Chapter 12 #2
I remained on the sofa, confused by her jovial mood.
Although my head ached, I welcomed it as a distraction from the pain in my hand.
I couldn’t see Clara anymore but I could hear her humming as she worked in the kitchen.
I leaned my head back as I tried to recognize the tune.
Straining my ears, the familiar notes came together in my memory.
It was a song our cook used to sing at home in Hampshire.
The words played over and over in my head, coming back to my memory one at a time, until I remembered all the verses.
Cook had only sang the song when we were young, and never when anyone else was around to hear it.
I had never known if she intended for us to hear it, but she had sang the song while she worked and while we waited in the back corners of the kitchen to sneak leftover cakes or dough.
As Clara hummed, I sang the words softly, barely a whisper so she wouldn’t hear.
The sun arising after me
Flowers growing in the land
While dirt and flour stain my hand
‘Tis the place I am to be.
Care and thought preparing tea
As life demands my work for wage
Inside this cruel and bitter cage
There’s a place I’d rather be.
On the edge of peaceful seas
Where life seems a daily sport
My one true love I may court
‘Tis a place where I’d be free.
But through the ashes I soon see
Happiness indeed is found
Within a soft and humble sound
There’s no place I’d rather be.
The words ended, but Clara had stopped humming before the final verse.
I bathed in the silence that followed, contemplating the meaning of the words I had never considered before.
Cook must have written the song herself, singing it in secret, perhaps singing it to cheer herself up.
She had hated working in our home but something had changed her mind.
Something had given her the ability to be happy there.
But how? I thought of the line, Inside a cruel and bitter cage.
How could one be happy in confinement? It was not my choice to be here in the North, so how could it be my choice to be happy?
After dinner, I returned to my place in our tiny sitting room to await James’s visit.
Mr. Watkins would be stopping by as well.
My stomach twisted as I adjusted my hair and dress.
Why was I so nervous? Surely James would be disgusted by our cottage.
Even his quaint home was much more presentable than ours.
I replayed our last interaction in my mind.
My heart leaped at the memory of his smiling eyes—how they had locked on mine in the Abbots’ drawing room.
I didn’t understand how such a brief and inconsequential moment had carved itself so permanently into my mind, but this was certainly not the first time I had found myself reflecting on it.
It wasn’t long before a firm knock sounded at the door. I rose to answer it. I didn’t want to appear incapable of performing such a simple task.
Mr. Watkins stood on the other side of the door, eyes round and scolding. “You must be resting!” He scurried through the doorway. I poked my head outside, scanning the area for James. He wasn’t here yet.
Mr. Watkins ushered me back to the sofa and began with his questioning. “What is the degree of pain…?” I only half-listened, answering only when required. I kept my eyes firmly on the door as the surgeon changed the wrappings on my hand, still not daring to look at my fingers.
When the new bandages were in place, a second knock came from outside. I tensed, nearly jumping from my chair. Clara stood and tugged the door open, bringing a burst of icy air into the house. I shivered.
James tipped his head, ducking below the squat frame. His black hair was combed neatly, and he was dressed in a dark tailcoat. His eyes fell on mine and he smiled, just a slight lift of his lips and the corners of his eyes. I shivered again.
“Miss Lyons.”
“Mr. Wortham.” My voice was weaker than I intended.
He walked farther into the room and greeted Clara, then stood behind Mr. Watkins. “How is the patient faring?”
“Quite well.” Mr. Watkins stood and began gathering his things, seemingly in a hurry. “Her wounds are healing as expected. There are no complications to be found.” He gave me a few more instructions about resting before he took his leave.
As soon as the surgeon was gone, James interlocked his hands behind his back, tipping his head down to look at me. “Are you actually well?”
I nodded and locked my jaw firmly, refusing to cry in front of him again. In truth, I was not well. How could I be when all of my goals and plans for the future had been destroyed? But telling James how I felt would not make it go away, so I remained silent.
“Please, sit.” Clara insisted, gesturing at the other end of the sofa.
James accepted the invitation, and I scooted as close to the opposite side as possible.
With a mischievous smile, Clara melted into the dining area, leaving us alone.
Panic seized my chest. What on earth was she doing?
I tried my best to breathe normally in the silence that followed.
I did not like the way James affected me.
Not at all. He leaned his elbows onto his knees and turned his head to face me.
I met his gaze with effort, willing myself not to notice the shade of green his eyes looked tonight, and how the dimness of our cottage almost made them look blue. I noticed anyway.
“Why are you here?” I asked in a quiet voice. It sounded blunt, but I didn’t care. I was far too curious.
“You may end the charade, Charlotte. We are alone.” He smiled more with the left of his mouth.
I raised my brows. “What charade?”
He chuckled softly. “You mustn’t think I didn’t notice that cold stare. I haven’t yet forgotten your secret.”
I realized how tense I was, my shoulders straight and features firm. I relaxed all at once, leaning into the back of the sofa. “I didn’t mean it…I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t mean the glare, or you didn’t mean the secret?” James leaned an inch closer. “Do you hate me after all?”
I shook my head, a reluctant smile tugging on my mouth. “I meant what I said. I don’t hate you.”
He sat back, seemingly pleased with my words. “So you love me then.”
I jerked my gaze to him. To my relief, he appeared to be teasing. “I do not.” I leaned forward to emphasize my words.
He smiled wider, putting on an expression of presumptuous arrogance that reminded me of his brother. “Surely you must love me. I have never encountered a woman who does not.”
I considered swatting him with my bandaged hand, as it appeared very much like a club, but didn’t only because it would hurt me more than him. “Well, now you have. I do not love you.”
His smile softened and one eyebrow arched. “So if you don’t love me, and you don’t hate me, then what?”
I took a deep breath, strangely enjoying this odd conversation. “Something in between.” He seemed far too satisfied by my answer, so I added, “But much closer to hate.”
He laughed, and I echoed the sound. I had never laughed with a man before.
All my conversations with men had been calculated and boring, never entertaining and odd like this.
I tried to stop laughing, embarrassed by the sound.
At parties, Mama had instructed me to keep my laughter at an appropriate volume and tone, as a gentleman didn’t want a silly wife.
I eyed James carefully, expecting him to be appalled by the display I had just created.
But he didn’t seem to mind at all. He shrugged, his laughter subsiding.
“I suppose that is fair.” His eyes met mine again and I looked down, feeling uncharacteristically shy.
I was fairly certain I had never been shy in my entire life.
“You never answered my question,” I said, my voice returning to normal. “Why are you here?” I forced myself to look at him again. “I am recovering well. You have completed any duty you might have felt toward me.”
His face became serious, and he was silent for several seconds. I waited, heart beating faster from the weight of his gaze. Had I said something wrong?
He gave a slow nod, rising to his feet. “Of course. I only wished to see that you were well.” His brow furrowed. “I will not impose again.”
Regret seized me. “James, wait—”
He turned around, halfway to the door. What was his sudden hurry? I searched my mind for something else to say. “It was very kind of you to visit. And I—I would not be opposed if you did so again.”
He gave a brief nod, but for once, he seemed uncertain of what to say. “Good evening, Charlotte. Rest well.”
“Good evening.”
The words had barely escaped my mouth before he passed through the door and disappeared from sight.
I realized I had been leaning forward, nearly falling off the sofa.
I fell back against the cushions, my brow creased in confusion.
What had compelled him to leave so suddenly?
I bit my lip in worry. Had I done something to offend him?
I stopped my thoughts as quickly as they came.
Why did it matter? Only days before I had planned all my words hoping to offend him.
But now, as much as I hated to admit it, I cared about his opinion.
And even worse…I had wanted him to stay a little longer.