Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Dahlia awoke the next morning feeling that something was very wrong. Her mind emerging from the fog of sleep was slowly remembering the night’s events. Visions that, she knew even half asleep, were not dreams.
She remembered the resounding click of the lock. It was deafening in the silence of Dahlia chambers. Her emotions had been in disarray, one moment she had been ready to tell Peter everything that she felt, and in the very next one, it all seemed to count for nothing.
He had stormed out of her room without bothering to ask for an explanation. Was his faith in her so fragile then? Her chest felt heavy.
I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you.
Peter’s words rang in her ears.
After he had left, she stumbled across her room and sat down on her desk. She hadn’t noticed that she still held the book in her hands. Carefully placing it on the desk, she opened it and turned to the first page of The Duke and The Aspiring Detectives.
She only then admitted that she had put so much of herself in this story. So much of what she learned, of what she hoped for in the last few years of her life. Definitely more than she did compared to the other ones.
Carefully, she read the words that she had written—words meant to instruct Mary and Claire, to warn them, to steer them towards the right choices. And yes, to teach them about falling in love.
An ache so sharp removed all vestiges of sleep. Dahlia sat up in bed. Was she so unimportant to Peter to not even be given the chance to defend herself? From her hurt rose anger.
Well, Peter, I will tell you; whether you want to or not, you will listen!
Reaching for the bell pull, she rang for Biddy.
How pathetic it was to have fallen in love with a man who did not trust her.
Deciding not to wait for her lady’s maid, Dahlia began to dress herself.
She felt like a ball of raw nerves. Moving quickly, she had pulled out a dress from her closet when Biddy arrived.
One look at her mistress and she knew that she was in a temper.
“Allow me to do that, Your Grace.”
Biddy dressed her quickly. When she had finished brushing her hair and had started to put her hair up, Dahlia stood up abruptly.
“Leave it please, Biddy. There is somewhere I must be.”
Without another word, Dahlia left her room, an agape Biddy looking after her.
She walked quickly; lifting her skirts, she was almost running in her haste.
“Which way was that again?” she mumbled to herself as she tried to navigate the castle.
The doors to Peter’s study flew open. From behind his desk, he saw as Dahlia walked in—thundered in, her red hair blowing like a consuming fire.
“I was not even intending to publish this!” She waved the book at him without preamble. “And if you had bothered to even hear my perspective and allow me to explain, I would have told you my reasons!”
Peter’s face was a cold mask. If he had been surprised at her barging into his study, he had not shown it. Indeed, he looked at her with all the calm and coldness of the Peter of their early acquaintance.
“It wasn’t even my idea to write, but if I could help them in this way, then I would!”
“Help who?” came Peter’s stoic reply.
“Mary and Claire!”
The mask broke a little at the mention of his sisters, and Dahlia could tell that he was now ready, albeit reluctant, to hear her out. She held her hands out in front of her, a gesture of appeal. Her voice lowered down, she took a breath to steady herself.
“I saw it as a means to be able to connect to your sisters and warn them against the perils of the season. To tell them that there are gentlemen who exist that take advantage of youth and inexperience.”
Dahlia could feel Peter’s eyes on her.
“I have been a wallflower for most of my life, and so I have observed, and I have seen more than most young ladies.”
Peter’s mask was dissolving, and in place of the coldness, Dahlia thought she saw a spark of an emotion in his eyes. He stood up from his chair and walked to the window. A few seconds passed until he spoke.
“I admit that I want to believe you, Dahlia.”
“Then do!”
“You do not know how difficult it is!”
Dahlia was surprised at Peter’s sudden outburst.
“You cannot be unaware of my reasoning, why I find it so hard to believe you.”
“Tell me, Peter.”
“Dahlia, you wrote about me for years! And you were not remotely kind in your description.”
“I did not! How could I when I hardly knew you. I was inspired by you to create the character of the Duke, but there was so much of you that I didn’t know, that I am getting to know now."
Peter listened to her, unconsciously moving closer to where she stood.
“Like your generosity—you take care of everyone, but no one even notices because you do it so quietly and so seamlessly. More blueberry scones at breakfast, gloves for hothouse work, food for late night snacks, I know you did all those, Peter. You mend things that no one knew needed mending. You give when no one is asking.”
Now almost only an arm’s reach away from Dahlia, Peter was transfixed by her words.
“You hide behind lectures and sternness when really you are worried and—and afraid. You care for us, Peter. And because you have lost so much already, you treasure what you still have—Mary and Claire.”
Me? Perhaps?
“This is how I see you, Peter.”
“Dahlia, I…”
“Your condition for our marriage to take place was that I stop writing. And I agreed to it. But you will never understand, never know what I had to give up. It was the only thing I had that was truly mine, that kept me happy and sane when I was alone. Why do you think Penelope Lovelace was born? Because I needed her.”
Dahlia swiped at the tears that came fast.
“I did not write to vex or hurt you, I wrote simply for me.”
“Peter, I’m a little late but—” Matteo walked in, clearly surprised by the sight that greeted him. He paused in his tracks.
“I shall come back; I seem to have forgotten something.”
“No, Matteo please,” Dahlia begged. “You must stay and continue on with your business.”
She looked at Peter, who stood staring back at her.
“I was just leaving. Good morning, gentlemen.”
She curtsied and left the study.
Dahlia was avoiding him. Ever since she confronted him in the study two days ago, it was as if he had the plague. Whenever she found him alone, she would turn back, offering one excuse or another. And when she had no choice but to speak to him, she would not look him in the eye.
Peter had gone through that encounter a hundred times in his mind.
And in each time, he was astounded, speechless that she should see him in that light.
Very few would describe him as she had. Certainly not the ladies and gentlemen of the ton.
It left him confused, as if seeing himself in the mirror for the first time.
He was shaken, for he wanted to be what Dahlia claimed he was.
He stared at her book which lay closed in front of him. He had yet to return it to her. He tried to recall what it was that had him so against the Penelope Lovelace novels. He frowned, admitting that it was not the actual novels that he had problems with—for he had not read a single one.
“Be honest, Peter.”
He collapsed against his chair. Letting the truth out, he closed his eyes.
It was his mistaken notion that they were about him. And now that Dahlia had explained things to him, his dislike for the novels felt misplaced. He felt misplaced.
Something was happening within him. Dahlia’s words had disrupted his well-ordered world, and he found that it did not upset him as much as he thought it would.
His frown deepened. That did not change the fact that he still hardly knew what to say to her.
“You will need to acknowledge this, Peter,” Matteo had said, reading his friend very accurately, “Soon.”
Soon.
Helena and Chastity had said their goodbyes the day before.
The difference of a lesser number of people was felt by the castle residents.
Indeed, Peter had seen the tears in Dahlia’s eyes as she bid her friend farewell.
Mary and Claire, too, had seemed genuinely sad at the departure of their new friend.
Their going was delayed by many minutes as the twins and Chastity recited their promises and plans to see each other.
The new day had found the castle residents quiet as each took to their own activities and tasks. If one thing good came out of Dahliah confronting Peter the other day, it was that The Duke and the Aspiring Detectives was no longer taboo. Indeed, Peter had given it back to Mary and Claire.
“Your book might get lost if you do not take better care of it.”
They had stared at each other for a moment then grinned at the implications of Peter’s words. They had run to Dahlia with the express intention of telling her what just happened.
“Since we no longer need to hide from Peter, it means we can talk about the story more,” Mary said in excitement.
“Oh, Dahlia, this is too exciting! We can ask you openly if you are nearing the completion of another chapter; we can ask you if the aspiring detectives are going to be in trouble. We can ask you anything!”
“Pray, Dahlia, can I ask you to change something about the older twin please?” Mary asked her as they gathered on the settee in the sitting room
“What is it? What change?”
“Just a minor one, really.”
“If you are accepting changes, may I ask one for my character as well?
“Very well,” Dahlia said to both.
But two changes were not enough, and shortly, any number of requests rained down on her. Dahlia had slowly realized that she no longer recognized the characters for all their changes, and she struggled to do as Mary and Claire asked.
“Matteo is about to leave; he wishes to say goodbye to everyone,” Peter said as he interrupted their conversation.
Perhaps it was that they were saying goodbye for the second time that day, or perhaps it was because Dahlia had now come to care for Matteo, for when his carriage had driven off, she could not hold back her tears anymore.