Chapter 19 #2
“Are you quite all right, Dahlia?” Peter has asked, handing her his handkerchief.
She shook her head at the handkerchief.
“Oh, yes quite all right, I thank you.”
Peter had looked at her then, perhaps hoping that her gaze would land on his. Alas, it had not.
They went back inside the castle. The sitting room quieter than it had been compared to the last few days.
Peter, feeling that he must do something to expel the melancholia that was threatening to take over their company, went to the pianoforte and played a pleasant tune.
“Have you done it?” Claire asked after she had seen Dahlia working on the book. “Have you applied the changes?”
Mary hearing her sister’s question, rushed over to Dahlia as well.
“May I read what you have done?”
“They are not quite ready, I apologize.”
“Dahlia do not forget to add her shooting skills; what are detectives if they cannot shoot,” Claire added.
“You must not forget the violin. She needs drama and artistry; it should be part of her charm too—that is how she can get people to be in awe of her.”
“I, yes, well…”
“Mary and Claire,” Peter said, pausing his playing, “I believe Mrs. Baker is heading to Stilton this afternoon. Did you not tell her that you would go too? A visit to the haberdashery, I believe, is was that you said.
“Oh heavens, I had almost forgotten!” Claire abruptly stood up from her position on the settee. “Come Mary, make haste before Mrs. Baker leaves us.
“Will you not come with us, Dahlia?” Mary asked more sedately.
“I thank you for the invitation, but no.” She gestured to the book, “There are some things I must accomplish.”
“We’ll see you at dinner then.”
“Yes.”
When they left, Peter watched as Dahlia also stood to leave. It was as if his body was not his own, for before his mind knew what it was about, he was in front of her, as if to stop her from leaving.
“Oh!”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Quite all right, excuse me, I am in need of an item in my—
“Dahlia.”
“Hmm?”
“Will you ever look at me again?”
Taking a breath, Dahlia raised her eyes to Peter’s.
“What are you doing?”
“Well, apparently trying very unsuccessfully to leave this room.”
Peter almost smiled at her tone, for he had missed it the last two days.
“I mean, why are you changing your book when you obviously do not want to?
“I don’t mind really; Mary and Claire’s request for their characters are—they are… quite distinctive.”
“You don’t like them.”
“I don’t like them!” she said, throwing herself down on the settee again.
“You know, you could say no.” Peter sat down next to her.
“It is your book, your characters, you can say no.”
“Bu—I do not want to hurt their feelings; they are so invested in the book. I don’t want them to think I care so little for them.”
“My dear Dahlia, I think you must learn to mind your own feelings as well.”
“If I think only of myself, I risk not being able to take care of others. I love them, so I must put them first.”
Peter was no longer certain that she was still talking about her book nor of Mary and Claire. His mind found the answer.
She thinks of her parents.
“And those who care for you must do the same for you in return. You will not lose them if you say no, not the ones that really matter.”
Again, Peter did not know when or how it happened, but he found that he held Dahlia’s hand in his.
His solemn words had her looking at him then she cast her gaze at the fire. They both sat in silence.
“Dahlia, what happened two nights ago?”
As if on cue, her cheeks reddened. She pulled her hand away.
“Will you not tell me?” he prodded.
Peter was not sure what it was he asked, indeed what it was he wanted, but he felt that he needed to hear her answer.
‘I—I must…”
She looked at him, a plea for understanding. For an instant, tears shimmered in her eyes, but then she stood up abruptly and moved away from him. “Excuse me, I must—I must go.”
Dahlia rushed out of the room as tears stung her eyes.
She ran blindly, anywhere, as long as it took her away from Peter.
She could handle many things—indeed had handled them before.
But to be rejected by one’s own husband, to be found so lacking that being cast aside was inevitable, was too much for her to bear.
Everyone had their limits, and she, apparently, had found hers.
And here I am. Dahlia. Alone, not unwanted but not quite wanted either. The cold air stung her nose. She was standing outside in the snow with no protection from the cold. Not wanting to go back to the castle, she ran until she reached the hothouse.
The warmer temperature was like an embrace. Funny how old habits never died. When she was younger and pining for her absent parents, Dahlia lost herself in her imagination. Books and dolls as playmates gave her another world where she was not alone, where she was not lonely.
And now, here she was again, looking for solace and companionship among flowers. Moving deeper into the hothouse, she inhaled their fragrance. Would that she could just stay here and not face the world outside. Here in their world where they had their own language.
She touched the rose blooms.
Red rose, deep love, romance and passion. Yellow, friendship and cheerfulness. White, loyalty, everlasting love.
What more could she want? It started as a chuckle, but soon, Dahliah found herself with tears streaming down her cheeks.
“You cannot refuse it now.”
Peter stood beside her, pushing the handkerchief in her hand.