nine
Someone was rowing a boat out in the deep, black water. That was no servant; the lake belonged to the private property. Who on earth would be stupid or crazy enough to—?
Oh no.
Something in the agile way the silhouette moved as the oars slid into the inky-dark water made Jo nearly jump out of her skin.
Laurie.
She did not know how she knew it, but it was him. The foolish boy was rowing a tiny boat in the middle of a deep lake, into the black night. That sounded like something he would have done back when he was fifteen, not now, but he was probably intoxicated out of his mind. Did I really hurt him this much? Is he this crazed with pain at my rejection that he does not see that he is about to capsize and drown?
It still felt strange even to think about. ‘Rejection’. She had rejected him. A man. She had rejected a man—and not just any man, her best friend. He had told her he loved her and she had rejected him.
No. I cannot even speak the words inside my own mind.
It is beyond ridiculous.
It is beyond terrifying.
She looked frantically out of the window. As she leaned further out, a cold blast of wind hit her, and she shivered; she was wearing nothing but a stupid, flimsy gauze nightgown that Meg had insisted was ‘proper’ for a viscount’s daughter staying ‘in London for the season’. Still, she had had to have a fire in her room, and a robe-de-chambre besides to keep herself from freezing. In her writing frenzy, she had forgotten the robe, and she could now feel the cold pierce through to her bones.
The water of the stupid decorative lake would be even more freezing. Only yesterday, Sir John had been inviting them all to skate on the ice next Christmas, declaring that the ice had barely thawed earlier this month. The water was still in icy temperatures. Lethal.
Without making a conscious decision, Jo found herself flying down the hall with nothing but a candle in her hand to illuminate the way. She took the stairs of the wide, carpeted staircase, three at a time, and ran out the front door without bothering to call a servant. At some point during her hurry, she must have abandoned her slippers, as they were only slowing her down, and her bare feet were now padding on the wet grass, until they brought her to the edge of the water.
The rower, now very clearly Teddy, was pushing the oars furiously, his boat slicing the waters as it flew further and further away from the shore. He was in deep waters, far too deep to be able to stay alive in the water for very long if he were to upset his small boat by his violent rowing.
I drove him to this. My rejection cut him too deep, and now he’s going to… the way he’s rowing, he might fall into the water and—
She could not complete the thought, it was unthinkable.
She had to do something.
She tried to call his name but her throat had closed up in terror. She just stood there, on the frozen shore, watching helplessly as Laurie kept rowing like a madman.
With silent screams tearing her throat to shreds, Jo stepped into the shallow water, and the cold cut her breath short. The water was absolutely arctic. She grit her teeth and stepped further, up to her ankles. Her stupid, useless nightgown billowed around her, being no use at all against the frigid water. If anything, it was getting quickly dragged down around her, icy cold quickly spreading through the flimsy material and climbing up her legs.
A sudden flash of a memory snapped in her head: the frozen water closing over her head when she was fourteen. Her hand clutching Amy’s frozen fingers. Laurie screaming bloody murder in the distance. Then nothing but darkness.
It’s not like that, she told herself. The water was up to her knees now. She was so numb with cold, she stumbled, and nearly fell in.
I cannot fall into the icy water again. I will definitely die this time.
Maybe it was a different kind of falling that she feared altogether, but she could not help the terror that gripped her both for her own sake and for Laurie’s.
She bit down on her lips so hard she drew blood, and forced herself to open her eyes—she had closed them involuntarily at the memory the cold water evoked.
He won’t be here to save you this time.
He will never be here again.
“Laurie…”
she murmured, his name a strange, foreign sound on her lips. A name she had spoken more times than her sisters’, more times than her own.
But no sound came out of her lips.
…
Frozen by fear, Jo just stood there for what felt like hours but was probably a few seconds, knee-deep in icy water, shaking, and helplessly watched as Teddy rowed in the lake wildly, sloppily, as if he had no concern over his own safety. She wiped her cheek; it was wet. Why on earth was she crying?
The splash of the oars grew louder, more furious. Jo’s eyes were blinded by tears and panic, and she couldn’t tell whether he was coming out or rowing deeper into the murky waters. Terror gripped her.
And with terror came anger. No, not anger. She had felt anger hours ago, when he would not stop proposing or kneeling in front of her in that pathetic manner. Now, it was transforming into rage.
She should not even be here.
She should be safely tucked into her desk, writing like a madwoman into the first light of the morning, not standing in a lake with nothing but a transparent excuse for a nightgown between her and the inky water. She should be wondering what she would have for breakfast, and how she and Papa would fare on the long, rattling journey back home, not wondering whether it would be she or Teddy who would drown first.
If the foolish boy wanted to disappear into the lake, then he was welcome to. He was at fault for all of this. Now that she needed him more than ever, he had gone and ruined everything. Their childhood, their friendship and her whole world, in one fell swoop.
The moon moved out of its cloudy mantle once again, briefly illuminating the silver-glass surface of the water.
She waded just a step further in, and the bottom of the lake abruptly fell away, as if opening into a dark, cold abyss. Her feet slipped, and she felt the coldness of the water rising up to her chest, stealing her breath completely. She gasped, and squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for going under.
The cold felt like knives slashing at her skin and bones. It was impossible to breathe anyway. She could not imagine how much worse it could hurt once she was completely submerged.
I fell once into icy water, and I was drowning, she thought hazily, her thoughts fragmented, like the pieces of dark, broken ice floating on the surface of the water in the distance. I don’t remember it hurting so much. I survived that time. But I won’t survive this.
Just as the water came to her chin, she was pulled abruptly out of it. A pair of strong hands was around her waist, their warmth seeping into her, lifting her into the air.
“I’m here,”
Teddy’s warm voice was saying in her ear, as he bodily dragged her to him and back towards the shore.
“I’m here, I’ve got you.”
He was completely wet, as if he’d taken a dive into the water, his hair turning frosty with it, his shirt plastered to his chest. Jo looked behind them, and she saw that he was dragging the dinghy across the shallows with his other hand. His right arm was flung around her waist, half-supporting her, half-carrying her out of the lake.
She was still gasping for breath as they finally made their way back to the shallow water. She could not feel her limbs, but her heart was back to beating, and she was shivering so hard she could not speak.
Laurie cursed loudly, and shrugged out of his coat with an ease she had not thought possible. It, too, was drenched through, but at the ball it had fit him like a second skin, showing every slight movement of his muscles as he moved. But now, even though it was dripping-wet, he took it off with no help from a valet—unheard of—and with barely two moves of his shoulders. He draped it across her back, still swearing.
She had not heard him swear, except in jest.
But these words he was spewing… How did she not know them? How had she been reading and writing without being aware of these words? How deprived must her vocabulary be—?
“You are shaking so badly,”
Laurie was saying, anger making his voice thick. Wait, it was not anger. Well, not only anger. It was terror too.
She would be happy he was going through some sort of discomfort after what he had put her through, except she could not quite get her brain to function.
“Jo!”
Laurie was shouting, shaking her shoulders so roughly her teeth rattled.
“Look at me! What in all hell are you doing?”
“I thought you would…”
“Did you think I’d drown myself because you rejected me?”
His voice was colder than the water, suddenly.
“Come on, Jo. You think too highly of yourself.”
He might as well have slapped her. He had gone from terrified to absolutely frigid. Mocking. Arrogant. Within seconds of being terrified for her, he’d started laughing at her.
“Teddy…”
He scoffed at the word, and Jo clamped her lips shut. She would die before uttering that name again, she vowed it there and then.
“Did you think I’d die for you?”
He said, his voice colder than the water. She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Answer me.”
She couldn’t.
“Jo, someday you’ll find someone who will live and die for you, but by heaven, that is not going to be me. You have made that abundantly clear.”
He turned around, leaving her there, her dress soaked and heavy, her legs frozen, her heart a beating wound.
She had done the rejecting, yet at this moment, it felt very much as if she was the one being rejected.
The one left behind.
Left alone.
Gentle, ice-cold waves kept lapping at her dress, dragging her back towards the dark depths of the lake, and she struggled to untangle herself before she stumbled and fell in again.
“Come here.”
Suddenly, Laurie was back as quickly as he’d left, those hands of his circling her waist as if it were nothing.
“I won’t leave you.”
His lips were next to her ear, brushing against her cheek. She went abruptly weak and her legs buckled.
She turned to look at him in the moonlight, and it hit her all over again. It was an actual pain. When did this dangling, loping, bouncing boy full of angles and limbs turn into this work of art?
A work of art that was currently wrapped around her shivering, wet body. Pressed closely. She could feel all of it: the cords of muscle on his thigh. The hard lines of his body. The thundering of his heart, the pulsing of every vein… She wobbled and her knees gave out completely. Something hot and liquid was coursing through her veins, making her so weak she could scarcely breathe.
I am going to fall in.
Laurie laughed softly to himself and hoisted her up against his chest.
I am losing my mind here and he is finding it amusing. Excellent.
She shivered so violently she thought he would laugh at her again, but he didn’t. His arms came around her back, rubbing her wet skin to warm her, his touch so infinitely intimate now that they were both wet and dripping. He did not falter when she gasped. He held her more tightly against himself, but his chest was heaving with big breaths as if he were panting.
“I’m sorry I left you here in the water. I won’t leave you again,”
he murmured.
“I’ll keep you safe.”
A curse escaped him.
“Your dress is drenched. With your hair all long and wet, plastered all over your, you look—”
“Unladylike, I know.”
“No.”
It was him who started shaking uncontrollably now. He swayed against her, and they both stumbled back, the water coming up to their knees, but she did not feel the cold.
The heat of Laurie’s body pressed against hers was spreading a fire in her body. Burning her from within. Another ripple wiped over her knees, water splashing up to her waist, but she barely felt it. Laurie’s hands were still around her waist, holding her in place, so that she wasn’t swept in.
“You look like a romantic heroine,”
he said in a voice that was warm and decadent.
“A magical one. An ethereal one, one that’s merely worshiped by humans. You look like one of those tragic heroines from a story. You look like you should be carried in a man’s strong arms, away from danger.”
She wanted to tell him to stop saying things like that, but all she could do was shiver.
“Like the ones in those half-penny melodramatic gothic serials you love so much,” he said.
“You mean the Lavinia Violette ones.”
She and Laurie had been reading her serials religiously like a pair of schoolgirls. Everyone called them overly dramatic and silly, but they did not care. The stories were full of suspense and romance and tragedy, and Jo and Laurie were waiting every week for the next installment, with bated breath, to find out if the heroine would live or die or get imprisoned in a tower or devoured by a vampire. They were silly—they were glorious. The ton would never admit it, but every single person, from a princess to a pauper, read Lavinia Violette’s tragic romances religiously. They were the most wide-spread half-penny serials in England.
And now, to be compared to one of these heart-stoppingly beautiful women—? Women who were so heroic, gorgeous, kind, brave… just so worthy that they were not even real, they were fictional. And by Laurie, of all people?
“I do mean the Lavinia Violette ones,”
Laurie said.
“These women do not exist—no one is like those heroines.”
“You are.”
Laurie’s voice was a veritable rasp.
“Those absurd overdramatic abominations that should never have circulated in polite society.”
“Hey! You love them too!”
“I do, God help me,”
Laurie’s laugh was half-sob.
“I love your voice when you read them to me more than the actual story, but if you were to write them—then I’m sure I would adore them. You are a much better writer than that Lavinia person, whoever she is.”
“She is a genius,”
Jo said stubbornly.
Yes, the stories might be absurdly dramatic and inappropriate, but, oh, they were absurdly romantic too. Absurdly beautiful. They made one feel as if love and loss were real—they made one feel seen. Less alone. If she could write like that herself, holding the very soul of the reader in the palm of her hand with her words, toss it this way or that, break every single bone and then restore it back to life—she would die happy.
Laurie was scoffing, but he was not moving away. Had she thought the water frigid? She was burning now, burning from the inside out, her very skin on fire as it touched every hard plane and sharp angle of his long body. She was pressed against him, wearing nothing but a waterlogged threadbare nightgown—and somehow, this was even more terrifying to her than if she had been wearing absolutely nothing.
“She writes of mermaids and faeries,”
Laurie was saying into her ear, his powerful arms bulging as he lifted her across his chest, out of the painful touch of the water.
“Yet you are a real mermaid now, in my arms, foam on your gown, water sprayed on your curls. A thing made of beauty and wildness. How can someone be so entirely breathtaking and not know it? And you are nothing like those insipid misses of the ton either—the ones who pass for great beauties. You have an actual treasure in here.”
He pointed to her forehead, then brushed away a wet piece of hair that was plastered to her temple. She trembled at his touch.
“You are a goddess. An authoress. A sword-master. A marvel. Jo, you are everything. You can do anything you put your mind to.”
She tried to speak—couldn’t.
Tried to swallow—air went the wrong way. She choked.
Laurie held her, waiting. He wasn’t laughing now. His chest rose and fell as he embraced her shoulders from behind, like he used to do; she felt his breath against her back. His body surrounded her, keeping her safe. Keeping her adrift.
“I-I certainly could not write stories like Lavinia Violete’s,”
she stammered finally. I guess now is a good a time as any to talk about books. My mind has finally gone.
“I know nothing about love. How would I know? I… I’ve never even been kissed.”
Laurie froze. His body went rock hard, and his breath caught. She could not see him, as he held her from behind like that, but she could feel him go utterly still.
“What, never?”
he murmured.
The burning in her skin turned into an agonizing fire, melting her. The tone of his voice was pure agony and hunger, melded into one. If she were to turn around now and face him, she would not be able to withstand this heat any more. She would turn to ash. She was sure of it.
“What do you think?”
she murmured back.
“Who would I ever ha—?”
The words died on her lips, as he turned her around to face him. He took a moment to take her shoulders in his hands, look deeply into her eyes, his own piercing blue, burning bright like two moons, and ask her a silent question. She inclined her head almost imperceptibly, barely able to breathe.
But he saw her nod. He saw.
He didn’t even take a breath.
He bent down and crushed his mouth onto hers.
Dear Beth,
Deep down I know why I can’t seem to grow up quite as eagerly as everyone else does. I know why I am constantly left behind.
Because I am stuck there.
I cannot move on. I cannot imagine a future without you in it. I should, but I refuse to. I cannot imagine having a child that will never meet my sister, or be held by my mother. I cannot imagine falling in love and binding myself to a gentleman without all of my sisters there. What Meg did… I could never do. I would be missing you too much.
I cannot imagine leaving the house where we grew up—even though I will have to, eventually.
What does the future hold for one such as I? What else but ghosts?
Yet I still cannot embrace a life where you do not exist. Such is grief born of love. I am trapped somewhere between the life I should have lived, with you by my side, and the life I am not living.
I am being morose again. I would never have spoken like that if you were here. But that is the whole point anyway, isn’t it?
Eternally,
Your sister