Chapter Four
The Library at Wintersmith Hall
Nicholas knows he’s reading my mind. I pause for a moment, gathering my thoughts, and stare back at him.
“I’m not Noah’s type,” I say.
“Try again.”
“Nicholas, I just don’t want to go out with him, that’s all.”
“You’ve made that clear. But why?”
Exasperation bubbles up within me. Nicholas is not going to let this go, and he’s going to stay on me until I either burst into tears or admit the truth.
Seeing as I hate crying, and I’ve already done enough of that lately, I go with the second option.
“Because Noah doesn’t understand what he’s truly getting with me.”
Nicholas stares at me, a crease forming on the bridge of his nose as he tries to make sense of my comment. “Vi, what are you talking about?” he asks, his voice soft now.
Damn it, he’s going to make me cry with that concerned twin tone.
I stare down at my half-eaten slice of pizza, too embarrassed to look my successful, brilliant brother in the eyes.
“I … I googled him,” I begin. “Noah is driven. He’s known his purpose since he was a little boy. Noah has spent his whole life working towards this goal of being in the Premier League. People talk about his determination, his brilliance, his goal setting. He’s serious and successful and everything I’m not. I’m a butterfly, Nicholas. Flittering from one thing to the next. It’s just a nice way of saying I’m a flake. I’m not the kind of woman Noah would like once he truly knew me. So why go through this, Nicholas? What’s the point?”
There. The truth is out there.
Nicholas doesn’t say anything.
I lift my eyes to meet his, and to my surprise, I see regret.
“Violet, is that what you think?” he asks, his voice soft. “That you’re a flake?”
“It’s the truth. I’ve heard it my whole life.”
He winces.
“Why do you feel bad?” I ask, knowing instinctively what is going on in his head.
“Because it’s not true,” he says firmly. “Do you butterfly from thing to thing? Yes. Is it because you’re a flake? No. I think it’s because you haven’t found the thing you’re passionate about doing. And Violet? I also think you’re afraid of committing to a serious role because you don’t want to disappoint people. But that doesn’t make you a woman unworthy of dating a man like Noah.”
His words, whilst meant to comfort me, are a gut punch.
“I would frustrate him once he saw the real me,” I say, my voice strangely quiet to my own ears. “I don’t have direction. I don’t have a goal I’m working towards. I’m not like him, Nicholas. All I would do is disappoint him.”
“Disappoint him? Just because your career isn’t sorted out? I don’t think so. Lots of people are figuring out careers at our age.”
I remain silent.
“But don’t you think that should be up for Noah to decide?” Nicholas asks, his gaze never leaving mine.
I swallow hard. Nicholas has no idea how much his words are hurting me right now.
Because there’s a part of me that wonders if he’s right.
“It doesn’t matter. I told Noah I had no interest in him,” I say, willing myself not to show any emotion in my voice.
“If he really likes you, it’s not too late to fix it. To explain why you said what you said. Because you’re afraid you couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him. I saw the way he looked at you. Talked to you. The last thing in the world you would do is disappoint him, because he likes you.”
“It’s too late,” I say, my voice thick now.
“Violet. I’m telling you from experience. Don’t do this. Don’t run from him out of fear. I lost out on years with Amelia because I didn’t come clean with my feelings. But I could have lost her forever if I had kept her away.”
“It’s not the same, and you know it,” I protest.
“No, because you have only lost a day with Noah. If you tell him the truth, I think he would understand.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“So that’s how it’s going to be for Noah? You decide his fate for him and don’t give him a say in what he wants?”
“I know what he wants would not be me,” I say, rising from the table.
“You’re making a mistake.”
“It’s mine to make, though, isn’t it?”
I scrape my uneaten pizza in the bin, dump my beer down the sink, and head upstairs. The entire time I walk through the hallowed halls of our house, I hear Nicholas’s words echoing in my head, and hurting my heart.
I want Nicholas to be right. I desperately wish his words were true.
But I know who I am. I’m not the girl for a man like Noah.
And I never will be.
* * *
I wake up on Tuesday morning bright and early—thanks to the calls of Carl and Roy around five o’clock, those cheeky bastards—and decide to take on the day with a purpose. I’m starting a project today, something I can really dig into and complete from start to finish.
I get ready, grab breakfast, and then head to the library. When Bella was here, she took a look at the books and spotted some rare finds right off the bat. So I’m going to sort through them and catalogue them. Seeing that we have thousands of books, this should more than keep me occupied.
And hopefully keep me from thinking about Noah Darby.
The house hasn’t opened for the day for visitors yet, so it’s nice and quiet. I can hear clocks ticking and the sound of my shoes against the marble floor as I walk. I pass by other rooms that are part of the Wintersmith Hall tour: the state dining room, with its rich mahogany table set for twenty-four people with our family’s china and silver cutlery, and the saloons, showing off ornate crown moulding and marble sculptures.
Whilst these rooms are lovely, and I have some favourite art pieces in both spaces, my favourite room is the next one.
The library of Wintersmith Hall.
I smile. I love this room. It’s long, with an antique floral rug that covers the floor the entire length and width of the room. It’s so important and fragile, you can only enter with socks on. The dark bookshelves run around the entire space, filled with thousands of books. There’s a lounging area in front of a marble fireplace, with a sofa set and chairs in deep shades of green. On the other side of the room are various wingback chairs for seating, as well as a round mahogany table with chairs and a lamp.
I pause at the edge of the room, taking off my shoes and placing them right inside the entranceway. Then I step across the antique-carpeted floor, the sunlight landing on the pattern and giving it a warm glow.
I pause for a moment, walking around and drinking in the art on the walls. I stop in front of my favourite picture in this room. It’s a portrait of Lady Lily, who was one of the daughters in this house during the Regency period. Why is this my favourite one?
She’s the only Banfield I can find in pictures who has the same red hair as I do.
I study her, with her hair piled up on her head in curls. She’s standing outside in the garden, next to the Cupid fountain, with a white empire-waist dress on. In one hand is a tan-coloured book. I detect a yellow veil on the canvas, which comes from the fact that we have a fireplace in this room. It can be restored, however, and I make a note to have Nicholas put this one in his document of art that needs some love in the house.
I move closer to the portrait of Lady Lily, trailing my finger over the edge of the gilded picture frame. I study her eyes, wondering what her life was like. Did she spend hours reading in this room because it was one of the few acceptable activities for women to do in her time? Did she stare out of these windows like I do, wondering what direction her life would take?
I bite my lip. If she did, it’s because she didn’t have choices like I do.
Yet I feel constricted all the same, as if I only have the same options as Lady Lily did.
Whilst she was held back because of society, I’m held back out of fear.
I decide it’s more interesting to script a story for Lady Lily than think about my own issues. So what is her story, anyway? All I know is what the family tree tells me—she married Lord George, who later became Earl Brooke. Could there be something about her in the archives? I’ve always been more interested in art than letters or diaries, and I’m sure the most interesting family members are used in stories told by the tour guides. I’m making up stuff that doesn’t exist.
Just as I allowed myself to dream of what dating Noah would be like.
I promise myself I’ll be happy and cheerful when the tours start rolling in a few hours, answering the tour guide’s questions about what I’m doing and that, yes, I’m a real-life person who actually is part of the family tree and actually lives here.
I smile. Sometimes when people find this out, they ask for selfies, which makes me laugh. Yes, I’m a lady. Yes, I am a member of the aristocracy. I don’t consider that selfie-worthy, but if it makes a tourist happy, I’ll do it.
I turn back around and walk towards the rows of beautifully bound leather books in rich colours. Behind these, though, in these deep bookshelves, are all kinds of other books. Books from throughout the decades bought by various ancestors. Books that aren’t necessarily historical or display-worthy, but I think they’ll be interesting to inventory all the same.
As I look at the thousands of books, I think of how I want to organise these in a spreadsheet. I want to take pictures, too. Hmm. I’m big on writing things down, so I’ll probably want to jot notes on paper as I work.
I mentally gather up all the things I need and go back through the private entrance to the family portion of the home and head up the staircase, trailing my hand along the banister which has been freshly polished by our housekeeping staff. I swear it’s so shiny, I bet I could see my reflection in it if I stared over it.
I reach the top floor, passing more portraits, but also family pictures, too. Of me and Nicholas and Mum and Dad. I smile as I see one of me and Nicholas at his Cambridge graduation. I remember I was so proud of him, graduating with honours from one of the most challenging universities in the world. As I glance at the picture now, I’m amazed as usual at how he is my twin. We look absolutely nothing alike, and we always shock people when we disclose we’re twins. Nicholas has dark brown hair and brown-gold eyes, whilst I have flaming red hair, a splash of freckles across my nose and cheeks, and blue eyes.
This wing of the house is quiet, as everyone has gone off to work. I reach my bedroom and slide open my desk drawer, retrieving my notebook. I do love a good notebook, and this one is my favourite. It’s a beautiful blue, with flowers embroidered all over it, and I might be a bit obsessed with it. I select a pen and put that with the notebook. Then I undock my laptop and grab that, and finally, my phone off my bedside table.
I feel sick when I see I have a text message from Bella.
Has Noah said something to Camden?
I tap open her message and brace myself as I read:
I had a brilliant idea of something we can work on together. Actually, you’d be helping me if you say yes. I have an event next Thursday in London. I’m reading a book to some children at a primary school, and I think it would be cool to incorporate an art project into it. Except I’m terrible at art, LOL. I thought it might be fun if you would work on the event with me and come up with an art project. I know you’re meeting Noah in London for a date next Friday, so I thought maybe you could come a few days early. Let me know what you think!
I feel sick as I finish reading her message.
She has no idea I backed out of my date with Noah.
I sit down on the edge of my bed, setting my laptop and notebook aside, with a mixture of heaviness and happiness mixing within me at the same time.
I love that Bella asked me to do something with her. Especially something so important that is part of her work for the royal family. Even if my family thinks I’m a flake, she obviously does not.
And if I’m being truthful, I miss having good girlfriends in my life. The texts and meetups with my old friends from St. Andrews have waned with time. I’m hopeful that Amelia and I will become friends, but I know that is driven because of Nicholas.
Bella is asking me because of me. We hit it off at Christian and Clementine’s wedding reception in April and chat all the time. I haven’t had any time to tell her about Noah—and before, I planned for that to be a fun conversation about how much I liked him and what I should wear for our date.
I swallow as the hard part comes to the forefront. I need to have another conversation about Noah, and it isn’t going to be gushing about him and asking her what she knows about him.
This one is going to hurt.
I ignore how my insides are knotted up and respond:
I would love to help you out—it sounds like fun! I could be in London on Wednesday, just need to sort out my schedule in the gift shop. I’m sure I could get someone to cover for me. As far as Noah goes—I cancelled our date. I don’t think we suit romantically and thought it would be best to be friends.
I hit send.
I stare down at my phone for a few seconds, wondering if Bella is going to text me back or if she’s off doing something else.
Bella is typing …
My queasiness grows. She loves Noah, I know at least that much. I dread reading what she has to say. Soon, her reply drops in:
Oh, Violet, why? I thought you two really suited each other! Is there anything you want to ask me about him? I can tell you Noah is an AMAZING guy. He’s shy, so the fact that he was talking to you so much means he REALLY likes you. And once you get to know him, he’s not so shy, if that’s something you’re worried about. The fact that Noah opened up to you straightaway tells me what an impression you made on him.
Tears sting my eyes. But he doesn’t know the real me,Bella, I think painfully. Noah likes fun-loving, butterfly-like Violet. He doesn’t understand that will wear off once he knows the truth.
Bella is typing …
But I don’t want to be pushy—if he’s not the guy for you, he’s not. I just observed you two this weekend and I think everyone noticed the spark between you. I’d hate to see you not explore it if you have any doubts at all.
My heart sinks as I read her words.
Bella is typing …
That’s all I’m going to say, I promise, Violet. I’m so excited you’re going to come to London next week. The children are in year one, and I’ll text you the book I’m reading so you can start getting ideas. Let me know the supplies and I can make sure we have them ready to go. Would you like to have dinner next Wednesday night? Then I can go over all the details with you.
I text Bella back that this all sounds wonderful, and I’ll text her as soon as I get into town.
I sit on the edge of my bed, not moving, both her and Nicholas’s words swirling in my head.
Understood.
Noah’s one-word reply to my text ricochets through my heart, and I quickly gather my things, knowing there’s no coming back from what I’ve done. I try to ignore the tears stinging in my eyes and the sharp pain in my chest as I see his text in my head.
It’s for the best,I tell myself. I did the right thing.
I head back downstairs, my mind firmly on the library. I’m not going to butterfly this project. I’m going to see it from start to finish, then categorise my lists of books and provide a complete documentation of what we have at Wintersmith Hall.
I walk back into the library and set everything up, and now this task seems daunting as I study all the volumes—knowing there are books behind these books. I sit down in a chair and carefully create a Google doc on my laptop. Then I grab the rolling ladder, move it down to the far edge of the first bookcase, and climb to the top. I retrieve four classics, handling them carefully, and the first hodgepodge of books are revealed. Oooh, interesting! I carry my load of classics down, setting them on the table next to my laptop, and eagerly climb back up so I can inspect what’s been hidden for who knows how long on this shelf.
First book up? Swingin’ Cocktails.
I burst out laughing and run my fingers over the pink spine with the words written in a sixties-style font. So, were my ancestors swingers? Cocktail lovers? Both? I pull out the book, and flip it open, and to my shock, there’s a name and a date scrawled on the first page:
Emily Banfield, 16 May 1962
This must be the date she got the book. How cool that she recorded it! I wonder if this was an Emily thing or a Banfield thing. My parents haven’t mentioned it, but then again, neither of them are avid readers.
I put the book back and look at the next one. It’s a field guide to English birds. I pull that out, flip it open, and sure enough, there’s another name and a signature:
Jordan Banfield, 2 September 1957
Ooh, it is a Banfield thing! Fantastic!
I’m going to start doing this straightaway, with the very next book I get.
I go through a few more, and then I find one that appears to be very old. I run my fingers over the tan cloth-covered book and study the faded gold imprint on the spine:
Classical Mythology.
My heart tumbles into my stomach.
Suddenly I’m back on the beach, recalling the wonderful conversation Noah and I had about this. Feeling his hands on my skin. Remembering the amazing way playing football had chiselled the muscles in his thighs and calves. I can smell the sea air and sun cream and hear his low voice over the sound of the waves as we shared our favourite stories with each other, hardly believing we found someone who was as intrigued with mythology as we each were.
I slide the book out, thinking of how much Noah would love to see this. I flip open the page, and to my shock, it’s also signed:
Lady Lily,
Because you love mythology as much as I do, I hope you will enjoy this book.
Your devoted love,
Lord George Winsbrook, 17 June 1834
There’s another inscription below it, in a different handwriting:
Lord George,
I’m so grateful you love me exactly the way I am—a bluestocking. I look forward to filling a library with books we both love when I am your wife.
Your devoted love,
Lady Lily Banfield, 18 June 1834
Lady Lily.
I turn on the ladder, looking at the portrait I studied earlier—Lady Lily, the other redhead in the Banfield line, before she married Lord George. Then I zero in on the book she’s holding.
It’s a tan book just like the one in my hand.
I gasp and drop the book, sending it tumbling to the floor.
A sick feeling washes over me. My whole body feels like ice, and I have to grip the handles of the ladder for support or else I might tumble off.
George loved Lily the way she was.
Maybe Noah could have loved me the same way.
I shift my gaze to the book, flipped open and lying on the floor, the sun streaming over its yellowed pages. I found that book today for a reason.
You’ve made a massive mistake, Violet,my heart whispers.
I bite down hard on my lower lip. My mind flips through the past weekend with Noah. It’s like I’m going through a stack of Polaroid pictures, one after the other. I see the tattoos on his arms and his espresso-coloured eyes, which rarely strayed from mine as we talked.
In the last memory, I see myself sitting on the windowsill in my room, reading his text about how much he wanted to give me the first date I deserved on Friday night.
Understood.
I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the pain in my chest as I see his reply to my text message. But it doesn’t move.
There’s no undoing what I did. I told Noah I didn’t see a romantic connection with him and effectively torched any feelings he might have had for me, despite what Nicholas thinks.
Panic grips me. It becomes harder to breathe as the finality of what I’ve done hits me. I’ve completely stuffed this up. I’ll never ever have an opportunity to be with Noah after sending him a text like that.
I know I barely knew him. I know there’s going to be many more men in my life. If this were meant to be, it would be. I know all of that crap you tell yourself when your heart hurts.
But my heart is telling me I’ve made a massive mistake.
And there’s nothing I can do to fix it.