Shadow (Wendy Darling #3)(12)
“And why not?”
Wendy felt the shame of cowardice deep in her chest. Booth was everything to her, and yet, she couldn’t have him tell her parents, not yet. She wanted what he detested: a hushed love affair, kisses in attics and behind bookshelves, nothing public for now. She wanted him, more than a person had any right to desire another, and yet, she wouldn’t do this to her parents. Nor to him. She cared for Booth too much to have his name dragged through the mud by Mrs. Tatterley and the low likes of her. She leaned on the windowsill, her nightgown brushing her ankles.
“Booth! My parents will hear you! Please go!”
“I DON’T CARE IF THE WORLD HEARS ME!” he shouted back, and Wendy heard a sudden silence from downstairs, followed by the sound of a heavy chair moving.
“Go away! Get out of here! Go!”
“I won’t!”
“I will come to you later, but please leave! Go!” Even from the pavement, Wendy saw the disappointment in Booth’s face as he gazed up at her.
“You will come later?”
She nodded. “I’ll sneak out while my parents are at the party and meet you at the bookstore. Now go!” He slowly shook his head before clenching his pageboy hat angrily in his hands.
“Oh, Wendy,” he said quietly, just loud enough for her to hear, loud enough to shatter her heart, “I thought you so much braver than this.”
Wendy backed away from the window, her hands jerking back from the windowsill as if it had singed her skin. She watched in the growing dusk as Booth stared up at the window for another moment before walking up the cobblestone street with a shake of his head. He had just passed the gaslight when a sliver of light beamed out from the doorway; Mr. Darling was poking his head out, seeing what all that silly noise was about. Wendy ducked behind the curtains. George Darling paused for a moment; she could hear his curt breaths before he headed back inside. Wendy slowly stepped back toward the window, but Booth was gone. She brushed a tear away from her eye. Was she forever ruined in his eyes? She looked around the nursery. Was she so weak that she would give him up for a few comforts? A warm bed, a stately house? Her hands ran over the bookcase near the window, searching for his letter. She pulled it out and unfolded it before her. At the sight of his scrawled letters, Wendy came undone, a sensible girl unraveled by the bookseller’s son.
“Oh, Booth,” she murmured. “Forgive me.” She clutched the letter to her chest, pretending it was him, remembering the way he had pulled her body against his, the sound of his heart through his thin shirt. She heard the thud of footsteps on the stairs and turned to climb back into bed. Her feet hit the tray of soup that Liza had left for her—When had she come in?—and Wendy tripped forward, her ankles snapping against the floor, her letter fluttering to the ground. The bedroom door flew open.
“Wendy, daughter, did you hear a ruckus out—” Her father stopped short, looking debonair in his black tuxedo and white cummerbund. “Wendy, what on earth are you doing?”
Wendy looked up at him with fear as his eyes came to rest on the letter lying face up on the rug. “Father, no . . .” Walking quickly, Mr. Darling scooped up the letter from the ground. His eyes went wide with concern as he read the words, Wendy slowly getting to her feet. The look of disappointment she had so feared crossed his drawn features as he looked over at his eldest child, next to an overturned tray with cold lemon soup seeping out from underneath. Then, to her surprise, a gentle smile crept across his face.
“Oh, my dear. Come with me.”
Wendy followed her father down the hallway, past the bathroom where Liza was giving Michael a bath, past her father’s study and her parents’ expansive bedroom, decorated in rich greens and filigree golds, their elaborate colors frozen under a crystal chandelier. George Darling made a right turn into the drawing room at the end of the hall, and once Wendy had entered, he clicked the small gold lock on the door. Wendy felt her body tense. She had never known her father to lock a door. The Darlings’ drawing room was lined in oak panels that made the small space feel even more closed in. The gold-framed paintings of horses hanging around the room had always been a source of amusement for John, who liked to point out that not one single member of the family knew anything about horses or particularly enjoyed them. Wendy took a step past one of the paintings and sat down on a hard blue velvet loveseat, her eyes trained on an antique Dutch vase of pink flowers. With a sigh, Mr. Darling sat down beside her on the loveseat, gently resting his hand upon her head. They sat in silence for a few moments, his hand absentmindedly stroking her light brown hair. His eyes came to rest on the small windows in the room, no doubt focused on the emerging stars outside.
“I remember my first heartbreak,” he said quietly. Wendy stayed silent, daring to hope that perhaps this would not be the lecture she was expecting. “Her name was Clara, and she was the most delicate creature I had ever seen.”
Wendy’s mouth dropped open. Her father had never spoken of his life before her mother. Mr. Darling looked over at her and laughed. “Don’t look so shocked, my dear. Your parents had rich lives long before you came along. Clara was a teacher. I loved her dearly, the true match for my soul. She shared my curiosity for the cosmos, and I saw a life with her stretch out before me, a beautiful existence filled with knowledge and compassionate listening. Our passion for learning was only outmatched by our passion for each other.”