Chapter Fourteen - William #2
"Neither of us behaved the way we should have that evening." A blush dusted her cheeks, but she lifted her chin. "If you’ll accept my apology, I certainly will accept yours."
"Of course. We’ll speak of it no longer."
Dahlia nodded. William was surprised at the sharp jab in his stomach at the sight of her relief.
But I shall think of it always, he added mentally.
Truthfully, that evening had been haunting him as of late, but perhaps not in the way it should have.
Last night, in his dreams, he had revisited that garden.
Except, the Dahlia of the past had been replaced by Dahlia as she sat before him now—four years older, four years more beautiful, four years more intelligent.
Previously, the memory had always been a sort of guilty pleasure—a kiss bestowed upon a young woman too innocent to fully understand, though she had, of course, been more than willing. She’d gone looking for it, for him.
For anyone, his mind corrected.
He shuddered to think how different her story and circumstances could now be if she’d found the Marquess of Shelbourne or someone of his ilk in those gardens, instead. But no, it had been him. Only him, if her words were true. Because of course, his sisters were curious enough to ask.
Thank heavens for Margaret, he thought.
His had been the only kiss she had experienced. Though he could not claim the same, hers was the memory that haunted him. It haunted him anew for completely different reasons now.
He cleared his throat and refocused. "After that, I went away. I left on a ship early the next morning, as you might recall—"
Dahlia nodded as if she did remember, and something in him hoped it was true.
He wanted to know whether she remembered him, he realized.
He wanted to believe that he’d been on her mind the way she had been on his.
There certainly was no polite way to ask.
Especially not now. It was impertinent to bring the matter up at all.
“Where did you go?”
“Back to India. I have property there.”
“That's where your business is?”
He nodded. “A large portion of it, yes.”
“And then what?”
“Three years passed. Things became untenable at home, and I didn't know.”
My fault, his mind raged at him whenever he thought of that time.
If only he had known that while he was increasing his own fortune abroad, his brother was busy losing their family’s at home, and his sisters had suffered for it.
Margaret had confided that towards the end, their brother rarely came home.
So it was Claire and the rest of his sisters who were left to deal with the bill collectors.
William's hand clenched into a fist. While he’d been away in India, enjoying the many fruits of his labors, eating fine meals in a grand house that he had paid for with his own money, his sisters were trying to stretch oatmeal by boiling it with twice the amount of water.
It was no use raging at a man long dead, but sometimes William imagined wrapping his hands around his brother's throat and squeezing. He could have respected Richard if he’d lost the estate in an honorable way—the wrong business venture, a bad investment, even through neglect.
But no—Richard had gambled it away, piece by piece.
Until there wasn't enough money left to even buy tallow candles.
His sisters had begged Richard to send for William. But he’d refused. Instead, Richard had let them nearly starve. Until Lily had taken it upon herself to advertise for a position using a reference.
“Things were difficult at home.” He swallowed back his regret. “Claire bore the brunt of it.”
“Ah,” she said, as if that explained something, as if she now understood Claire better.
And perhaps she did, William thought.
“Then my brother passed, and my sisters wrote for me. But I’d moved, and the letter took months.”
Here, he pressed his lips together, nearly overcome with emotion.
You weren't there, guilt that sounded very much like his own voice said inside his mind. You weren't there. You couldn't protect them. You didn't protect them.
“You didn't know,” Dahlia's voice said, bursting in upon his litany of thoughts. “Did you?”
“Of course not.” He shook his head.
“Then you certainly shouldn't blame yourself.”
He gave a sad smile. “In my experience, logic unfortunately has little to do with emotion.”
“You aren't helping them by blaming yourself for something you couldn't control.”
“I'm not the only one who blames me. That's the problem.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps her anger has very little to do with you at all? Have you tried talking to her about it?”
He frowned, struck by the sudden realization that he hadn't thought to have an honest conversation with Claire. Now that Dahlia said so, it seemed the most obvious thing in the world, but William's previous plan had been to ignore it and hope that Claire would come around eventually.
Claire had to see that he felt contrition for not being there when they needed him most. She would have to accept his apology if he kept doing nice things for her and her sisters…wouldn’t she?
“What if you have it all wrong?” Dahlia said. “What if you're trying to make up for something that Claire isn’t even upset about?”
A disturbing idea, indeed.
William frowned. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“You won't find any argument here.” Dahlia's pencil scratched against her parchment once more. “I tend to agree with myself one hundred percent of the time.”