This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)(22)

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.