Chapter 4 #2
Jane glanced over at her friend. “Thank you… for everything. I know I haven’t exactly been pleasant company.”
Olivia waved the words aside. “That’s utter nonsense. Everyone is allowed to break down now and then. But do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“You’re already stronger than you were. Because strength isn’t about always doing what’s expected. It’s about doing what you thought you couldn’t.”
Jane held on to that as they reached the top of the stairs. She didn’t know what the world held for her now—who she’d become, where she’d go. But for the first time, she was no longer afraid to find out.
Alistair strode along the main path in Vauxhall Gardens with his sister on his arm, dodging clusters of chattering patrons like a soldier maneuvering through battlefield smoke.
Candlelit lanterns hung from trees and pavilions in flickering tiers, their light soft and romantic.
They were meant to enchant, no doubt. And yet all he could think about was how many blasted people there were.
He hated crowds. Always had. Too many people, too many variables, too many eyes.
Charlotte smiled up at him with practiced ease. “Could you please pretend to be enjoying this?”
He grunted. “Why are there so many people here?”
“Because it is the place to be,” she replied with a smug sort of patience, “and more importantly, the place to be seen.”
She gasped suddenly and tugged on his arm, pointing ahead. “We must go to the Rotunda!”
Alistair followed her gaze and groaned inwardly. A snaking line of patrons wound towards the domed building like a parade of sheep queuing for slaughter.
“No,” he said flatly. “We’ve seen it before.”
“But not tonight,” she pressed. “There’s always something new.”
He narrowed his eyes at the unmoving crowd. “There’s nothing new about standing shoulder-to-shoulder with other patrons for half the night.”
“A line won’t kill you.”
“It just might,” he muttered under his breath.
She huffed in exasperation. “You are no fun.”
“I am very fun,” he corrected. “I simply have refined tastes in how I spend my evening.” He gestured towards one of the other buildings in the distance. “We could listen to the orchestra or visit any of the other pavilions.”
Charlotte slipped her hand from his arm. “You can do what you like, but I am going to stand in line for the Rotunda.”
His jaw tensed. “Be serious.”
“I am,” she said, lifting her chin in that infuriating way of hers. “And really, your aversion to lines is quite absurd. You must’ve stood in line often enough during your time in the Army.”
“I did,” he replied, “but I always stood at the front.”
“Of course you did,” she muttered.
“There are so many sights to enjoy at Vauxhall. Why choose the dullest one?”
“Because I want to explore it.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “What if I brought you back during the day? You’d have the place to yourself.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Must we go through this entire song and dance again? We’ll argue, you’ll eventually concede, and by then, the line will be longer.”
He glared at the line like it had personally offended him. “Fine,” he said, defeated. “Lead the way.”
She beamed and darted towards the end of the line, practically glowing with victory.
Alistair followed at a slower pace, muttering a familiar refrain. “Blasted lines.”
They had not moved more than a foot when a familiar voice called out behind him. “Alcott.”
Alistair turned, recognizing Lord Westmere immediately. Beside him stood his wife, Olivia, and—his gaze caught—a familiar figure in blue silk.
Lady Jane.
He bowed to the women, offering a polite greeting. “Good evening, ladies.”
Westmere dipped his head towards Charlotte. “Miss Winslow.”
His sister barely acknowledged the greeting, too focused on watching the motionless line with the vigilance of a hawk.
Not that there was any movement to note.
Alistair’s eyes found Jane again. The blue of her gown framed her shoulders beautifully and drew out the startling clarity of her eyes. There was something subdued in her expression, a tension she tried to hide behind a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“How are you faring?” he asked.
“I am doing well,” she replied quickly.
He studied her. “The truth, please.”
Her gaze dropped to the ground. “The whispers and stares follow me wherever I go. It’s been relentless.”
Olivia linked her arm through Jane’s. “And she is handling it all with grace.”
“I am trying,” Jane murmured.
Charlotte turned around then. “Have you seen the Rotunda?”
Jane nodded. “Yes. It’s spectacular. I love how your voice carries inside. It’s like speaking into an echo.”
Charlotte rose on her toes and peered forward. “I hope we make it inside before the fireworks begin.”
Alistair sighed. “I hate lines.”
Westmere chuckled. “Yes, I remember. At Eton, you’d cause a proper uproar in the dinner line.”
Alistair shrugged, unapologetic. “It was the only way to stay entertained.”
Westmere turned to his wife. “Alcott used to bring frogs in his pockets and drop them down the backs of other boys. Chaos would ensue, and he’d march right to the front.”
“That is terrible,” Olivia said, grinning. “And something I could absolutely see myself doing.”
Jane blinked in horror. “I would never do such a thing.”
Alistair smirked. “I know. But a little mischief never hurt anyone.”
“My father would disagree.”
He leaned a bit closer. “You’re not under his thumb anymore, are you?”
She hesitated. “Well, no… but—”
A sudden idea bloomed in his mind, playful and absurd. And it would be a far better use of his time than standing in this blasted line. “There’s a stream nearby and I’m certain there are frogs there. You should hold one in your hands.”
Jane stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Surely you jest.”
“I do not,” he said, extending his hand. “Come with me.”
“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“It will be fun,” he coaxed, wiggling his fingers. “Unless you’re afraid of frogs?”
“I’m not afraid,” she protested. “I just don’t think they want to be touched.”
“They’ve never complained before.”
“That’s because they can’t talk.”
He grinned. “You’re protesting far too much.”
Her eyes dropped to his outstretched hand. Then, slowly, she placed hers in his. “All right,” she said. “But let’s be quick about it.”
He turned to Charlotte. “We’ll be back shortly.”
His sister waved him off without even turning around. “Go on.”
They moved away from the crowd, weaving through clusters of trees and laughing patrons. He felt the tension in Jane’s posture—rigid, uncertain—but she didn’t pull away.
They reached the stream, its banks glinting faintly in the moonlight. Frogs croaked cheerfully from the reeds.
He crouched, scanning the stones. One small frog rested atop a mossy rock. He removed his gloves, tucked them into his coat, and reached out.
In one swift motion, he had the frog cupped between his palms.
“Take off your gloves,” he instructed, turning to Jane.
She recoiled slightly. “I don’t dare.”
“You don’t want to ruin them, do you?”
With visible reluctance, she began peeling the gloves from her hands, looking as if she were preparing to face a firing squad.
“Ready?” he asked.
She held out her hands in a cupped shape. “I suppose.”
He placed the frog gently into her hands.
She grimaced. “It’s slimy. And smells like… pond.”
“But now,” he said, “you can say you’ve held a frog.”
A reluctant smile crept across her lips. “I did, didn’t I?” She studied the creature with growing fascination. “It isn’t as awful as I expected.”
“Very few things are.”
She tilted her head. “I think I’ll call him… Mr. Frog.”
Alistair chuckled. “That’s a terrible name. What if it’s a lady frog?”
“How would I know?”
“Flip it over,” he said. “A dark stomach means it’s male and a plain stomach means female.”
She squinted at him. “Are you making that up?”
“No, I assure you that it is true.”
Carefully, she turned the frog over. “It has a dark stomach,” she reported. “Mr. Frog, it is.”
He watched her cradle the creature, her eyes lit with amusement. In that moment, her troubles faded from her expression—if only for a little while. And he found he would gladly endure a hundred lines for the chance to see her smile like that again.
Jane leaned forward and gently placed the frog back onto the flat rock beside the stream. It paused for the briefest of moments before giving a single strong hop and disappearing into the reeds.
“I don’t think it liked being held,” she remarked.
Alistair crossed his arms and cocked a brow. “If it had an issue, I’m sure it would have said so.”
Jane let out a light laugh. “You seem to forget that frogs cannot speak English.”
“That we know of,” he replied with mock solemnity. “For all we know, they may be more eloquent than Lord Byron and simply choose to keep their linguistic talents hidden from the masses.”
She gave him a sidelong look and rose to her feet. “I daresay you might be bottle-weary,” she teased.
“Possibly. Shall we return to the others?”
He offered his arm, and she accepted it without hesitation. Her fingers settled against his coat sleeve with a warmth that stirred something in his chest—something dangerously pleasant.
As they strolled back towards the ever-present line, Jane said, “Thank you.”
He glanced at her. “For what?”
“I never imagined I would hold a frog,” she said, a smile playing at her lips. “It was… freeing. I feel almost rebellious.”
“That was hardly rebellion, Jane.”
“For me it was,” she insisted, her voice laced with vulnerability. “I’ve always done what was expected. And proper young ladies—so I was told—do not touch frogs.”
“Says who?”
“My father. And my brother.”
His amusement faded, replaced by a heaviness that settled in his chest. “They were wrong,” he said. “I know for a fact Charlotte’s handled more than her share of frogs.”
Jane turned her face away slightly, but not before he saw the flicker of pain in her expression. “My brother came to see me,” she revealed. “He said I was dead to him. And to my father.”
His jaw tensed. “I’m sorry, Jane.”
“I suppose I expected it,” she continued. “But part of me still hoped I was wrong. I don’t know why.”
Alistair came to an abrupt stop and turned towards her fully, gently guiding her to face him. Her eyes remained downcast, her lashes casting shadows over her cheeks.
“There’s nothing wrong with hoping,” he said.
Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Hope is for fools. At least, that’s what my father used to say.”
“Then your father was wrong.”
“Perhaps,” she said, still avoiding his gaze. “But in this instance, I was foolish to believe they might understand my reasonings.”
He waited until she finally looked up at him. When her eyes met his, full of unshed hurt, he spoke with certainty. “They wanted you to throw away your future, not theirs. And it was cruel of them to expect such a sacrifice.”
Her chin lifted with defiance, but he saw the tremble at the corner of her mouth. Her strength was admirable, even when it faltered.
“I need to move forward and be strong,” she said.
“I know you can.”
“You do?”
He gave her a half-smile. “You survived growing up with them. That alone proves your strength. But now, for the first time, you get to choose your own fate.”
Her lips parted, but no words came immediately. At last, she said, “I wish I had a magic ball that could tell me what my future holds.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he teased.
“No one likes uncertainty, Alistair.”
“Maybe not,” he said, “but that’s what makes life interesting.”
She gave him a dry look. “You and I have very different ideas of what’s interesting.”
“Perhaps. But I think you’ll surprise even yourself, Jane.”
And if he had anything to say about it, her future would not be one of exile and loneliness. Not if he could help it.