Chapter Sixteen
You looked so pale today. There were shadows under your eyes. Are you well, darling C?
H
SEBASTIAN
I sit in my living room with the letters from Sebastian Blackwood the First scattered on my coffee table. I’m trying to make sense of them. They’re not dated, which is an issue, but it’s possible to work out a vague sort of timeline based on the content.
It’s very obvious that Kate – Miss Jones – was right about H passing them to C through books he lent her, with the notes hidden in the pages. And then C replying with her own note when she gave the book back.
What’s also obvious is that they’re love notes and that C was unavailable. However, it’s not clear who the man controlling her life was. A husband? Father? Someone else? He’s only referred to as ‘he’ in the notes.
I study them. Kate – Miss Jones – was also correct when she said there were some missing. That does seem to be the case. There are notes that indicate they spent the night together, but afterwards they seem to peter out. One or two of the notes reference a reply that isn’t in the stack my great-grandfather left behind, so either some really are missing or the notes stopped.
I pick up the one that I think might be the last one. It’s from H, my great-grandfather.
You looked so pale today. There were shadows under your eyes. Are you well, darling C? Are you not sleeping? Perhaps Ash Wednesday will help. Not that it is boring! Far from it. There is some wonderful imagery in Eliot’s poetry that I think you will enjoy. I prefer it to The Waste Land .
H
P.S. The shadow under your right eye looks more like a bruise, now that I think of it. What happened?
I stare at it, frowning. It’s clear he was worried about C, and now I’m wondering the same thing. What happened? There’s no answering note in the pile and none of the other notes seem to indicate anything was wrong.
A glass of scotch sits beside the notes on the table and I pick it up and take a sip, relishing the burn as it slides down. I’m parsimonious with my drinking because of Dad, and even though I probably shouldn’t be drinking anything at all, I enjoy testing myself on the odd occasion.
The way I’m going to test myself tomorrow when I take Kate – Miss Fucking Jones – to see Mrs Bennet.
I allowed us both a couple of days of space and, though I was surprised when she came charging into the bookshop today to deliver the news about Lisa Underwood, I was pleased with my response.
I was cool, calm. Lucy Coulter from Coulter’s First Real Estate didn’t know that inside me a Neanderthal was roaring to close the space between me and Miss Fucking Jones . Take her in my arms. Have her on the floor.
But, no, I continued to sell her the latest Martin Amis with nary a blink.
Only when she’d gone, when there was no one but me and Miss Jones, wearing a long, white, oversized linen shirt and leggings, her hair braided down her back, standing there, did I blink.
Of course, what I wanted was to rip that shirt apart and get my mouth on her skin, my hands on her breasts, and—
Well. I didn’t. Instead, I calmly agreed to help her find out more about her family, which means I passed that first test just fine.
Enough to know that tomorrow I’ll also be fine.
I take another sip of my scotch, shoving the memories of what happened between me and Miss Jones completely out of my head. It’s over, just as we both agreed it would be, and there is no need for me to think about it again.
The most important thing is now we can progress with the festival, since Lisa Underwood has confirmed.
I gaze at the love notes on the coffee table. Lisa obviously liked the idea of them, plus the mystery element must have appealed too. Actually, if I’m honest, the mystery element appeals to me as well.
I want to know who C was. I want to know why she and H didn’t end up together. This is my history and it’s my great-grandfather, Sebastian. The one whom I relate to the most out of all the men in my family. He was the one who first opened Blackwood Books, way back in the thirties. Unfortunately, I don’t know all that much about him, because my grandfather died when I was eighteen and I didn’t even think to ask him about his father. I wasn’t interested in our history back then. The only thing I was interested in was the bookshop.
The Blackwood men, though, are all flawed. They all have their obsessions, their addictions, and they all left behind them a legacy of heartbreak.
I don’t want to end up like them. My legacy will be Blackwood Books, and hopefully it’ll be going a long time, even in these difficult times. Because the one thing about books is that they never let you down. They never argue back. They offer solace and comfort, and knowledge and beauty. They offer an escape, even if it is only for a couple of hours.
They’re not as fickle as people, and if maybe some of them are flawed, too, you can put those ones down and pick up another. There’s always a new book and a new discovery within its pages.
Of all the Blackwoods, it feels as if my great-grandfather was the only one who felt that way about books. Until, it seems, he fell in love and wrecked himself in the process.
I was wrong about that, by the way. Regarding me.
Kate – Miss Jones – hasn’t wrecked me. I’m back at work and everything’s the same as it was, and, really, I don’t know why I was worried.
Her face flashes in my head, the way it lit up this morning as she told me about Lisa Underwood, her grey eyes full of that special sparkle. I smiled too, and for a moment we understood each other perfectly.
Something inside me aches, an echo of pain, but I ignore it completely.
Instead, I drain my glass, then head upstairs to see if I can’t unearth some more of my great-grandfather’s papers, maybe find the missing notes, if there are indeed any missing notes.
In my study, I go through the box again, taking everything out, but there’s nothing left at the bottom except the confetti scatter of torn-up paper. I turn the box over to shake out the pieces to bin them, then see a familiar flash of red ink on one of the small pieces.
I can’t read the word, but that’s her ink and her writing. It’s C.
Shit, what is this?
Painstakingly, I sort through multiple tiny pieces of paper, and gather up all the ones with red ink on them. Then, back downstairs on the coffee table, I try to fit them together, a kind of paper jigsaw. Because it’s clear she sent him a note that he then tore to shreds for some reason.
It takes me a while, but at last I manage to piece it together.
There is nothing wrong. I am perfectly fine. Please do not worry about me. C
I frown over it. Why would he have ripped that up? She was saying she was fine.
At that moment, my phone buzzes and my heart jolts. Perhaps it’s Kate – Miss Jones, for fuck’s sake!
But it isn’t. It’s Dan.
Come for a pint at the Arms? Need to talk to you.
I wouldn’t mind the distraction, so I text back a quick yes. Then I frown at the ripped-up note for a moment more before grabbing my keys and heading out the door.
The Arms is busy tonight and usually I get a few nods and a few ‘all right?’s. But this evening I get some stares, side-eyes, and a few knowing smiles. It’s disturbing.
Dan’s in our usual place in the snug beside the fireplace and he’s already got a pint for me on the table. Good man.
I slide in opposite and give him a nod. ‘Cheers,’ I say, and reach for my pint, a Guinness chaser to the scotch I’ve already had. Perfect.
‘I heard Lisa Underwood said yes to the festival,’ Dan says.
Interesting. He must have heard it from someone connected to Gillian, since no one else knew. Unless Miss Jones has been telling people. Not that it matters, not when we have confirmation.
‘She did,’ I say.
‘I thought you didn’t have the money for her?’
‘We don’t. But we have some other . . . inducements.’
‘Such as?’
‘Great-grandfather Sebastian had a whole lot of letters in a box. Love letters. And Ka—. . . Miss Jones thought Lisa would be interested in looking at them, since apparently she’s between books, and Colours was based on some letters too. Turns out she is very interested.’
‘I see,’ Dan says slowly, then gives me a look. ‘Ka . . .?’
My jaw tightens. ‘Got something to say to me, Dan?’
‘Yes.’ He puts his pint down on the table and leans forward. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You were seen coming out of Portable Magic at a very early hour a couple of days ago.’ He raises his brows. ‘Do you have a walk of shame you need to confess?’
My jaw tightens still further. Of course I was spotted. God forbid there’s a secret in the village that stays a secret. Can’t have people going about their own private business uncommented on.
‘Who saw me?’ I bark, a little too sharply for plausible deniability.
‘Kevin.’
Kevin Roundtree. Local plumber. He goes running at arsehole o’clock every morning and of course he’d be running right when I’m coming out of Portable Magic. He’s another who’s partial to gossip too, which means everyone must know by now. Prick. That explains the sidelong looks I was getting.
There’s no point pretending it didn’t happen, though, not with Dan, and anyway, it’s hardly as if I’m ashamed of it, so I shrug. ‘And?’
‘You spent the night there? With Kate?’
‘No, I spent it with her non-existent cat. Of course with Ka—Miss Jones.’
Dan grins. ‘You sly dog.’
‘Don’t,’ I say sharply, and mean it. ‘It’s no one’s business but ours.’
Dan is unbothered. ‘I’m not implying anything. It’s just . . . well, Bas. You don’t sleep with anyone in the village, so it’s . . . notable.’
Which is why I’m wary of people knowing. Most villagers know I don’t go out with people here. And now they will know that I made an exception for Miss Jones, and there is nothing exceptional about Miss Jones. Nothing at all.
Her hair. Her smile. The warmth of her skin. The way she sounded when I pushed inside her. Her hand on my back, stroking me. The way she gasped my name as I—
Nothing. Fuck.
‘It was a one-time thing,’ I say flatly. ‘Not happening again.’
Dan’s expression is doubtful, but he only holds up a hand. ‘Okay, I hear you. She good with that too?’
‘Yes, of course she is. I wouldn’t have done it if I thought she wasn’t.’
Dan eyes me. ‘And here was I thinking getting laid would make you less of a prick.’
I grit my teeth. ‘Did you come to harangue me or to talk?’
‘Both?’ He takes a long sip of his pint. ‘You like her, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. She’s perfectly pleasant.’
Dan says nothing.
‘She’s a nice woman.’
Dan continues to say nothing.
I am tense. Even tenser than I was before my night with her. I was hoping it would make things easier, but it hasn’t. All I can think about is her in my shop today and the expression on her face as she saw Lucy standing there. And I swore I could see the glint of jealousy, of possessiveness in her eyes, and the satisfaction that gave me in that moment . . .
Dan is waiting for me to confess to something he already knows. That he can see, but I’m not willing to admit to, and, yes, it’s putting me in a vile temper. I’ve never been openly rude to people, though I admit to being somewhat cool and reserved. And I’ve never thought this before, or at least, not been conscious of this before, but there is a certain . . . reluctance in me at the thought of being rude to Dan.
He’s been my friend for a long time and he’s put up with a lot. I’m not an easy person to be with.
It’s hard for me to be open with people, to talk to people about personal things. I prefer to talk about books and the characters in them and the subjects they discuss. Books are one step removed. They’re my escape and that’s what I prefer to do.
Yet . . . Miss Jones . . . Kate .
She’s stuck in my head and I can’t get her out, and I need to somehow. Perhaps talking to Dan about her will help.
‘Yes, I . . . like her,’ I say haltingly.
Dan sips at his pint. He is silent.
‘I . . . can’t stop thinking about her.’
Dan nods. Says nothing.
‘There must be a Bechdel test for men or something,’ I say in frustration. ‘Our conversation should not revolve around women.’
‘You’re being a tosser, Bas,’ Dan says succinctly. ‘Stop it.’
That’s one reason I’m friends with Dan. Not only does he put up with my idiosyncrasies, he also calls me out when I need to be called out. Not that it’s pleasant when he does, but it keeps me on the straight and narrow.
Now, I take what he says on the chin, even if I do slump in my seat and gulp at my pint. I’ll probably be drunk soon and that’s not a state I ever want to get into, not after watching Dad reach for the bottle the second the sun was past the yardarm, and sometimes even before that.
But I can’t seem to control myself at this point.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘I . . . don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what’s happening.’
‘Well,’ Dan says calmly. ‘I can tell you. You’re falling for her, Bas.’
I scowl, even if something inside me relaxes, as if it’s given up fighting. ‘No. I am not.’
‘You are, and you don’t know what to do about it, because you’ve never met anyone who makes you feel this way. And you’re emotionally constipated because of your upbringing and you have no idea how to handle it.’
‘Yes, thank you, Dr Freud.’
Dan shrugs. ‘Just a few things I learned from counselling.’
Dan sees a therapist once a month to discuss things to do with doctoring because he’s not good at compartmentalising.
That, however, is something I’m fantastic at. Maybe I should have done medicine after all?
‘I would rather not feel this way,’ I say at last. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘Have you ever thought . . . I don’t know . . . about giving it a go?’
‘Giving what a go?’
‘A relationship, Bas. Have you ever thought about . . .’
‘Being her boyfriend, you mean?’ I say the word ‘boyfriend’ with the contempt it deserves.
Dan rolls his eyes. ‘Fine, if you don’t want to listen to good sense then ignore me.’
I let out a silent breath and try to marshal my thoughts. ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘I can’t be with her. We’re too different.’
‘Are you seriously kidding me right now?’ Dan looks at me with utter amazement. ‘Different? You’re the same, you cretin. You both love books, you both are intelligent, passionate, and utterly—’
‘The Blackwoods have a terrible track record,’ I interrupt, because I have to stop him somehow. ‘Every one of us has hurt the women we’re supposed to love. We’re drunks, gamblers, we cause nothing but harm, and Kate deserves better than that.’
Dan shakes his head. ‘Just because your father and grandfather were like that, doesn’t mean you have to be. Change the ending, Bas. You can do that, you know.’
‘Life isn’t a book, Dan,’ I say bitterly, because I know that all too well. ‘And some endings are shit.’
He looks at me for a long time, then holds up his hands. ‘Fine. If that’s the story you want to tell, you tell it like that. But don’t include Kate in your shitty endings, because you’re right, she doesn’t deserve that.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t. Which is why it was one night and that’s it.’
Though, of course, now I’m wondering if that night should have happened at all.