The Lady Always Wins(14)

He’d said that so many times, and every time, she’d felt a burden of lead collect in her belly. It was an old argument, this one. “I have a horror of being poor,” she said. “It wouldn’t have mattered how much I loved you. It wouldn’t have mattered how much you loved me. Only saints can love through hunger, and neither of us is a saint.”

He sat up, resting on his elbow. “You’re only saying that because you don’t know how I feel. If you loved me the way I loved you—”

She heard herself make an inarticulate cry, and she batted at his questing hand. “No. You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever really been hungry. You’ve never eaten bits of coal out of the refuse pile just to have something in your belly. You’ve never been so cold that you couldn’t sleep at night, and yet hadn’t the strength to shiver. It doesn’t matter how much you love someone. If you’ve not got enough, you resent every scrap that they have and you do not.”

He frowned at her. Her breathing had grown faster; her heart was racing. “We weren’t so poorly off when I was first born. But Papa lost everything, betting on the ’Change when I was eight. And after that… I remember ripping a crust of bread from my elder sister’s hands one time. I was practically an animal.” She shut her eyes. “When she died of diphtheria, I was sad. But part of me, some horrid part of me deep down, thought—‘Good. That means more for me.’”

He was staring at her in consternation now. “You were a child,” he said. “It wouldn’t be the same, now.”

She shook her head and drew her knees up, to curl into a ball. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t come to my aunt because my father died, you know. He kept trying to win his money back, and it kept going more and more wrong. At the end, just before I left, a man came one night. I heard him tell my father that he would settle it all if he could just borrow me for a week.” She could feel those old shivers taking her now. “I was ten, but I knew what he meant to do with me. So I left. I slipped out the window while they were arguing, before my father had time to consider how many debts he might put to rest with a ten-year-old’s virtue. It took me two weeks to walk the sixty miles to my aunt’s house. When I arrived, I begged her to take me in. That’s what it means to be poor. I shouldn’t have had to doubt whether my own father would sell me. But love is not stronger than fear.”

She drew a deep breath and looked at him. His eyes were round, fixed on her.

“It doesn’t matter. Just thinking about that—it still makes my stomach hurt. I told you I had a horror of poverty. I didn’t mean that I required silver-plated spoons and liveried footmen. I meant that I fear it, with every part of me. I have an absolute horror of it.”

“You’re shaking.” He put his arms around her. “God,” he said. “You’re cold. You’re so cold.”

His arms were warm. And perhaps he was not the only one who had stored up bitterness, because her next words spilled over from some wounded place, buried deep in her heart.

“You could have waited,” she said. “I asked you to wait. Wait until you had a trade of your own, until you could provide for us without begging your parents. But no. It always had to be now—today, and not tomorrow; this month, and never next year. Don’t tell me I didn’t love you. You weren’t willing to hold off a few years for something that mattered so deeply to me.”

He had grown utterly still as she spoke.

She drew another shuddering breath. “It was not all my fault. It wasn’t.”

“Oh, Ginny.” He kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was just…used to pushing at you. I thought it was just another aspect of the game we always played—my insisting on one thing, and your demanding another.”

“I loved you,” she said. “Just because I knew it was impossible didn’t mean I loved you less. And I hated you for forcing me to choose.”

He was wrapped around her, warm and solid. Their breaths combined in a ragged symphony. As much as it had hurt, it had felt good for Ginny to let out that tightly-controlled emotion, to release it into the air. Every breath she took was charged with the pain she’d buried for so long.

But his arms around her told another story. Yes, they’d hurt one another. But he could still make her feel better.

And then he took a deep, shuddering breath.

She opened her eyes. “But here we are,” she said. “After all these years. Maybe it can still be possible.”

“No.” His voice was quiet. Too quiet. “It can’t. It bloody well can’t. I can’t do this to you.”

She tilted her head. His mouth was set in a grim line; he’d made fists of his hands.

She had been so certain that he’d been joking in the beginning. When he’d threatened to hurt her—he’d never meant it. She gave him a watery smile. “Is this the part where you rip out my heart and stomp on it?” she asked.

“No.” He let out a long, slow breath. “This is the part where I rip out my own. I told you I was a wealthy man. It was...not exactly a lie. But, you see, I’ve made an investment. I’ve mortgaged everything I have to finish a railway line. We’re weeks from completion. If I’d managed it, it would have created a direct line from London to Castingham, the first ever. I would have been richer than I’ve ever dreamed.”