Chapter Six #3
"They make a handsome couple," Lord Deane observed, following her gaze. "Lord Wayworth and Miss Crawford."
"They do. I have never seen Edward so... attentive."
"True affection does that to a man." Lord Deane's voice was soft. "Makes him want to be better than he is."
The soup course arrived, providing a welcome distraction from the increasingly weighted conversation.
Vanessa focused on her food, though she was intensely aware of Martin's presence beside her, the warmth of him, the subtle scent of sandalwood, the way his hand rested on the table mere inches from her own.
He had been quiet since they sat down, contributing little to the general conversation. It was unlike him. Martin was usually the center of any gathering, holding court with his wit and charm. Tonight, he seemed... subdued and watchful.
"You are quiet this evening, Martin." Edward's voice carried across the table. "It is most unsettling. I keep waiting for some devastating observation."
"Apologies. I was merely contemplating the soup." Martin's tone was light, but there was something behind it that Vanessa could not quite identify. "It is excellent soup."
"It is brown soup. There is nothing remarkable about it."
"On the contrary. Brown soup requires a delicate balance of flavors. Too much beef and it becomes heavy; too little and it lacks depth. This…" He gestured with his spoon. "This is perfectly balanced."
"I did not realise you were such a connoisseur of soup."
"I am a connoisseur of many things." Martin's eyes flickered briefly to Vanessa before returning to Edward. "One must cultivate diverse interests to remain interesting."
"Good gracious should you ever be anything less than interesting."
"Exactly. I knew you would understand."
The exchange was so perfectly normal, so exactly like every other conversation she had witnessed between them over the years that Vanessa felt some of the tension drain from her shoulders. This was Martin. This was how he always was. There was nothing different about tonight.
He does not know, she told herself again. Everything is well.
"Speaking of interesting," Edward continued, a mischievous glint entering his eye, "Martin, do you remember the pond incident?"
Oh no.
"The pond incident?" Martin's expression shifted into something that looked almost like anticipation. "How could I forget?"
"What pond incident?" Lord Deane asked, clearly eager to be included in the conversation.
"It is nothing," Vanessa said quickly. "A silly childhood story…"
"Vanessa was twelve," Edward said, ignoring her completely. "And absolutely convinced that she could walk across the lily pads in our garden pond."
"I was not convinced…"
"Like a fairy princess, she said." Martin picked up the thread seamlessly, as though they had rehearsed this a hundred times.
Which, given how often they told this story, they essentially had.
"She had read some story about water sprites or woodland nymphs or some such nonsense, and she decided that if she was pure of heart, the lily pads would hold her weight. "
"That is not what…"
"She marched right up to the edge of the pond," Edward continued, steamrolling over her protests, "in this white dress…"
"Mother's favorite dress," Martin added, his eyes glinting with wicked amusement.
"Mother's absolute favorite dress, covered in lace and ribbons and probably worth more than my quarterly allowance. And Vanessa had decided that this dress, specifically, was the appropriate attire for testing the structural integrity of vegetation."
"It was a scientific experiment," Vanessa muttered, but no one was listening.
"And she stepped onto the first lily pad with complete confidence." Martin's voice had taken on the cadence of a natural storyteller, rich with barely suppressed laughter. "Declaring…and I quote, that she was 'light as a feather and pure of heart.'"
"The pure of heart part was important," Edward added. "Apparently in whatever story she had read, only the pure of heart could walk on lily pads. So naturally, our Vanessa assumed she qualified."
"She was very confident in her moral superiority," Martin agreed. "Even at the age of twelve."
"I was not…"
"And then?" Lord Deane was smiling now, clearly charmed by the image despite Vanessa's mortification.
"She sank." Edward made a descending gesture with his hand, complete with sound effect. "Straight to the bottom. Splash. Gone. Nothing but bubbles."
"To be fair, the pond was not very deep," Martin offered, with mock generosity. "She was never in any actual danger."
"Just in danger of complete humiliation."
"Which she survived admirably."
"She came up covered in pond weed," Edward continued, warming to his subject, "looking like some sort of creature from the deep. Hair full of green slime. Dress absolutely destroyed. And this expression on her face…"
"Pure murderous rage," Martin supplied. "I have never seen anything quite like it, before or since."
"She chased Edward around the garden for a full ten minutes," Edward said, speaking of himself in the third person with evident pride, "threatening all manner of creative violence."
"She threatened to strangle me with lily pads," Edward continued. "To drown me in the very pond that had betrayed her. To tell Mother that I was the one who had ruined the dress."
"Did you?" Helena asked, her eyes bright with amusement. "Ruin the dress, I mean?"
"Certainly not. I merely... suggested that the lily pads might hold her weight. I never actually told her to test the theory."
"You told me you had seen a fairy do it," Vanessa said, unable to keep the indignation from her voice even after all these years. "You said you had witnessed it with your own eyes."
"I said no such thing."
"You absolutely did. You said…"
"I said it might be possible. I never claimed personal verification." Edward's grin was unrepentant. "It is hardly my fault that you chose to interpret my speculation as fact."
"You were fourteen years old and deliberately misleading your twelve-year-old sister."
"I was conducting an experiment. You were a willing participant."
"I was a naive child who trusted her brother!"
"And look how well that turned out." Edward raised his glass in a mock toast. "You learned a valuable lesson about the reliability of secondhand information."
"I learned that my brother is a menace."
"Also valuable knowledge."
Martin was watching this exchange with evident enjoyment, his grey eyes dancing between the siblings. "I must say, the two of you are enormously entertaining. It is almost worth suffering through dinner parties just to witness your arguments."
"We do not argue," Edward said. "We engage in spirited debate."
"Is that what we are calling it?"
"It is what civilized people call it, yes."
"I was twelve years old," Vanessa repeated, though she knew it was futile. This story had been told at every family gathering for a decade. It would probably be told at her funeral. "I was a child. Children do foolish things."
"True enough," Martin agreed. "Though I seem to recall you attempting something similar at thirteen. The tree-climbing incident?"
"We do not speak of the tree-climbing incident."
"Oh, but we must." Edward's eyes lit up. "Martin, you tell it. You have a gift for narrative."
"I could not possibly. Lady Wayworth would never forgive me."
"Mother is not listening. She is too busy interrogating Mr. Crawford about his shipping investments."
This was, unfortunately, true. Lady Wayworth had cornered Helena's father at the other end of the table and was subjecting him to what appeared to be a thorough financial inquisition.
"Very well." Martin settled back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. "The tree-climbing incident. Vanessa was thirteen…"
"Fourteen," Vanessa corrected wearily.
"Fourteen, my apologies. And she had decided that she could climb the old oak in the garden faster than Edward."
"I could climb it faster than Edward."
"She could not, in fact, climb it faster than Edward. What she could do was get stuck approximately thirty feet off the ground, clinging to a branch and refusing to come down."
"The branch was unstable. I was being cautious."
"She was terrified." Martin's voice was warm with remembered amusement. "Absolutely frozen with fear. Edward had to climb up and talk her down, branch by branch, while she clung to him like a particularly stubborn barnacle."
"That is a gross exaggeration."
"It took two hours," Edward added helpfully. "Father was on the verge of enlisting every available man to help.”
"It took forty-five minutes at most."
"Time moves differently when one is watching one's sister dangle from a tree limb, threatening to fall to her death at any moment."
"I was never in danger of falling to my death."
"You were in danger of giving Mother an apoplexy, which amounts to roughly the same thing."
Lord Deane was laughing now, genuine, warm laughter that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You have quite the adventurous spirit, Lady Vanessa. Lily pads, tree climbing…what else did you attempt?"
"Nothing worth mentioning."
"There was the time she tried to teach herself to fence," Edward offered. "Using Father's ceremonial swords."
"We agreed never to speak of that."
"Did we? I do not recall agreeing to anything."
"You agreed implicitly when I promised not to tell Mother about the incident with the neighbor's daughter and the…"
"Very well then,” Edward's expression shifted rapidly. "We will not speak of the fencing incident. Or any other incidents. In fact, I believe we should change the subject entirely. Martin, how is your estate? Any new developments in agricultural drainage?"
Martin laughed…a real laugh, warm and unguarded and Vanessa felt something twist in her chest. She so rarely heard him laugh like that.
Usually his amusement was controlled, contained, filtered through layers of social performance.
This was different. This was the laugh of someone genuinely delighted.
"Nicely done, Edward," he said. "Though I notice you still have not told us what happened with the neighbor's daughter."
"And I never will. Some secrets must be committed to everlasting secrecy.”
"How very intriguing."
"I prefer 'mysterious.' It sounds more intentional."
The soup course arrived, providing a welcome distraction from the increasingly weighted conversation. Vanessa seized the opportunity to collect herself, focusing on her plate while her cheeks slowly returned to their normal color.
The soup was, as Martin had observed, excellent, a rich brown broth with hints of herbs and a depth of flavor that spoke to the skill of their cook.
But Vanessa barely tasted it. Her mind was too occupied with replaying every word Martin had spoken, searching for hidden meanings that probably did not exist.
You were never afraid to want things.
What had he meant by that? Was it simply a comment on her childhood boldness, her willingness to step onto lily pads and climb trees? Or was there something more beneath the surface, some deeper significance that she was missing?
She risked a glance at Martin, who appeared entirely focused on his soup.
His profile was sharp in the candlelight, the line of his jaw clean and strong.
He looked, as always, perfectly composed and perfectly in control.
Whatever thoughts were running through his mind, they did not show on his face.
He does not know, she told herself again. He cannot know. He would not be sitting here so calmly if he had read six years of love letters.
The thought should have been reassuring. Instead, it left her feeling strangely hollow.
Because if Martin did not know, if the letters had somehow gone unread or been discarded without examination then nothing had changed. She was still exactly where she had always been; pining over her brother’s dearest friend who saw her as the little sister
And that, perhaps, was the cruelest irony of all. She had spent a week in terror of discovery, only to realise that being discovered might have been preferable to this endless, agonising uncertainty.
At least if he knew, she would have an answer. A definitive yes or no. An end to the years of wondering and hoping and breaking her own heart with every dance, every conversation and every charged glance that probably meant nothing at all.
But he did not know. And so the torture continued.
Beside her, she felt rather than saw Martin turn his attention to his own food. But there was something different about his silence now, a weight to it that had not been there before. As though the laughter had stripped away some layer of protection, leaving something more vulnerable beneath.
Or perhaps she was imagining that too. Perhaps she was so desperate for connection that she was finding it in the spaces between words.