27. Phantom of Delight #2
When she proceeds to read my notes aloud, I nearly vomit and butt in.
“Fate’s a lazy concept, alright. Is that what you wanted to hear?
People use it as a way to detach themselves from their decisions.
I don’t find it comfortable, nor poetic.
Love isn’t exactly divine intervention, Francesca; it’s selection. ”
With a little more heat than I’d expect from somebody like her, she asks, “So if you don’t believe in fate, then what does love look like for you? If one day, you loved someone like she did him, what would you call it then?”
Devotion, maybe. A sort of discipline.
I laugh under my breath at her peeved expression, and out loud, I say, “It would be waking up every day and choosing her. Over and over again, especially on the days where I don’t feel particularly… soft . Repetition is what makes patterns meaningful. That’s enough for me.”
She smiles faintly, and the shape of it does something painful to my ribs. “You make it sound so simple, like waking up and, I don’t know, charging your phone.”
“Exactly. Nobody gets dramatic about it, yet they do it every morning.” I shift in my seat. “Did I miss the part where this suddenly became about my thoughts on love? I made a note in a book. Finished.”
She lets it go. That may just be the worst part, the fact that she could’ve pressed and chose not to.
I wonder how many men have stood before her and choked on their emotion, holding their breath until she permits them to release.
Either she’s being merciful, or she’s merely fattening me up for a later slaughter.
“I was fifteen when my tutor whipped out this book, and I remember being so irritated because I hated it,” she mumbles, too absorbed in my annotations to note that I’m losing it.
“I didn’t understand any of Nelly’s thoughts or why Cathy was so frustrating and angry all the damn time.
Everything was too overwhelming. Too noisy. ”
That’s when she glances up, tucking her hair behind her ear and saying, “The font thing makes sense.”
The way she watches me feels remarkably like being burgled. Stupidly, I blurt, “What?”
“It’s honestly very impressive, making the chaos mean something.
That’s what you do, isn’t it? I’m looking at it right now.
The way you note the weather has more to say than the people, how you argue with each character in the margins…
You turn everything, including people, into something readable.
” She lets out a delighted laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth.
“It’s like subtitles for the world! I love it. ”
The observation wounds me, leaving my chest gaping and bleeding.
In that instant, I want to flinch because her unrestrained delight is almost unbearable.
Shadows creep back despite the late hour, and the flames in the hearth crackle.
I want to snatch the sound of her laughter and her amazement, bottle it, weaponise it and pour it down my father’s throat until he chokes on it, until he tastes the miracle of being seen without needing correction or suspicion.
I’m left trembling with both gratitude and fury.
My grin is crooked, a little unstable. “High praise from the local cryptid.”
She doesn’t accept my attempt at making the moment lighter than what it is. “I wish Miss Donovan explained it like this.” The book shuts gently, and she hugs it to her chest and grins. “Maybe I’d have liked it. I think I’ll read it again, though. Your way.”
Warmth unfurls behind my ribs. As if my way is worth it. Fuck me . Nobody’s ever wanted my way before. I picture her tracing my writing, smiling at the dry comments I’m never able to keep inside my head. Giving her that copy would be akin to loaning out a portion of my brain.
Still, I nod, telling her, “Keep it.”
Gloriously, she basks in her victory and then vanishes towards the shelves. Soon after, she’s curled up on the armchair again, another book in hand.
The air between me and her seat is thin, and I glance towards the cabinet where I’ve hidden the journal.
I pour the fourth glass anyway, already plotting ways to undo my own laziness.
Gifting her silence seems an insult. It’s nowhere near enough to give her, not after this.
She whispers to herself and reads my words—and I know she’s stolen my tongue, keeping it within her mouth.
Obscene . I can’t breathe. There’s my name on her lips, the graphite of my pencil staining her breath with the colour of my mind. The truth slams a battering ram behind my teeth, and I’m weak against its strength.
I reach for rationality, but Francesca lets a laugh slip as she turns the page, and it snaps clean through. “You’re indecently exquisite.”
There we go. Mouth has fucking mutinied.
She stops mid-page turn, as if someone holds a knife to her pulse. The book becomes an ancient relic pressed to her sternum when she looks up, pupils widening in increments, and I notice because I’m categorically insane.
I’ve got to be the worst version of all the Atherbournes who have come before because there’s a Sheffolk seated opposite me, drowning in the depth of my words, and all I wish to do is rescue her with my mouth. Breathe the truth into her; make her taste the indecency of what she’s done.
Which, of course, are not the thoughts of a rational man. They’re inappropriate. Undignified. First step is admitting it, I suppose.
Small and incredulous, she murmurs, “What?”
I set my glass down, unbothered despite my heart pounding. “You heard me.”
The red climbing her cheeks can’t decide whether she’s furious or flustered. “I— oh , what does that even mean?”
“It means that your existence is a violation of logic. That the sight of you like this—reading my notes—is an obscenity to my good senses. Visually distressing , has anybody ever used those words to describe you? Because it’s the truest description I can come up with?—”
She shuts the book and jumps to her feet before I can finish. “Is this about my compliment, then? What I said about your mind? Because I meant it sincerely, Eric, and if you’re going to mock me as a form of petty revenge?—”
“I’m calling you beautiful , Francesca,” I interject, standing too.
Her eyes are wary, too much like the butterfly Edmund believes her to be.
She’s blinking too fast, skittish in anticipation of being trapped by something sickly sweet.
“Does the accuracy of the word offend you? Because I won’t apologise and dilute the truth for your comfort. ”
Fuck, and now she’s stomping across the carpet on a mission, planting herself beneath me with her hands on her hips. Blushing, furious, and utterly exquisite. The petulance of it nearly has me chuckling because Lady Homicide apparently doesn’t know how to accept a fucking compliment.
“You can’t—you can’t just say things like that,” she pokes, lower lip trembling against whatever else she’s struggling to voice. “Oh my god, and what exactly am I supposed to say in return?”
“Nothing, because it’s not a debate; what the fuck is your problem?” The bite of my question is blunted by the laugh that follows.
“My problem is your mouth and what comes out of it, Atherbourne.”
“My mouth?” I echo. “Then tell it what you’d rather want it to do, and maybe I’ll be obedient for once.”
A microfracture wounds all rationality, and then the entire structure crumbles.
Belatedly, stupidly , I realise there’s no more distance.
Her every heavy exhale hits my chest, lashes fluttering like she’s witnessing something she’s only ever read about.
That bewilderment in her gaze makes me think she’s picturing something dumb.
Probably comparing me to a fanfic version of Darcy.
She tilts her head, nearly choking on the honesty of what she says next. “What I want , you wouldn’t be able to survive.”
So close, I could pry open the coffin she’s been nailed into. “And you think I came to Sheffolk to live?” She’s warm, trembling when my fingers find her chin. A small, involuntary gasp slips out as my thumb coaxes her lips open. “ Indecent . You want me to obey, hm?”
The single nod she gives is a clean, brutal yes .
Damnation wrapped in silk. I lean in, memorising the way her lids grow heavy and still fight to stay open.
To witness me. She tilts, moves onto the tips of her bare feet, and I’m weighing all that I’d give to hear her whimper.
Shit, it’s going to happen. She’s going to beg, and I’ll have no choice but to ruin her.
I bend, mouth hovering a breath above hers, noses brushing?—
Three hard raps hit my door.
We go still.
Cursing, I set my forehead against hers, and she lifts a shaking hand to cup my face.
Another knock rattles the frame. I turn, obedient to the heat of her palm, and press a kiss to the soft point where her pulse riots.
Thin fingers curl around my jaw when I lay a second kiss higher, open-mouthed, tasting lavender and salt until the skin blooms pink.
One more knock; I trail the vein higher and let the whisper fall right against her heartbeat, “That’ll be your butler, I suppose.”
“Fire him.”
I grin against her wrist before retreating. One step. Then another, all whilst reminding myself I’m a gentleman. Even as something more heated bangs their fists against the wall of good manners. Francesca moves to retrieve the book she dropped.
Pascoe enters with permission to collect the dishes.
His stare lingers on me for a moment, heavy as a palm on a bruise only he and I know exists.
I don’t answer, looking down at my glass instead.
No thoughts of Edmund, for fuck’s sake. The last thing I need is his image circling my mind whilst Francesca’s pulse still sits warm on my lips.
They leave without a word, and I avoid them both the next morning, skipping breakfast because my brain suddenly can’t come up with any ideas.
It has to be better, perfect even, now that I know the taste of her heartbeat.
All day I turn over possible revisions for her gift, until at last, 5pm strikes and it hits me.
Now, hours before her birthday, I sit at my desk with the journal, the handheld embossing kit and the fountain pen I dispatched Philip to buy.
The glasses dig into the bridge of my nose; I hate the way they make me look, but I can’t risk imprecision.
Not tonight. Scattered around are pages of Wordsworth, Byron and Edgar Allan Poe, half crumpled in my indecision to choose just one poem. In the end, I’ve found it.
“Here’s to not fucking this up completely.”
The cold handle of the embosser bites into my palm as I dial the letters into place and then press down onto leather.
Everything, to the very millimetre, is pinpoint thanks to the brief mental breakdown I had over this being perfect.
I could’ve chosen something safer, like her initials, but watching the gold bleed into the indents, I know I’ve made the right decision.
Phantom of Delight.
It fits her. The more I think on it, the more accurate the title becomes.
A little too perfect, then. I almost hope she’ll find the whole thing pretentious and mock me.
Once the embosser is set aside, I uncap the fountain pen and turn to the front endpaper, the page with more resistance than all others.
Fucking hell, should’ve just embossed the cover and been done with it.
But I’m apparently the type of man who handwrites Wordsworth now.
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight…
Kill me now.
I’ve double-checked the word ‘phantom’ like eleven times, and with each glance, the less it looks like a real word.
By the second stanza, my hand is shaking, and I have to take a quick breather.
That minute of contemplation is humiliating.
Here I am, an allegedly educated man with the emotional range of a brick, writing out poetry.
I can feel the ghost of Father Bariston leaning over me, the way he used to when wanting to be certain my writing was neat.
He judges every dip and swirl the pen makes, all whilst I’m trying not to fuck up too badly.
If this journal goes tits up, I’ve got no gift for tomorrow.
With the poem written out, I shift my attention to the pastedown portion of the journal and elegantly jot down the personalised birthday message that gave me way more grief than it should’ve.
And of course, ‘Eric’ smudges. Of all the words to choose to look like it’s part of Rorschach’s inkblot test, it had to be that one. Brilliant.
Gentle , I internally repeat to myself as I try to fix it, but it doesn’t work, and I end up dabbing my thumb into the wet spot.
Now half of my print is there, right beside my name.
The ghosts here are laughing for sure, having watched me pretend this gift is impersonal only to force me to leave my mark—literally.
It’d be poetic if it weren’t so pathetic. I snap a picture of it because obviously I enjoy documenting my own humiliation. Why experience this on my own when I have brothers to partake in the public stoning of my hubris?
Heir I realise that alone is more intimate than any kiss I’ve ever experienced.
I’m not sure what’s more terrifying—the thought of giving it to her or her reading the poem with understanding.
Let’s pray she’s rendered illiterate, just for tomorrow.