Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Celine, now heavily pregnant, insisted that she see Dahlia on the very morning after her return to Bolton House. Her husband, Rhys, and Helena arrived with her.
Upon seeing her, an alarmed Dahlia had launched into a lecture.
“Of all the idiotic ideas, Celine Harken! And you two!” She pointed at Rhys and Helena. “Why on earth did you let her—”
“I am very happy to see you too, Dahlia.” Celine embraced her, swollen stomach and all.
Rhys, sensing that they wanted time alone, excused himself and left the three ladies to themselves.
“Dahlia, dear.”
She told them everything that happened. Her heart broke every time she had to mention Peter’s name.
Her friends offered her comfort; they spoke of healing and of time.
They meant well, but they could not help her.
And Dahlia believed that they knew that as well.
But seeing them, having them near her, gave her some form of strength.
Because of them, she knew that there were people in this world who truly loved her.
When they had left, Dahlia kept to her rooms. She was not yet ready to be in her parents’ company.
Her parents had been most surprised to see her on the night of her arrival.
Dahlia had used the speech she had prepared, and it had seemed to work at the time. But she knew that it would only be a matter of time before they would need more details.
She would tell them the truth then as well.
“It is self-preservation. I love him, but he does not have any love for me. So, I must simply take care of myself. That is all.” Saying the words out loud was like salt in a wound.
You will never understand, mother, father. You, with your unwavering, dedicated love, will never understand that I must find love within myself, for no one has given me their love.
And so, find love she must.
Without planning to, Dahlia went to her parents. She searched for them until she found them talking quietly in her mother’s chambers.
They are talking about me still.
“I love you both.”
“Dahlia, dear?” Teresa walked to her in concern.
“And I know that, as your daughter, you love me as well.”
“Yes, of course, we do.” Andrew said.
“But you have also hurt me deeply.”
“What are you saying?”
“As a child, I was often alone; you left me alone. You provided for me, yes; you gave me everything I needed and more. Everything but your presence.”
“Oh, Dahlia.” Her mother tried to hold her hand, but Dahlia was not finished. She moved away.
“I never felt that I was important to you; I never felt that you truly wanted me. There were days when I thought you had not really wanted a daughter, but since I was born, you might as well just raise me.
“No, my dear, no, that is not true.”
“Papa, please allow me to finish.”
“I often asked myself if I was more beautiful, if I was more accomplished, would you have loved me more? It made me feel inadequate; perhaps it was my fault, my deficiencies made me unlovable.”
Dahlia could see her mother begin to cry; it took all of her self-control not to appease her. She had to stand her ground.
“Do you know that every time you went away, every time you brought me back a present, I would imagine—hope for the day when you would finally take me with you.” Dahlia paused at the lump in her throat.
“I would have exchanged every toy, every book, everything I owned for you to take me where you went, to show me the things that I had never seen before. I envied the gifts you brought me, for they had gone with you.”
Teresa was openly crying now; Andrew supported her form.
Dahlia smiled bravely.
“But I have learned, Mama, Papa, that I can love myself, too. I can put myself first as well. That if I am to give my love away, I must first have love to give away.”
Dahlia wiped her eyes with her hands. And I think I understand now how to find that love within me. I have not found it yet, but I know the way.
She opened her arms, and her parents rushed to her.
Crying, kissing her, they seemed not to want to let her go.
“My baby,” Teresa sobbed. “I am so very sorry. If it takes the rest of our lives, we will make it up to you.”
“How blind we have been. Give us a chance, my dear Dahlia,” Andrew said his eyes red. “Do not forsake us. Let us show you our love for you.”
“Papa.” She kissed him on his tear-stained cheek and did the same for her mother. “Mama.”
Dahlia knew it would take a while for change to really take place, but she also knew that she would work for it, and she believed, so would her parents. It was still dark where she was, but finally, finally her mother and father were taking her with them.
Peter awoke in his bed. It was later than he had expected. When one day was exactly like the next, did time really matter?
He sat up, and the first thing he saw was Dahlia’s present for him. How many days had it been since she left? The days had not gotten any better, not for Mary and Claire and most definitely not for himself.
Bravo, Peter! Another day of getting what you want! No Dahlia, no green eyes, no light and fire, just a crushing devastation growing heavier and heavier in your chest.
He stared at the present again; Peter could swear that it stared back at him like a living thing. He was losing his mind.
Cursing, he walked to his desk, and, without preamble, he opened the present. It was her manuscript, the book on which she wrote The Duke and The Aspiring Detectives.
Heart pounding in his chest, he opened it slowly. A folded piece of parchment fell on his desk. Peter knew before he even unfolded it that it was a letter.
Peter,
What do you gift a man who already has everything?
A man who can give himself anything? But I have found something.
Since I know how much you abhor my novels, I am very sure that you would not get yourself one, and so with pride do I give to you my latest novel, The Duke and The Aspiring Detectives. I hope this will suffice.
Dahlia
Peter could not help but smile. It was as if he heard her voice when he read her letter.
Missing her was a constant ache in his heart, in his stomach; he could swear that he felt it in his fingers.
Yet, finally admitting to himself that he missed her did not help in the least. He may have won, but what was his prize?
She may not be here, but her words were. Picking up the book, he began to read.
Half an hour passed, but Peter felt that it was a mere second. Perhaps it was because she had admitted to him before that he had inspired the Duke that Peter saw himself in the character. Furthermore, he saw Dahlia in the Duke’s bride and Mary and Claire in the two detectives.
When he read, it was as if that was his reality. Not this one where there was no Dahlia. Staring at her closing words, he turned to the next page, hoping to find more.
Another folded piece of parchment.
His hands felt clumsy in his haste to pick it up. Peter’s heart beat faster in his chest.
My Dear Peter,
I had not wanted to tell you this—not until you had read the entire book and understood what I am trying to say with it. Simply put, I am in love with you.
Perhaps you shall call me foolish for thinking so, but I know that I shall never love another.
I understand that you cannot love me back, truly I do, but I could never live with myself if I never told you of my feelings.
I could never live with myself if I did not find the courage to tell you, to find out in some way, if I can have the happiness that I had only dreamed of.
I found love because of you. My love for you and my love for myself. And so, whichever way life may take me, I must tell you that you have shown me the way to finding love. Thank you.
Yours,
Dahlia
Peter read her letter over and over, combing it for every possible meaning. He was so engrossed that he did not hear Mary and Claire enter his chambers.
“Peter?” Mary ventured.
But Peter could hear nothing except the echo of his own thoughts. They were filled with moments with Dahlia, now so many that his mind raced to catch up. His superior mind that he had always counted on, the mind that told him what to do, was left reeling. It only saw Dahlia.
For him to believe that love was destructive, that its intention was to maim, felt like nothing more than bitterness now. Would Dahlia hurt him? There was no guarantee that she would not, but would she do it intentionally? No, she would not. Of that, Peter was sure.
Then why can you not give her your trust?
He answered his own question.
Because you are afraid to love. It is your fear of love that blinds you. To love means being strong, brave. Love is not a weakness, it is strength.
“I have been an idiot!”
“It is good that you finally know that,” Claire said behind him.
“What have I done? Good God, what have I done!”
Peter stood up; as if seeing his sisters for the first time, he looked at them bewildered.
“I cannot let this end this way. I cannot.”
Without another word, Mary and Claire watched their brother rush out of the room.
“Finally!” Mary exclaimed.
“I thought it would never happen!” Claire said.
They looked at each other. Hope in their eyes.
The pounding of the door was so loud that it echoed throughout the entire household. Snow fell heavily outside, covering every house and every street in London like a thick, white blanket.
Peter looked at the line of carriages outside; they suggested that Bolton House was holding a party. He thought it served him right that he should have to look for Dahlia in a house party.
If she will even let me in.
“Dahlia!” Peter called again. He looked at his poor horse; if no one answered the door soon, he swore to unsaddle it.
He had been travelling non-stop since morning.
The heavy snowfall had not helped either; horses had to be changed more often.
In the end, when he was but ten miles outside of London, he had left his carriage and hired a horse instead to ride on ahead.
Snow and cold were the least of his worries.
“Dahlia!” he called again.
The door suddenly opened to reveal an annoyed looking Mr. Tipping.
“Your Grace!” The butler’s eyes widened at unexpectedly seeing him.
“Where is she? Where is my wife?”
Mr. Tipping looked at him, indicating that his attire was less than acceptable for what was, at the moment, happening in Bolton House. Or was he, perhaps, indicating that he was not welcome there.
Peter stared him down until the butler exhaled heavily and answered, “Her Grace is with the whole family in the ballroom. They are celebrating the changing of the year, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tipping. If you can have someone see to the horse.” And without another word, he ran as fast as he could to the ballroom. It was easy to find the room, for music and chatter spilled from behind its doors.
Peter pushed the doors open; light, from numerous lighted chandeliers, and reflecting from mirrors, flooded his eyes. After hours of riding in the dark, the brightness of the room unnerved him.
He squinted until he could see properly. When he finally could, he realized that dozens—if not hundreds of eyes were on him. Even the musicians stopped playing.
Straightening to his full height, he sought to find the one pair of eyes that he so desperately needed to see.
And there they were, as green as a spring morning when hope was fresh and nature forgiving. Peter prayed as he had not done in so long a time.
“Dahlia.”
“Peter?” The look on her face was unreadable. “What are you doing here?”
Peter walked toward her, not caring that everyone in the room followed his movements.
Please, Dahlia.
When finally he stood before her, words failed him.
“Dahlia.” It was the only word that he could speak.
He moved closer still, his eyes holding hers. Taking strength from her letter, he found the words she sought.
“I am in love with you.”
Loud gasps echoed in the ballroom.
“A love that I had never thought I could feel, a love that blinds me, that lifts me up and renders me on my knees. A love that wants to build a life with you. Dahlia…” Peter took her warm hands in his cold ones.
“It is a love that I would die for, a love that I would live for. A love that has taught me to forgive myself. A love that would last a lifetime if you would let it. I was scared before. I did not want to be what my father became. When we lost mother, it was like he lost everything that made him want to live.”
Thinking of his next words, Peter shook his head to clear his mind. Snow fell on Dahlia’s arm, and gently, she brushed it off with his fingers.
“My father forgot me, Mary, and Claire; he forgot his duties and responsibilities. He withered away, a shadow of the man he used to be. And I blamed his love for my mother. That all-consuming love that made him forget his name and purpose. I was afraid of that, Dahlia.”
“And now?”
“No, no longer.” Peter shook his head. “It blinded me to fate’s gift.
But you have made me see. You, with your kindness, your warmth, your strength and courage.
You were the strong one, and I the weak.
No amount of control could give me the happiness that loving you could.
To love means to be strong, to be brave.
Love is not a weakness, it is strength.” He repeated his realizations, the words that had driven him to action.
“Because of you, I know that now. Dahlia, I am tired of being weak. I know that with you, I can be strong because you have seen me, and yet you still dared to love me.”
Tears ran down Dahlia’s cheeks. He offered her his handkerchief. She took it and wiped her eyes.
“Dahlia.”
He said her name like a prayer. And she answered it.
“I love you, Peter. I have waited for you. Only you.”
Peter kissed her in front of everyone, amid cheers and happy tears.
He felt that he would never let her go. Across the ballroom, he saw her parents smiling and crying at the same time.
Beside them, Dahlia’s elderly aunts were clapping and crying, huddled together.
Her Uncle Edward raised his wineglass to them.
“To you I entrust my future, my heart; I am yours, beautiful Dahlia.”
“You’ve always said that I was beautiful, and I have come to realize that you meant it.”
“Beautiful. May I have this dance, Your Grace?” Peter asked her.
“You may, Your Grace.”
They danced their first dance together, a waltz. They clung to each other as if they never meant to be apart. The new year came, and what a welcome it was for them.
Love, hope, trust, and strength, these were their gifts to each other as they vowed to make their marriage a real one. They danced amid celebrations and cheer for the new year, but Peter and Dahlia only had eyes for each other.
With whispered promises, they welcomed their new life together.