Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
When Dahlia took his handkerchief, Peter felt inexplicable relief. He watched her now as she wiped the tears from her eyes.
Giving her a moment, he stepped back and laid her cloak and gloves on a nearby table. When he had realized that she ran out of the castle and into the winter cold without here winter wear, Peter had rushed to follow her, taking with him the garments.
Going to her again, Peter spoke in a soft voice.
“Dahlia, please tell me what is wrong.”
He was surprised when she instantly turned around.
“Oh, Peter, do you really not know?”
They looked at each other with sad eyes. Outside the snow fell, looking as if it would never end.
“Dahlia…”
“I want more, Peter. I want all of it—the marriage, not just the wedding.”
So do I.
“I do not want to go my own way. I do not want to leave after Christmas day. I do not want to leave your sisters, heaven knows how much I adore them! An only child my whole life, you have no idea how wonderful it was for me to finally have siblings, to share moments with them, the happy and even the ones that were not.”
Dahlia pressed at her eyes. Watching her fight her tears, Peter felt helpless.
“The castle feels like my home now; I never thought that something so huge could be so warm, so embracing.”
She appeared to struggle with her next words. Peter moved to her, but she moved back.
“And you, Peter, you… you are different from what I thought you would be. You are not… You are a revelation to me.”
She covered her face with her hands, as if saying the words cost her something.
“I have always been found lacking—not beautiful enough, not accomplished enough, not interesting enough. The plain daughter of beautiful and lively parents. My whole life has been that same story.” She chuckled bitterly.
“And now, here I am, married but in the same place as I have always been. My own husband finds me lacking and does not want me as a wife.”
Peter shook his head firmly at her words. He took her hands in his.
“You are not lacking anything.”
Dahlia turned away, shaking her head.
“You do not have to say such words, Peter.”
“Dahlia, listen to me, please.”
How could he tell her that he thought her the most beautiful woman? The most interesting, the kindest, the only one who could really move him. The exact opposite of how she described herself. But he could not utter the words, he could not allow himself to.
“I cannot give you romance, Dahlia, but I can give you my word as a gentleman—as a man, that this is the wisest course. Wanting you is exactly why this marriage must remain one of convenience.”
“That does not make sense to me, Peter,” she said. “I don’t understand it at all.”
You do not have to. I cannot afford to do otherwise. This must be the way.
Peter moved back and away from her. He stood silent. His stance said it all.
Dahlia’s eyes were dry when she looked at him, but Peter could not deny the pain that he caused, for it reflected in her green eyes. She backed away a step and took a deep breath as if fortifying herself.
“Come, let us return to the castle.”
Dahlia had an agreement with herself. She would take each day as it came. She would not linger on the past, nor would she look to the future. Nothing of importance was there anyway. Her future was already secure after all; she would be living in comfort in her own home for the rest of her life.
Really, wasn’t that what she, Celine, and Helena professed to visualize as their ideal future? A woman of independent means living honorably.
I live for today.
She opened the door to her chambers and walked out towards Mary’s. She knocked on the door upon reaching it. Pasting a smile on her face, she held The Duke and The Aspiring Detectives in front of her as the door opened.
“You have finished a chapter!” Mary exclaimed.
Moving to the door, Claire flung it open and pulled Dahlia inside.
“You must read it to us this very instant, Dahlia.”
Laughing at them, Dahlia said that she would.
“But where shall we read? We have not yet chosen a new Garden of Hesperides.”
“But that is the best news!” Mary said. “We no longer need to be skulking about when we read your book, do we? Peter has changed his mind about it.”
“But that was part of the fun,” Claire complained. “Now we just have an ordinary reading club.”
“I am not sure ordinary reading clubs have their members as their book characters though,” Dahlia teased.
“Yes!” Mary and Claire exclaimed happily.
“Shall I begin?” Dahlia asked.
When they nodded, Dahlia settled on Mary’s bed. Mary and Claire found comfortable positions around her and with expectant faces, prepared to listen.
The minutes passed. Dahlia could see from their varying expressions which parts they liked and which parts they were not quite satisfied with—the latter being particularly about their characters.
But the twins were, above all things, gently bred ladies, and so years of maidenly upbringing entailed them to wait until Dahlia had finished. As soon as she did, they both launched into questions, suggestions, and complains.
“She seems too bold, I think wielding the gun made her seem arrogant as well; how would she have known to use a gun anyway?”
“But Claire, you were the one who—”
“Maybe, make her use a rapier instead?”
“I feel that she seems far too sophisticated for her age; can anyone really be a master at her age?”
“But Mary, for people to be in awe of her talent, she would have to be—”
“It could just be a natural talent. Maybe she could—”
Dahlia’s mind was in a whirl. She saw the twins in character, she saw the Duke of Snowdon, she saw his bride in her mind, and they—all of them—were unhappy.
“Stop!” Dahlia held up her hand. “Please, stop.”
Mary and Claire stared at her, surprised.
“While I appreciate all your advice, I must put my foot down this time. These,” she pointed at the book, “do not feel like my characters anymore. And I find that I just cannot accept that; it makes me unhappy.”
Dahlia looked at the twins, both of whom had remained silent.
Calling on a newly found courage, Dahlia continued in a firm voice, “I shall be returning the story to its original premise, to its original characters.” Then softer, she added, “I very much value your opinions, but I cannot write a story just to please and appease you both. I must write it for myself as well.”
My dear Dahlia, I think you must learn to mind your own feelings as well.
Peter’s words gave her the courage to stand her ground. Perhaps she had given too much and asked for too little. Well, she would start now.
“I shall understand if you feel that I have disappointed you.” Dahlia’s voice broke. “I shall miss your friendship, of course, but you will have to put up with my presence for just a little while longer since I shall be leaving soon.”
“Oh, Dahlia, we’re so sorry,” Mary said.
Mary and Claire flung themselves at her, their arms wrapping around Dahlia and surprising her.
“We did not mean to make you feel unhappy. We are so ungrateful! You write us such a good story, and we try to tear it up with our ideas.” Claire almost sobbed.
“You—you are not angry?” Dahlia asked, surprise and confusion in her eyes.
“No! Of course not,” Mary replied.
“Not even annoyed?”
“What we are is ashamed. Making our dear sister feel that way,” she added. “Will you forgive us?”
Their dear sister.
Dahlia felt a lightening in her heart. Whatever came out of this situation with Peter, Dahlia now knew that she would take these young ladies’ friendship with her. Perhaps more than friendship, for they called her sister.
“Whatever happens, whatever Peter says, we shall remain sisters,” Claire said defiantly.
“Just because our brother cannot see what he has in front of him, does not mean that we cannot either. For we can! We see you, dear Dahlia,” Mary said, now crying in earnest.
“Mary, why must you cry?” Claire said, sniffling.
Dahlia hugged the twins as close to her as she possibly could. When she was young, she had imagined what having sisters would be like. Fun, exciting, wonderful, those were her imaginings.
Belonging.
That was what she felt now. And to Dahlia, that meant the world.
After dinner, the castle residents passed the night as they normally did in the sitting room. But something was different tonight. Peter could feel an energy between Dahlia, Mary, and Claire that had not been previously there.
They all sat together on the settee by the fire.
Dahlia in the middle, each twin on either side of her, their heads resting on her shoulder.
They read a book together, not Dahlia’s but one pulled out from Dahlia’s own collection.
Currently, Dahlia was reading to the twins, but with her arms wrapped around their shoulders, it fell to Claire to hold the book up and Mary to turn the pages.
If Peter had been a painter, he could not have asked for a more perfect subject. With the dancing of the fire, the shadows of the night, and their smiling faces, Peter knew it was a picture that would stay with him.
Playing the pianoforte, Peter heard little of their reading. He yearned to be with them. How could he deny the pull in his heart? For tonight, he would not. He loosened the chains around his heart.
He got up and took the seat opposite them.
What if you slept
And what if
In your sleep
You dreamed
And what if
In your dream
You went to heaven
And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower
And what if
When you awoke
You had that flower in your hand
Ah, what then?
“Coleridge?” Peter asked.
“Yes,” Dahlia confirmed.
“That is beautiful,” Mary said.
“I think it sad,” Claire sighed.
“Why sad?” Dahlia asked, turning her head to better look at Claire.
“Well, for one thing, the person is obviously dead.”
“Claire!” Mary said slapping at her hand.
“He must be, in the poem at least he is.”
Intrigued, Peter asked her to explain.