Chapter 15
Fifteen
SILENTLY HOLDING hands, Claire and Jonathan stared at the door long after his mother had disappeared behind it.
It was Claire who broke the silence, for several unanswered questions had been flitting about in her head. The first she gave voice to was: “When her grace said she ‘knew what that meant’—regarding Andrews arriving on the Canterbury stage—what did that mean?”
“She knew there was only one reason I’d send Andrews to Canterbury.” Jonathan looked slightly abashed. “You may think me overbold...”
“Why?” Claire blinked at him. “What’s in Canterbury?”
“The archbishop.” When she remained unenlightened, he added: “The Archbishop of Canterbury grants special marriage licenses.”
“Oh!” Claire was startled into a giggle. “That is bold. Were you so certain of succeeding with me?”
“Not in the least. But I felt certain that if I did succeed, we ought to be married at once.”
She peered at him shrewdly. “Before your mother could hear tell of the engagement?”
He colored. “Perhaps I did still fear her intrusion. But I don’t anymore. And for that, I’ve got you to thank.”
“Me?” Claire scoffed. “I didn’t do a thing! You banished her all on your own—and did a marvelous job of it, too.”
“But it’s you who persuaded me to do so. You were right that I couldn’t be free of her without confronting her first.”
“Was I? I’m not sure it’s made any difference.” Claire gave a rueful sigh. “I rather think you were right: she didn’t listen to a word you said.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Still, it’s made a difference to me.
All the dread and suspense of future encounters has gone, for now I know exactly how such meetings will go: either she’ll abide by the terms on offer, and it will be pleasant; or she won’t, and we’ll walk away.
She’ll have no greater power to vex us than any other disagreeable neighbor—and far less than she would have held as a ghost.”
Remembering penning that word in her diary, Claire sucked in a breath. “A…g-ghost, did you say?”
With a sheepish look, he released her hand. “Indeed, I did. To own the truth…”
When he produced a familiar book from his satchel, she felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. “Where did you find that?”
“Fallen in the upstairs corridor.”
“Horsefeathers! And you…you read it?”
He nodded. “Are you angry?”
“I…no—yes—I don’t know. I’m mortified. I never meant anybody to read it, let alone—” She gulped. “The things I wrote about you were not very kind.”
“Yet not unjust.” The wicked half-smile made another appearance. “I rather enjoyed the vivid nickname—”
“Don’t say it!” Claire was torn between dissolving in laughter and diving behind the sofa. “Please! It’s all Elizabeth’s fault, you know.”
“I do know. And I cannot blame her one bit. If a man behaves like a Ratbag—”
“I said don’t say it!” Claire cuffed him on the shoulder.
“Forgive me.” He raised his hands in laughing surrender. “Shall we discuss instead the even more intriguing description of what you dreamt last night?”
Oh, God. Claire froze in shock. She’d forgotten all about the dream, for she’d still been half asleep whilst recording it. What must he think of her? What could she say?
Far too embarrassed to respond directly, she settled on a blanket retraction.
“You mustn’t take any of what’s written in there seriously.
It’s not a proper diary, you see, only a…
a receptacle for nonsense. When I wrote those things I was overwrought and overtired.
I was hardly in my right mind. I didn’t know my own heart. ”
He sobered. “I think you did know your heart, or at least, your pen did, for it was evident in every word on the page. Your heart’s nobility and generosity, its eagerness to give love—if only the object of that love could offer the smallest proof of his worthiness.
” He took her hands. “I cannot but take your writing seriously, for it showed me how wrong I was to doubt you for even a moment. It brought me from dejection to hope.” His eyes implored her.
“Still, I know I shouldn’t have read your private words.
Can you forgive me? I’ve already worked out a way to even the score. ”
“Oh?”
She was mystified to see him reach once more into the satchel, producing a sheaf of letters tied with string. “I settled it with Noah when he came to fetch me.”
“What’s Noah got to do with anything?”
Jonathan pressed the bundle into her hands. “This is our correspondence of the past year—Noah’s letters to me, and mine to him. He gave me permission to share them with you. And I think it’s important that you read them.”
“Very well.” When he just continued to look at her, she raised a brow. “You mean right now?”
He nodded.
“What about dinner? We must change, and—”
“Forget dinner. Noah can host tonight. Or Elizabeth. I’ll ask Mr. Evans to set us a private table in the library.”
“How irregular!” she said on a laugh, though she didn’t dislike the idea.
She and Jonathan had never dined alone before.
“I don’t care if it’s irregular. It’s Christmas Eve, and I should like to have my fiancée to myself.”
That settled, Jonathan went to make the arrangements while Claire sat by the fire and read his letters.
The first was from Jonathan to Noah, written in the sparse style that was typical between gentlemen, to inform his friend he was embarking on a Grand Tour.
Short though it was, Claire could read Jonathan’s melancholy between the handful of lines.
And so had Noah, evidently, for his reply was banal excepting one pointed reference to how famously Claire had been getting on—an obvious effort to throw cold water over any lingering hopes.
Ha! she chortled to herself. Well done, Noah. Though it may have been a bald-faced lie (for at the time of Noah’s writing in mid-January, Claire had scarcely left her room), it was exactly what she would have wanted him to say of her.
Perhaps he wasn’t the very worst of brothers, after all.
The bulk of the correspondence continued in this manner.
Jonathan’s letters were invariably wan, and while Noah was not unsympathetic, he never failed to include some rosy account of Claire—of the many friends she’d gone to stay with, dance floors she’d graced, suitors she’d rejected, and so forth—all fictitious, of course.
Claire was touched to see how staunchly her brother had safeguarded her pride.
But the final exchange brought about a sea change. When she raised Noah’s last letter, the date immediately caught her eye:
12th November 1819
Claire’s birthday. She remembered her family had marked the day with a dinner party incorporating all of Monsieur Laurent’s best prawn dishes and all of Claire’s favorite people: her siblings, her Cainewood cousins…
and, unexpectedly, Lord Milstead. Having paid a call that morning on his way through the neighborhood, he’d been only too delighted to join the family celebration.
The remainder of Noah’s letter proceeded as follows:
Caro amico,
Forgive the abrupt style of this message; I fear there isn’t time for pleasantries.
I must own I have not been entirely candid with you.
Though Claire bears up admirably, the truth is that she’s in a bad way.
It’s not mine to divulge the particulars, but I believe she’s about to make a terrible mistake, and unfortunately I haven’t enough credit with her to prevent it.
You, on the other hand, may yet hold some sway. If you care for her still, I beg you to come to us in all haste—although, even should you leave directly, I suppose the journey could hardly be completed before the new year. It may already be too late.
Though I do hope you’ll come, in the spirit of our friendship let me end with a word of caution—
If you hurt my sister again, it will be out of my power to avoid meeting you at dawn.
Yours etc,
Greystone
Jonathan’s reply was a nearly illegible scrawl.
Rome, Italy
1st December 1819
My good man,
Count on me by Christmas.
Rathborne
“Still reading?”
Jumping in surprise, Claire looked up to find Jonathan before her. “I’ve just finished.”
“And?”
“I’m glad you showed them to me. Thank you.” Sighing, she leaned back in her chair. “I suppose I shall have to thank Noah, too. Eventually. After I’ve boxed his ears for keeping me in the dark.”
Jonathan’s wicked half-smile made another appearance (and Claire’s heart turned over). “His methods may have been a bit underhanded, but I daresay he had your best interests at heart.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, flapping her hands at Jonathan. “You’ve made your point. I’ll make friends with him again, never fear.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Catching one of her hands, he drew her to her feet. “May I escort you in for dinner, madam?”
She didn’t answer right away, for she’d found herself quite close to him. Close enough for his solid, wide-shouldered form to fill her vision, for his irresistible woodland-deity scent to fill her nose. Her eyes were level with his mouth, its contours emphasized in the play of the firelight.
Gazing up into his face for a moment—or an hour—she could not but marvel at the miracle of having him here.
Was this real?
After all this time, was he truly hers?
Claire watched his eyes darken, betraying a hint of the desperate, overpowering desire he’d shown her in the sleigh.
She felt suddenly shy, for she’d never seen this sort of intensity in the old Jonathan.
The old Jonathan never let himself get carried away—was never an inch less than the perfect gentleman.
Which was one of the things she loved about him.
But there was something to this new Jonathan…
This Jonathan who growled commands and faced his (admittedly terrifying) mother without flinching; who had a rawness about him, a hunger, a deeper humanity peeping through his duke’s veneer; who seemed oftentimes (present moment included) a mere word or touch away from discarding the veneer altogether, dragging Claire into his arms, tearing the clothes from her body…