Chapter 47
The following days were as dispiriting for Lucy as had been the previous rainy ones, only more so, for whereas before she had some hope of progress, now she had only tedium.
Spring showers had returned, more intermittent, but in sufficient frequency to prevent any outdoor excursions.
Lucy entertained herself, if it could be called such, by sketching and conceptualising future alterations to a coach, but even this soon became tiresome, her thoughts uninspired and hardly worthy of being called innovations.
The interest was severely dampened by the knowledge that any opportunity to put theory into practice was now far from her reach.
She could perhaps contrive some reason and subterfuge to visit Elsa at the ruins, but though she was confident she could recall the path, she had no guarantee they would even be there.
While the races still appealed, she felt that spectating had lost some lustre now she had experienced racing firsthand.
It was only in the absence of the thing that Lucy truly realised how much she had been invested.
Her previous existence, one she had never lamented before, now felt lacking in purpose.
The past few months had been altogether too much at once to leave her unaltered; the thrill of racing, of intention, of intrigue.
The thrill of romance.
She had never denied that her attraction to Captain Dashwood had been more than pragmatism and mutual interest. There had been the dangerous moment in the woods, yes, and certain moments where the image of him had caused her to blush, but those she had rationalised as light fancy.
But upon reading his letter, the true weight of her feelings became apparent.
To misread the emotions of others was one thing, but how could she have been so foolish as to mistake her own.
She wished she had been more forthcoming and it was now too late to correct such an oversight.
It would not be particularly difficult to discover how she might write to him, but what should she say?
Clearly their investigation could not be mentioned, given the lengths by which he had requested the written trail be concealed.
It would be imprudent to discuss the Night Races or Torres with him for the same reason.
She might attempt to articulate her feelings, but even if she were to succeed, what would be the merit in such an exposition?
He had made it clear that his return was not safe for either of them.
To become no more than two people exchanging affections?
That might be a part of their connection, but it was far from the whole.
It would feel hollow. And so the letter she occasionally began to compose would instead be erased and drawn over with carriage designs that looked no different from many others upon her desk.
Andrew and Alice Elliot did not speak to Lucy of her mood, though they were aware of it. There had been occasions in the past where she had slipped into periods of melancholy, and time had been a sufficient remedy for each of them.
She might have turned to her sister for council, but here too she felt a guilt that prevented it.
The swift departure of Captain Dashwood had put an indefinite hold not only upon Lucy’s prospects, but those of Margaret as well.
How foolish she had been to suggest that her connection to Dashwood might pave the way for one between Margaret and Oliver St Martin.
Lucy had given them that hope, and now it had been taken away.
She avoided her sister, for she knew the painful feeling of a snatched future, a feeling Lucy felt responsible for.
The only solace offered by the days drawing on was that her face was back to its regular shade and her hearing seemed back to normal.
The irritation gone, she slept well, too well perhaps, for she went to bed early and rose late, quite out of sorts with her regular habits.
But the fewer hours she spent awake, the fewer hours she had to fill.
It was on one such morning that she was struck by a pillow with such force as to rouse her from both her slumber and her doldrums.
‘Get up,’ Margaret said plainly. ‘We’re walking to town.’
Had it been a request, Lucy might have declined. But there was a declarative nature to it that brooked no refusal.
Lucy arose, took a late breakfast and soon found herself on the path towards town. Their objective was unclear, for Margaret said nothing as they walked. Silence was seldom unpleasant to Lucy, but something in it compelled conversation and she could only resist that urge for so long.
‘I am sorry,’ Lucy said, ‘for any pain I have caused you.’
Margaret seemed so taken aback by this that it took her a moment to formulate a reply.
‘That you have caused me? Lucy, whatever are you talking about?’
‘The connection between you and Oliver St Martin that I suggested. Now that I am clearly not to be married, it is a happiness denied you. I should not have been so forward in attaching hope to something I had no certainty of. It was imprudent of me, and I apologise.’
Again Margaret paused, seeming to untangle her sister’s reasoning.
‘Lucy, no such thought of blame has crossed my mind. The chances of a union between us are no less than they were a month ago. You did me no wrong by announcing your considerations. Besides which, the departure of Captain Dashwood is by no means your fault. I know his leaving has been hard on you, especially in conjunction with the horrid events of the night of the St Martins’ ball.
But if you feel that I harbour any resentment towards you, or that you should harbour any guilt, then you are quite mistaken on both accounts. ’
Lucy only blinked.
‘Besides, the captain’s absence may only be temporary. If his father’s condition improves then there is no reason he’ll not return, especially if he cares for you.’
The words were meant in kindness, but Lucy soon found herself weeping so fiercely they were forced to sit upon a bench beneath a tree.
It was as if all her frustrations and fears, from the moment she had laid eyes on Captain Dashwood, till the last embers of his letter had crumbled away, had now overflowed.
They all finally broke through the dam of logic and order she had so tightly constructed, and the torrent washed away any hope of concealment.
When she had at last regained some semblance of herself, she looked about briefly at their surroundings to ensure they were alone.
And then she began to speak, omitting no truth.
From the Night Races, to Captain Dashwood, their first races together, his mission, their excursion to the ruins, the truth of his departure and his final letter.
Everything flowed from her until at last she finished and a wave of exhaustion and relief caught up with her all at once.
Her sister said nothing, but took her shaking hand and held it firmly. For some time they sat without words, the countryside’s summer sounds their only company.
‘You know,’ Margaret said eventually, ‘if Charlotte Wyndham had told me that story, I should not have believed a word of it.’
Lucy chuckled at that, sniffing and wiping her nose awkwardly.
‘I wish, Lucy, I could offer some words of wisdom. Some philosophy. But I’m not sure Hume covers this sort of thing.’ Margaret took a breath then stood. ‘Come on. Let’s get to town.’
Lucy rose, and together they walked on.
Not a single problem had been solved. And yet, somehow, she felt immeasurably improved.