Chapter 7
CARO KNEW THAT Mrs. Darby was not in any way prone to criminal thoughts or actions, but it did not stop Caro’s mind from whirling on a dozen or so criminal schemes that might have been the reasoning for Silas to have been sent away from the family home, and her, for three years.
Silas was the second son, so his occupation was something important for any sort of secure future, and he had never shown any particular interest in a specific field.
Had his mother finally despaired enough of that trait of his and made him go somewhere for an assistantship?
She was not certain how she felt about the excuse—or explanation—of his being a coward for the lack of his writing, but she had no other reasoning for it yet.
Until he properly informed her as to why he had thought writing to her would disrupt the pattern of their friendship, she would have to wait before making any sort of judgment.
But she could not be overly harsh with him. After all, she had neglected to tell him how she felt before he had left, and if she had known there would be three years of no contact, she liked to think she would have done so.
There was no proof of that, but it could have been the push she needed to overcome her own cowardice.
The night was warm for autumn, but it still held enough of a chill that Caro shivered in its breeze.
Silas had not looked back at her, but he changed direction off the terrace as though he had felt the shiver through her hand.
A bench sat against a thick hedgerow and just beneath a tall oil lamp that resembled more of a torch than anything else.
It was terribly romantic as well as practical, but she doubted that was what Silas had been thinking when leading her here. And it certainly would not provide any warmth, but at least the position of the bench would keep the chill from reaching as far.
Silas helped her sit, then surprised her by removing his coat and handing it to her.
Caro stared at him while he held it before her. “Silas . . . this is so far from proper. What will anyone think if they see?”
He gestured to the windows of the house and the doors of the terrace.
“They can see us if they want to. They will see that you are chilled and that I am not close enough to you to do any sort of compromising. If they wish me to be improper for seeing to your comfort while enjoying the gardens, that is their right. But it would hardly be lit up like this if the Sheffords did not intend for their guests to enjoy it. More to the point, I do not care.” He shrugged easily, and Caro shook her head, smiling in spite of herself.
“There you are,” she murmured. “There’s the boy I knew.”
“I’ll never grow out of him completely,” he admitted with a rueful chuckle. He slowly sobered and ran a hand through his hair, looking down at the ground.
Sensing he might need a moment, she carefully draped his coat over her shoulders, using it more as a blanket than any sort of clothing article.
“I have an uncle,” Silas began quietly, his voice rough and low, but steady.
“My mother’s brother. He never married and had no children, and we visited him every other year or so when we were children.
I did not realize it then, but I believe now that my parents were attempting to endear us to her brother for the purpose of gaining his legacy. ”
Caro frowned at that, not quite comprehending. “Why? Is something amiss with Ivywood?”
Silas shook his head, his mouth tight. “Not at all. Things have never been better financially or temporally, and Bas is secure in his inheritance.”
“So they wanted you to inherit,” Caro breathed, something tight settling in her chest.
“Or Samuel,” he offered, shrugging a shoulder. “When we were young, there was no way of knowing which one of us could have been the more successful son, or in what directions our interests would take us. We would need some sort of occupation, and time would tell what would become of us.”
Caro nodded slowly, taking a moment to let his words sink in. “So three years ago . . .”
Silas sighed and shoved his fingers into his hair, disheveling it in a distracting way.
Attractive, but distracting. “It became clear that Samuel, for all his charms, was not serious enough to be suitable for managing an estate. Which left me. The directionless, unambitious, quieter but certainly capable and driven second son.”
A tutting sound came out of her mouth before Caro could stop it, the scolding of his self-deprecation a habit borne from many, many years of practice.
He turned slightly toward her, the corner of his mouth curving up further than she’d seen it yet that night.
Caro’s heart warmed at the sight, memories of sunny days with that smile cast in her direction, filling her mind and sending delicious tingles throughout her limbs.
And, heaven help her, she smiled back at him. Widely, fully, and completely.
For a moment, there were no years of silence and separation between them. No heartache, no sleepless nights, no secret tears she’d have to hide from her family . . . There was just her and Silas, as they always had been, and the world was back in its peaceful, beautiful, perfect place.
But then the evening breeze returned, dancing along the back of her neck, and the chill brought her back to the present.
The imperfect, unsettled, vast collection of painful moments that was the present.
Caro swallowed hastily. “And so . . .?”
Silas cleared his throat. “Right.” He averted his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck.
“So my parents, mostly my mother, said that I had to go to Sinclair House. My uncle was ill, and she insisted that I go and take care of him so that I might earn his respect or affection or whatever it would take to be named his heir. She wanted me to have Sinclair House and to essentially be another firstborn child.”
That . . . was not what Caro had expected.
The Darby family she had known had never given her any sort of indication that they were mercenary or socially ambitious or fortune hunters.
Mrs. Darby was always kind and involved in the village, even if she did tend to seem rather more observant than someone of her nature ought to be.
“And you went along with it?” Caro asked, her voice cracking with a pain she hadn’t meant to express. “You just . . . moved to this estate without a word so your uncle would be tricked into naming you his heir?”
Silas winced and looked up at the night sky, though his eyes seemed to remain closed.
“I . . . I did, but not because my mother’s scheme sounded like a good idea.
I hid nothing from my uncle when I arrived.
And I thought . . .” He dropped his head forward, his entire body seeming to sag under the weight of his conscience.
“I thought it would be the best sort of occupation I could ask for. To run a country estate in tandem with an estate manager, an active sort of work that is still respectable, and it would come with a house that I could one day make a home and raise my family in. It felt like a natural fit if I could impress my uncle.”
She did not like it. That was the first thing Caro could admit. She did not like that he had gone along with this plan, even if his intentions had been different from his mother’s.
Then she found herself admitting a begrudging sense of pride that Silas had been upfront and honest with his uncle. That was the sort of man she had always seen in Silas, the integrity she had known him to have.
And thirdly . . . she could admit that he had a point.
An active occupation would suit him, but his mother would never want him to be a farmer and would never remain quiet about the disappointment of it.
Silas had always wanted a family and a quiet, settled, comfortable life, and this was a way he might make that happen.
“What did your uncle say?” Caro found herself reluctantly asking.
Silas released an almost harsh laugh. “He made me work for every inch of respect, even if he had a semblance of fondness for me as his nephew. He has always been fond of my mother, as his sister, but he also knows enough about her nature to see her schemes.”
Caro exhaled through her nose, giving her head a quick shake. “I cannot see it. I have known your mother for years, and I have never seen her as a scheming woman.”
“Of course you have,” Silas retorted with a scoffing sound.
“Her intensity about observations? Her tendency to be involved in absolutely everything? She is a talented actress, so no one would suspect ulterior motives in her kindness, but it is there. If you have ever seen that gleam in her eyes when things go well that have nothing to do with her, then you have seen her scheming.”
“She . . . she means well,” Caro tried to protest, not wanting everything she had known to be a fabrication.
“She does,” he confirmed. “She is not malicious. Ambitious, perhaps, but not malicious.”
Caro took a moment to consider that, letting the sentiment spoken from the woman’s son become part of the truth she thought she had known.
And she was fine with that. Who would know Mrs. Darby better than her own son? Her nature, her reasoning, her tendencies . . . and her true heart. A good woman with potentially scheming flaws.
“So did you win him over?” Caro asked him. “Your uncle?”
“I think so,” Silas replied, surprising her with the lack of a definitive answer.
“He refuses to tell me. But our relationship has improved dramatically, and he has given me more responsibilities on the estate. His health remains poor, and more steadily, so it only makes sense that I do more. His mental state is there, which is why he is still able to insult me regularly, but he would not let me work so much if he did not trust me.”
Caro bit the inside of her lip, a wash of hesitation, fear, and embarrassment rising like a tide within her chest, almost choking her with its intensity. “Then . . . it all . . . worked out for you?” She managed a tight swallow. “Leaving for so long and keeping your distance?”
Blast, if only her voice hadn’t turned sharp at the end, she might have been able to portray calm composure. But no, it was nearly breaking and still carrying an edge she was ashamed of, something bitter and harsh and heartbroken.
And Silas, the man who knew her better than any human in the world, caught it. His eyes seemed to crumple in a way that brought tears to her own, and for a moment, neither of them said a word.
“No,” Silas eventually told her, his voice totally wrecked and unlike any sound she had ever heard. “No, it has not all worked out for me. If you were my mother, you might think it has, but nothing could be further from the truth for me.”
Caro frowned at that. “But you’ve gained an inheritance, in essence. In everything but word. Your future is secured.”
“Do you think that is what I truly care about?”
The words seemed ripped from his very soul, and it silenced her more than anything else could have done.
“I . . .” she whispered, her voice weak and failing. “I don’t . . .”
Silas turned to fully face her, a muscle in his throat visibly flinching before her eyes. “I love you, Caroline Brooks.”
Air vanished from her lungs, and all sensations went numb.
“What?” she tried to say, but no volume came with it. Only the motion of her lips.
His mouth curved, but the smile was sad.
“My beautiful Primrose, I love you. I have been in love with you for as long as I can remember. You are my best friend and my inspiration, the beat of my heart and the dream of my life. The only thing I want is you, and the only future I can see is one where you are with me.”
Though she was not standing, Caro felt as though her knees were buckling, and if she could sink farther into her seat, she would have done so. Were it not for the fact that she could see Silas clearly, she would fully believe that she was swooning.
And not in a charming and delicately feminine way.
But no, it was just the ultimate pounding of her heart in her ears, counting the seconds since her life had changed and reminding her that she was still alive.
She might be dreaming, but she was alive.
Her eyes began to burn, her lungs began to heave, and she began to tremble from her chest up.
“Why . . . why didn’t you tell me?” she whimpered, curling in on herself. “You loved me and you l-left me?”
“Primrose . . . please, please listen to me,” Silas begged as he closed the distance between them.
A sob wrenched itself free from her, and she covered her face with her hands. “You love me,” she breathed amidst the tears. “You cannot. You cannot, you must not . . .”
“My darling Primrose.” His hands were on her wrists now, not pulling but holding them gently, his thumbs rubbing circles there. “Caro . . .”
But she could not hear him, could not bear the words. Could not bear that he had loved her all this time and had still left her alone. She had not been able to write him without talking to his mother, but he . . . he knew where she was. He claimed to love her, and he had abandoned her.
No. She would not hear this. But she did not have the strength in her legs to run, so she only curled farther down, lowering her face into her lap.
She heard Silas sigh heavily, and then his hands, unable to remain on her wrists, fell to her body. One on the back of her head, and one on her back.
What could they have been, had he told her, even once, that he felt this way? If he had confessed this by letter? If he had even hinted at it?
But now they were here, in a quiet garden, and he was ripping apart her foundations by telling her what she had always wanted to hear. And instead of being filled with joy, she could not stop shaking.
And while she cried, he held her there, just as he always had.