than risk blinding her sister permanently. “Did Benedict say why he thought Anthony was alive?”
“Because he couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t be.”
Judith inhaled. “Theresa. If you’re not going to be a lady, if you want to keep that as a choice, you’re going to have to be able to look reality face on. You can’t let what you want to believe influence you. Only ladies are allowed to believe comforting falsehoods. So tell me truly: do you think ‘he couldn’t be dead’ is a good enough reason to explain away eight years of silence?”
Theresa inhaled. “No,” she said in a small voice. “No, I don’t.” There was a longer pause. “Do I still have to make bread? I have just come to the conclusion that my elder brother has perished. I’m inconsolable.”
Judith let out a long, tortured breath. “Really, Tee? You couldn’t wait ten seconds before trying to mercilessly exploit Anthony’s death to get out of punishment?”
“Well, if you’re going to say it like that, of course I’ll look like a grasping hag. But…ugh. Bread. One ought to be allowed to grasp haglike when bread is on the line.”
Finding one nineteen-year-old woman should not have posed so great a difficulty.
For the third time that week, Christian told himself that he should have sent a man. That tramping about the streets of Bath on his own was a foolish waste of his efforts. But every time his rational mind offered this up—usually accompanied by a little footnote indicating that it was not too late to avoid the crowds, the invitations, and the incessant complaints over the waters, by the simple act of delegation—he imagined finding Lady Camilla. Perhaps she’d be attached to another elderly lady here in Bath. He knew her. He knew what she looked like. Nobody in his employ did.
It wasn’t rational, but he could hardly bring himself to delegate this task, however annoying it was. And today he was reminded of precisely how annoying it could be. He was ensconced in the grand pump room, of all places. In the time of George’s regency, the salon had been the height of grandeur. It had not changed since, and its age was beginning to show. A statue of some man who had died a century past, and whose greatest claim to fame had apparently been his fashion sense, stood in an alcove. Water came out of a serpent-headed pump that looked to be almost as old as the Roman empire.
Given the work recently done by John Snow and Louis Pasteur, Christian suspected that a central repository of aging water was more likely to be a hotbed of disease than health. But then, nobody had asked him.
“My granddaughter,” the elderly woman next to him was
saying, “Louise—after our dear Prince Consort’s mother—but of course he passed away. What was I saying? My dear Louise would be a charming lady for you to meet. I had been thinking of sending for her; perhaps you might be interested in the introduction? Will you still be here?”
“Perhaps,” Christian said, keeping his tone as politely noncommittal as he could manage. “Although I am here on business, and I may be called away just as swiftly.”
Mrs. Wallace tapped a finger against her glass. “A shame,” she said. “You know, it occurs to me that you could use someone competent to help you manage your schedule. My granddaughter—”
He couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “Madam, I think you could sell a carriage to a sea tortoise.”
Her eyes glinted. “Yes. Well. She is my seventeenth granddaughter, if you can believe such a thing, and I’ve popped all the others off. Three of them twice over. I can’t wait until she’s married and done with. When you’ve grandchildren to be married, you can scarcely take advantage of your dotage. No saying whatever you think; no shaking your fist and decrying all the things that are changing in the world. As soon as she’s properly tied up, I’ll be free to be the dragon I’ve always dreamed I could be.” She sighed wistfully. “Ah. To tell everyone what the world was like in my day! To bemoan every last mother-loving alteration as if it were the end of days. Trains! Postage stamps! Stockings from machines! Harrumph! Until then, I must pretend I won’t be the horrid relation by marriage you won’t be able to escape. It’s all smiles and ‘Would you like to meet my granddaughter? She’s a sweet girl.’”
“As an outside observer,” Christian said. “I honestly wish you every success.”
“She really is a sweet girl,” Mrs. Wallace persisted. “Nothing like me. And never mind all the girls in the family—there’s almost as many boys, too. We just produce and produce and produce. Like rabbits, but smarter and in smaller batches.” She considered this. “And less gamey, I would imagine, although I have not yet put this to the test.”
“Ah, well.” Christian shrugged. “If she’s not like you, I have no interest whatsoever.”