Right now, she wanted to be the one who comforted him.
“I’ll…”
“Think about it, Oliver.”
Jane bit her lip and looked away, trying not to feel the sting of it. They had agreed, after all. And he was upset. She really didn’t have a place in his life, and it was the work of a moment—one soul-squeezing moment—to forgive him the small pain he caused her.
“I’ll see,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Oliver knew what was coming the instant he closed the door after his mother. He didn’t even want to turn around. Didn’t want to have to look at Jane and see what he had done.
But he did. He went and found her where she was still seated on a bench in the dressing room. She was wearing petticoats and a corset and was gazing off into space. She looked up as he came in.
“Good,” she said. “You’re here. I suppose we need to…” She trailed off and looked at her hands in her lap.
“Jane.” He felt a lump in his throat as he faced her.
“I need someone to help me put on my dress.” She pointed to a blue silk with red ribbons. “That one.”
“Jane…”
“I’m not going to have this discussion with you when I’m half-dressed,” she said, and so he helped her put it on. It was agonizing, to brush her soft skin. To want to kiss her shoulder, as he smoothed fabric over it. He wanted so much with her…but he suspected that this was the end, the donning of this dress, and not a beginning.
When he had finished to the best of his ability, she turned back to him.
“I can…” No. He couldn’t exonerate himself.
“Explain?” she asked. “You don’t need to explain. You already have. I am the last woman in the world you want to marry. You’re upset because of your aunt. Why would you introduce me to your family? You haven’t said anything I don’t already know.”
He took a step forward. “It’s not that.”
“Oh?” There was just enough of a dubious quality in her voice.
“It is that,” he said, “But it’s so much more. I love you, Jane.”
She tilted her head. “What?”
“I love you. And if I let you share in this—if I bring you in at this moment—I don’t know how I could ever let you go. You’d be a part of me. A part of my family.”
She already was. There was some part of him that felt as if he were still on a dark forest road with her. With nobody else around—just the two of them against the rest of the world.
She had not said anything yet.
“I want that,” he said. “It hurts how much I want that. Come with me, Jane. Not as my lover, but as my fiancée.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I know there will be difficulties, but we can work them out. Minnie can sponsor you; she could get the Dowager Duchess of Clermont to train you. And—”
“Train me?” Jane said. “What am I, a horse?”
Oliver winced. “No. Of course not. But a few lessons…”
“A few lessons on what?” Jane’s chin came up, but her lips trembled. “On how to act, how to behave, how to dress. Is that what you mean?”
He couldn’t say anything.
“Tell me, Oliver, how long do you think it will take me to learn to hold my tongue? To talk quietly? To dress as everyone else does?”
“I—Jane…”
“If you want a wren, marry one. Don’t ask me.”
He shut his eyes. “I know. I know. It’s such a horrid thing to ask. But…” He paused, trying to regroup. Trying to explain. “I’ve made a career of keeping quiet. Someone from my background has to be particularly careful. My brother can advocate whatever he wishes; I have to be cautious. To make sure that when people think of me, they think of a reasonable man. Someone who is just like them. Someone who…”
“Someone who doesn’t have an awful wife,” Jane said. Her voice was thick.
“Yes,” he whispered. And then seeing that flash in her eyes, he shook his head. “No. That’s not what I meant. It’s just what everyone else would think.”
She stood up. “It’s just as well, because I…” She stopped, biting her lip, and then shook her head. “No, never mind. You’ve just been told that your aunt has passed away. I don’t need to add to your burdens.”
“Just say it,” he snapped, “and spare me your pity.”
Her chin rose. “It’s just as well you don’t want an awful wife,” she told him, “because I had hoped for a husband with a little courage.”
Oh, that hurt. He wasn’t choosing between acceptance and Jane, between a ballroom filled with happy friendship and that dark road alone with Jane. He was choosing between a dark, lonely road with her, and one without her.
“You didn’t go to Eton,” he said to her. “You didn’t go to Cambridge. You didn’t spend years slowly fashioning yourself into the kind of person who could fit in and thus make a difference. Don’t tell me this doesn’t take courage. Don’t tell me that.” His voice rose with every word. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t courage that brought me back again and again, after every attempt to toss me out. Being like me takes courage, damn it.”
She looked at him. It felt as if she looked through him. “Really, Oliver?” One hand went to her hip. “It took courage to walk away from Clemons and let the other boys do what they did? It took courage to consider Bradenton’s offer to humiliate me? My. Courage isn’t what it used to be.”
Those words felt like spears in his stomach. The worst part was, though, he could see her hands, shaking. Her eyes, wide and full of hurt. As badly as she’d struck out at him, he’d hurt her that much, too. And he couldn’t even say that he hadn’t meant it.
“I thought so,” she said, turning away from him. “I’ll send someone over for the rest of my things.” She swept past him.
He wanted to reach for her—to tell her not to leave. To take hold of her arm as she walked past. To do anything at all.
He didn’t. She walked out and he didn’t stop her. He let that moment slip by—the last moment he had to apologize and save it all—and he wasn’t sure if it was courage or cowardice.
Freddy’s funeral was a quiet affair. There weren’t many people who had known Oliver’s aunt—just the boy who delivered her groceries, a few ladies who had visited her, and her family.
Oliver’s sisters had come down—Laura with her husband and Oliver’s smallest niece, an infant who whimpered through the ceremony, and Patricia with her husband and their twins. Free had come, too. She stood for a long time at their aunt’s coffin, looking in, not saying a word. She ran her hand along the edge and wept silently.
It felt wrong to have his aunt laid out in a church. She would have hated lying exposed in a strange place. She would have hated having everyone’s eyes on her—even if it was only the eyes of those few who knew her. Freddy may have been the only person who would have sighed in relief at the thought of being buried six feet below the ground in a tiny coffin. When the grave had been filled in, Oliver laid his flowers on it.
“There you are,” he whispered. “Nobody will get to you now.”
After the burial, they retired with her solicitor to her small apartment.
Oliver had spent every Christmas that he remembered here. It had been a tradition born out of necessity. His mother hadn’t wanted Freddy to be alone at Christmas, and Freddy had refused to leave her rooms to come to New Shaling. Therefore, their entire family had come here—even when the rooms had become too small to fit the family.
They made a multitude now, so many that there weren’t chairs enough for everyone. Oliver and his sisters, his niece and nephews, his parents… His father stood next to a wall; Reuven sat with his boys on the floor.
It was somewhat of a surprise that Freddy had a solicitor. For that matter, he hadn’t supposed she would write a will. It wasn’t as if Freddy had much to give away, and hearing her few belongings dispensed with summary dispatch seemed cruel.
“This will,” the
solicitor said, “dates from late last week.” He drew out several sheets of paper—far longer than Oliver would have imagined would be needed under the circumstances.
But then, this was Freddy. The preamble—lengthy and argumentative—had them all exchanging glances, uncertain if it was acceptable to smile so soon after her passing. It sounded so much like her that it almost felt as if she were here. She went on for a page about what she expected from each of them—the legacy that they would be upholding, the expectations she had.
And then the solicitor cleared his throat and started on the bequests.
His aunt left a few family heirlooms and a miniature of their mother to Serena Marshall, her sister.
“To Oliver, my nephew—I would leave you a portion of my worldly goods, but I don’t think you have need of them. I leave you instead the few quilts I have sewn over the years that I have kept for myself. They’re a good sight better than anything that can be purchased in the stores these days, and not a machine-stitch on them. Make sure you keep warm. As you grow older, you’ll find yourself more susceptible to chills.”
He felt a lump in his throat. Freddy had poured so much of her time and energy into her quilts that this was like getting a piece of her as a memory.
“To Laura and Patricia, I leave the remainder of the money I inherited as a child, to be divided equally among the two of them. I also give all my remaining household goods to be divided between them as they agree. I particularly commend the following: my paring knife, which has rarely needed sharpening; the wardrobe I have used for these last few decades, and my good china.”
Laura looked at Patricia over their husband’s arms.
“That can’t be right,” Laura finally said. “I can’t imagine that the contents of Freddy’s accounts are worth much, but this disposes of all her possessions without…”
They both glanced at Free, who sat in her chair looking down. Oliver ached for her. For Freddy. For the argument they’d had and never made up, the one that had led Freddy to cut her favorite niece from her will entirely.
“We did argue,” Free said softly. “And I don’t want—it’s not about that.”
No. It wasn’t about the possessions. It was about knowing that she hadn’t been forgiven.
“No,” Patricia said, “it’s simple. We’ll just divide things evenly between the three of us. I’m sure Aunt Freddy would want that. That she’s wishing that she had done just such a thing at this moment.”
The solicitor adjusted his spectacles and looked over at the two of them. “But there is a bequest for Miss Frederica Marshall.”
Everyone looked up at that. Laura gave a shrug to her sister, as if to say, I have no idea what else it could be.
“Lastly, I come to Frederica Marshall, my goddaughter, niece, namesake and scourge of my existence. Several years ago, as I am sure you are all aware, she was presumptuous enough to insist that I leave this apartment—that I go out in the world and have an adventure, even if it was so trivial a one as to buy an apple. After she left, I attempted to do so.”
Free let out a broken breath, so close to a sob.
“I discovered myself incapable of leaving,” the solicitor read. “For some reason, I could not fit through the door. But I did my best to make do, and so for that reason, I leave the proceeds of my grand adventure and the contents of my trunk to Miss Frederica Marshall. I suspect that she will make better use of them than I did.”
Free looked up. “Proceeds?” she said quietly. “What proceeds would she be talking about?”
“The proceeds of Miss Barton’s estate,” the solicitor said. “Those would be the royalties on twenty-five volumes published to date, not counting the four that are in the process of publication.”
Frederica blinked. “Twenty-five volumes?” she repeated.
Oliver felt a sudden, staggering pain. He knew which authoress had penned twenty-five volumes, one after the other, in quick succession. It had been only twenty-three last January, but… His sister walked over to his aunt’s trunk, flipped open the lid. She reached inside.
There were sheaves of paper written all over in his aunt’s crabbed writing. She picked up one and set it on the table.
Oliver knew—he absolutely knew—what he would see on the pages.
“Mrs. Larriger and the Welsh Brigade,” Free read. She took out another sheaf. “Mrs. Larriger and the French Comtesse. Mrs. Larriger Goes to Ireland.” Her voice caught. “Who is Mrs. Larriger?”
But Oliver knew. If his sister sifted through the papers long enough, Mrs. Larriger would find her way to China, to India, across all the seas of the world. He remembered mocking these books with Jane, laughing that the author had clearly gone no farther than Portsmouth.
He’d been wrong. The author had not even come that far. She had lived the majority of her life in scarcely more than a hundred square feet. And she’d had so much adventure hidden in her that it had poured out of her once she’d let it loose. It was almost impossible to take in the enormity of Aunt Freddy’s secret. Mrs. Larriger had roamed the world—smoking peace pipes with Indians, befriending a flock of penguins, getting captured by whalers and winning her way free.
While Freddy sat in a small room watching the door, hoping that tomorrow she would be able to leave.
Maybe she had.
It was a short list.
Jane had brought up an entire sheaf of paper—beautiful, creamy paper—and had made sure that her inkwell was full.
She’d intended to fill pages with her plans. In the end, though, the list she had managed to come up with was tiny.
What I will do next, she had labeled it.
One thing wasn’t on the list: Jane had no intention of submitting to another painful round of the social whirl. Of setting herself up to be judged and found wanting. Balls and soirees and parties might sound lovely in theory, but in reality they were exhausting and heartbreaking. Instead, her wants were simple.
Do good things.
Make more friends.
Keep the friends I have.
After a long moment’s thought, she added one last item.
Prove Oliver wrong.
It belonged on her list. Fourth, she decided—he deserved no more importance in her future life than that—but it belonged. For now…
It still hurt. She ached from it hurting. She’d spent the afternoon with her sister, planning details of the wedding. She’d smiled so much she felt as if her mouth would crack from the effort.
It hurt.
But even beneath that ache, she felt a cool clarity: She was glad she had known him, glad that she’d broken away from the person she once had been. From the façade that had played her more than she had played it. She wouldn’t take on another role, least of all because a man who claimed to love her asked her to do it.
He’d hurt her, but she’d make it like all the other hurts she’d received: nothing more than an act of propagation.
Jane was poised on the verge of something even better. And she knew exactly how it started: with friendship.
Jane set her list to one side and pulled another sheet of paper to her.
Dear Genevieve and Geraldine, she wrote. The last time we corresponded, you were in London and I was in Nottingham. Circumstances have changed, and I am now in town. I had hoped we might be able to renew our friendship…
Chapter Twenty-nine
Oliver was still in a daze by the time he returned to Clermont House. He shrugged off his brother’s condolences and retreated to his chambers.
Many months ago, Oliver had purchased a book. He’d intended to look through it at the time, but then events had intervened. It had been shunted to the bottom of this trunk; when he’d come back from Cambridge, it had been shuffled to a low shelf. He hunted through the books, checking dusty spines, until he found the one he was looking for.
Mrs. Larriger Leaves Home.
The pages were still crisp, the leather binding not yet cracked. He felt a lump in his throat as he opened the bo
ok to the front page. These were Freddy’s words, Freddy’s thoughts. He’d purchased it, and he hadn’t known. He had scarcely known her at all. He smoothed back the pages and found Chapter One.
For the first fifty-eight years of her life, Mrs. Laura Larriger lived in Portsmouth in sight of the harbor. She never wondered where the ships went, and cared about their return only when one of them happened to bring her husband home from one of his trading voyages. There was never any reason to care.
Oliver swallowed, wondering what his aunt had seen from her window. What she had dreamed about, what she had wanted.
That day, Mrs. Larriger sat in her parlor. But the walls seemed thicker. The air felt closer. For almost sixty years, she had never felt the slightest curiosity about the world outside her door. Now, the air beyond her walls seemed to call out to her. Leave, it whispered. Leave.
That was something Freddy would have understood. No wonder that passage had seemed so true to life.
She took a deep breath. She packed a satchel. And then, with a great effort, with the effort of a woman uprooting everything she had known, Mrs. Larriger put one foot outside her door into the warm May sunshine.
Oliver shut his eyes and thought of his aunt. He thought of her putting a toe out of her door and having palpitations of the heart. He remembered her saying that she was trying, that she’d get it right one day. That she would go to the park and have a nice walk…
He hoped that she had managed to make it out before she passed away. But it was no longer so simple. What Freddy had been unable to do in one way, she’d managed in another. Somehow the most disapproving, dour, lecturing spinster of his acquaintance…
Somehow, she’d managed to make thousands of people dream of adventure. She’d done more than anyone would have guessed. The woman who had lectured Oliver about taking chills in her last will and testament had been braver than anyone had known.