This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)(24)
“Who will ever know that you lied?”
William shrugged. “Me?”
“You?” The solicitor laughed in scorn. “Well, trust in yourself, then. You’ll not deliver yourself from poverty.”
William stood. He’d thought his soul had depreciated until it was worth less than nothing. Strange he’d not realized: it always had precisely the value he chose to give it.
As he left, the man called out after him. “I hope you take great pleasure in yourself. Likely it’s all you’ll ever have.”
The words no longer sounded like the curse they once would have been.
ON CHRISTMAS EVE MORNING, Lavinia shared the responsibility of running the shop with her brother. The two of them, even in that small downstairs room, should not have made the room feel so close. Yes, there were nearly fifteen hundred volumes packed into a tiny space. The shelves stretched head height and above. But Lavinia had never found the two tiny rooms confining before, not even with a surfeit of customers. But today the books seemed to tower over her, choking her with memories.
She would look up from her desk and remember the first time she’d seen William, standing so ill at ease in front of her, asking for a subscription. She would place a volume back on the shelf and remember the sight of him in that very spot, searching for a title. He would run his finger carefully down a leather binding. In those days, she’d envied the books. But now, he’d touched her with greater reverence.
He’d not been able to hide the meaning of those gestures. Over and over, he’d told her he loved her. He loved her, and so he made her wretchedly watered-down tea. He loved her and he longed to touch her, but instead he warned her she’d have no butter with her bread. He loved her.
And yet she’d brought him hopelessness rather than happiness. Together, they’d managed to share a fine portion of guilt. She might gladly have suffered deprivation for him, but he was not the kind of man who could watch the woman he loved be deprived.
Over at the small table near the door, Lavinia watched as James entered a book loan in the ledger. He slipped two pennies in the cash box and then wrapped a book and waved farewell to Mr. Bellow. As he recorded the transaction, he avoided her gaze. She came up to the table anyway, approaching it from the front, as if she were a customer instead of a fellow laborer. Still, he winced.
“I did it exactly as you instructed,” he whispered. “Did I do it wrong? Oh God, I did it so completely backward you can tell it’s wrong without even reading what I’ve entered.” He put his head in his hands.
“You’re doing very well.” She resisted the urge to turn the book upside down to check. “Perfect, even.” No, she was not going to even glance down. “You’re doing so well, in fact, that I am going upstairs to rest.”
He lifted his face. His eyes shone in pleasure. “I’ll take care of everything.” Then he paused. “But perhaps an hour or two before we close up the shop, would you be willing to take over again? There is one thing I should like to take care of this evening.”
She patted her brother’s hand. “Of course,” she said with a smile.
She headed upstairs. She would not have minded deprivation for herself. But William…If her gloves had holes, William’s hands would freeze in sympathy. If she ate brown, unbuttered bread, the bitter taste would linger on his palate.
She’d given him hopelessness. She’d made him miserable. If she truly loved him, perhaps she needed to let him go.
CHAPTER SIX
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER, William had cowered in the office where he worked, for fear of losing his position. Today when he walked in, he felt not even a hint of disquietude.
Why had he been so afraid? He was young. He was competent. And even if he were turned off, he would find something else. Losing a position where he was regularly treated like the grimiest gutter refuse was not something to fear. It was something to celebrate.
When the door to the office opened just after nine and in walked Lord Blakely followed by his glowering grandson, William felt triumph.
When he was let go, it would be a financial setback. It might take weeks to find work again; his wages might even be reduced. He ought to have been terrified. But this was not a punishment, to be allowed to walk out of this dark and dismal place. It was an opportunity.
The two lords stepped into the back office. After a few minutes Mr. Dunning walked up to William and whispered that he’d been asked to enter the room. They were unlikely to be inviting him to a picnic lunch. Just before he stood, Mr. Dunning laid his hand on William’s shoulder—an empty gesture of pointless support.
William smiled and stood, calm. Let them sack me. Please.
He’d expected the back office to appear precisely as he’d left it yesterday.
But when he arrived, there had been one tiny alteration. Lord Blakely still peered at him from beneath white, bushy eyebrows, examining him as if he were some strange insect. But the marquess had not seated himself in his throne behind the desk. Instead, he’d ensconced his grandson in the position of power. Lord Wyndleton sat, ill at ease. He smoldered with a repressed anger so fierce that William thought he would leave scorch marks where he tapped his fingers against the desk.
Three account books, a small portion of the work William had done over his years of employment, made a small pile on the edge of the desk.
The old marquess picked up one negligently and thumbed through the pages. “Sometime between the months of January and—” a pause, and a last glance at the end of the third book “—April, Bill Blight here made a mistake.”