Chapter 14
The rain was already falling heavier than when Alaric and Miss Kavanagh had left the village, so the moorland around them was soaked through.
A cold wind came with it also; possessed of a truly malevolent temperament, it whipped and lashed them both as if they had done it wrong somehow, and it harried the grass as if trying to tear it apart.
Worse still, with not so much as a ray of sun to be found, the walk ought to have been a most dreadful thing indeed. Wet. Cold. Long. A truly bleak and miserable day indeed …
And yet, Alaric had never felt so comfortable and at ease.
He cursed himself silently for the way he had acted. And he cursed himself again for allowing his guilt to shame him into believing that he had been doing something wrong.
The simple fact was that he liked being around Miss Kavanagh. It was not something that he needed to justify. It was not a thing that he needed to explain. It simply was … and there was not a thing wrong with that.
What was more, that Miss Kavanagh had decided to look at him again like she used to do was reason enough that he decided not to let this moment bring worry.
Why ought we not to spend time together? There is no good reason that I can think of …
“This ought to bring back warm memories,” Alaric began as he and Miss Kavanagh walked arm-in-arm down the road.
“Warm memories?” She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
“A day like this one …” He indicated toward the sky. “It must feel like home. A typical summer’s day in Ireland, no?”
She snorted. “Is that what you believe? Have you ever been to Ireland, My Lord?”
“Well … not in a literal sense.”
“So, no,” she said flatly. “Would you believe me if I told you that the weather is far nicer in Ireland than it is here? It is not even close.”
“I do not believe you,” he scoffed.
She laughed, and it was like music to his ears. “Perhaps you ought to visit one day.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“I might have to ask my employer for some time off,” she said coyly. “But he is a rather harsh taskmaster. I doubt he would give it to me.”
“Perhaps you have not worked hard enough to earn it?” he fired back at her with a coy smile of his own.
“Oh? What if I were to tell him that I once collapsed on account of how hard I worked?”
“I am sure he would say that you were faking it. Anything to get more time off – joking!” he cried in jest as she pulled back and scowled. “Merely a joke.”
She narrowed her eyes. “It best be that.”
They laughed together, and such was the cacophony of joy found in that laughter that the storm that lashed them was not felt. Even though they were both soaked through their clothes, it mattered not. How easy and right the moment felt.
“How goes the preparation for the memorial?” he asked next.
She shrugged. “Well enough. Your sister …” She trailed off and looked away as if she had misspoken.
“She is not here,” he said, laughing. “You may say it.”
“She wants what is best for the day,” Miss Kavanagh explained carefully. “Which has entailed many changes, some at the drop of a hat. But the changes are right, and I know it will make for the best memorial possible.”
“How well spoken.” He chuckled. “Very diplomatic of you.”
She smiled at him. Her eyes were stained from the rain, but they glistened as if even in the gloom, the sun somehow found them.
“I will speak to her,” he said.
“No!”
“I will,” he said firmly. “I want what is best for my …” His throat tightened, and he coughed to clear it. “I want what is best, of course, but Verity ought not to treat you like cattle.”
“Oh, we are hardly treated like cattle,” she said with soft laughter. “For example, I doubt that you would be so kind as to escort cattle back home in the rain.”
“Depends on the cow.”
She sniggered. “Did you just compare me to a cow, My Lord?”
“Only the very best,” he said with a wicked smile. “And you should know that such compliments are rare for me to speak. So, you ought to be honored.”
Her laughter was dry. “I find myself missing Mr. Loxley’s company. He is at least kind to me.”
Even her mention of Peregrine could not dampen Alaric’s spirit. The conversation was so easy, so familiar, and he knew that she spoke in jest.
“And yet he rode off just as the storm turned. How strange …”
“Before it had come,” she pointed out.
“But did he return? I think not! No, I would not waste time wishing for Peregrine’s company, were I you. Alas, you are stuck with me.”
“What a travesty.”
Their arms were linked, and Alaric had to resist the urge to wrap his arm around her waist to pull her in closer.
Done on account of the rain, of course, that desire to see her warm and safe.
Although … the thought of holding her close brought its own appeal, and Alaric’s heart raced as he considered it.
He glanced at Miss. Kavanagh. He took note of the smile on her lips. He let his eyes roam down her body; how close she walked to him. Was she leaning in on purpose? Did she want him to hold her?
No … Alaric shook that thought from his mind. This moment was a good one, near perfect, and he best not ruin it.
The walk back to the estate took close to twenty minutes, but it felt like half that time. The rain continued the whole way. The wind grew more savage. Alaric was soaked through his clothes so that he ought to have been shivering. But his body was warm as if there was a fire burning under his coat.
“Are you cold?” he asked Miss Kavanagh as they approached the castle; it stood out in the darkness, not so much welcoming as it was warning. On the road, they might be able to act this way, no eyes on them, nobody to judge. But once inside those walls …
“No, I am quite fine.” She looked at him, and he saw her cheeks flush. She looked away. “Far warmer than I expected.”
“As am I …” He looked at her; their eyes met, a shared understanding passed, and they both looked away.
It was once they entered the gate that the mood changed.
Now that there were those about who might see them, it was not so easy to act freely and without care. Miss Kavanagh pulled her arm away, and Alaric grimaced as if she had torn a piece of her with him.
“Here we are …” He walked with her to the front porch, covered, finally free from the lashing rain.
“Finally.” She laughed as she stepped into cover. She shook her brilliant red hair, and it was like a light in the dark from which Alaric could not look away.
He felt a pang in his chest. One of the hairs on her forehead fell down past her eyes, and he had to resist the urge to reach up and brush it back.
She saw this fight, as if she knew what was on his mind, and the silence that found them was tense, and it spoke loudly so that its meaning could not be missed.
Alaric’s heart raced, and his limbs trembled. Now was the time to say goodbye and be grateful for the day. But there was one more thing he needed to do. Not a thought he’d had until that moment, but it felt right.
“Miss Kavanagh, before I leave you …” He reached into his coat and pulled out the book he had purchased earlier. “I saw this earlier, and I thought …” He swallowed. “I thought of you.”
“You did?” She took the book with care and gentleness.
“It was one I read as a boy, and I thought you might like it.” He shrugged as if it meant nothing. “Dark themes … wickedness that I sense you might appreciate.”
“Are you calling me wicked?” She raised an eyebrow.
“No, not at all.” He looked right at her so that his meaning would not be missed. “But you are different, Miss Kavanagh. And that is the highest compliment I can give.”
Her smile was hesitant, as if she were fighting against it. But it found her eyes, and they shone like a lamp found in the middle of the night when its light was needed most.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I … thank you.”
“Do not mention it.”
There was nothing else to say. Nothing else to be done. Alaric felt the shift that had taken place between them, and he knew she felt it, too. Was it mere companionship that was felt? Was it an acknowledgment that they need not avoid one another? Or was it something more?
Alaric knew what he wanted … he was just not ready to say it.
So it was that she left him on the porch, and once he was alone, Alaric turned and looked to the sky just in time to see the storm clouds part so the sun broke through and swept across the estate.
Never before had he seen something so beautiful.
***
Supper that night was a silent affair.
Crispin was not present, and Alaric did not care about the reason. While Verity, her mood worse than the storm from earlier, barely entered Alaric’s thoughts.
He ate with a smile on his face. He hummed to himself. And the fact that this only seemed to annoy his sister did wonders for his mood.
Is this what it means to be happy? To finally allow myself to be?
Stranger still, there was no guilt to be found as he ate supper. Perhaps he should have felt just a little bit? Was it not wrong to be so happy when his wife’s memorial was approaching? Ought a man living with the memories of his deceased be in a constant state of depression?
Maybe he should have been, but for once, Alaric did not allow such feelings to take him.
Better still, as they ate, Miss Kavanagh appeared at the entrance of the dining room. Alaric sat up immediately, allowing his smile to show because he wanted her to see it.
This was a mistake, because Verity saw that smile the second it touched his lips.
“Miss Kavanagh, what is this?” she asked coldly.
Miss Kavanagh bowed her head, but Alaric saw her forcing back her smile. “Forgive me for interrupting, My Lady, but I have a question concerning the candle for the memorial. The changes you have requested.”
Verity sighed. “Tomorrow, Miss Kavanagh. I am eating.”
“Verity,” Alaric said with a sigh of his own. “This is your doing. All the changes you have been making …” He shook his head. “It is a wonder anything is done at all.” He glanced at Miss Kavanagh, and he delighted in the knowing look she gave him.
“Tomorrow,” she said sharply to Miss Kavanagh. “You are dismissed.” She watched Miss Kavanagh coldly and in warning.
Alaric exhaled through his nose at the gesture, but his mood did not dim, even when Verity eyed him afterward. No need to guess what was on her mind.
Alaric simply looked back, daring her to say something. Which she did not do.
When supper was over, Alaric considered retiring to the drawing room for a drink, but he felt his legs walking as if on their own volition. And as soon as he paid them mind, he realized where they were leading him.
He hesitated then. A moment taken to reconsider … to force himself to walk the other way. But then he pictured the day in his mind, the good mood long overdue, and he knew this was the right thing.
It was Aisling’s writing room that he went to.
For two years, Alaric had avoided the room. He used to tell himself that it was done because he could not bear to be reminded of her, that there was too much sorrow found in the room. This, he always knew, was a lie.
The truth was that guilt had kept him away.
When his wife had died, Alaric mourned her as was right. But her death had not broken him as it should have done. It had not ended him in ways that he knew were right.
He was sad for her; he missed her, but he was not nearly as sorrowful as he wanted to be. So, that room was a stark reminder of the emotions he had never felt, and how awful a person he believed himself to be because of it.
When he reached the door, he paused … surprised, because the door stood ajar.
Frowning to himself, Alaric slowly pushed the door open and started in surprise at what he saw. While the room looked as he remembered it, that was not what had him gaping. That was saved for Crispin.
Crispin stood at his wife’s writing desk, hands folded behind his back, head bowed. His cousin stared down at what looked like a journal, and while Alaric could not see his cousin’s face, he could feel the outpouring of pain and sorrow, so it was suffocating.
“Crispin …”
Crispin did not start when he heard Alaric speak. Nor did he appear concerned when he turned to see Alaric watching him. In fact, the man almost looked angry, but not at himself. Rather, his anger was for Alaric.
“What are you doing here?” Alaric asked.
“Paying my respects, cousin,” Crispin said simply.
“Is that why you missed supper?”
“Is that the time?” Crispin looked again at the desk, sighed, and he was back on Alaric. “I lost track, it seems. This room, sometimes I …” His brow creased. “It is hard, Alaric. Harder than it should be.”
Alaric looked with bewilderment at his cousin. For two years, the man had been stone, a relative ghost that walked the halls, and a void of emotion as if he had forgotten how to show such a thing.
What is he doing here?
“It is an odd choice of room to pay your respects,” Alaric said slowly. “And an odd time to do it.”
“Is that so?” His voice turned cold. “I would think that there was never a bad time to mourn those whom we have lost. Those who we …” He trailed off as if he could not speak the words.
Alaric said nothing as a dawn of understanding rose inside him.
He looked around the room a second time. For two years, he assumed it had sat empty, so he expected cobwebs, dust, a sense that it was abandoned. But the room looked lived in, cleaned and tended to … worshipped in.
“You … you have been coming here often?” Alaric said.
“I should go.” Crispin put down his head and crossed toward him. “I am sorry that I missed supper, cousin. Forgive me.” He stepped around Alaric and hurried down the hall.
Alaric remained where he was, shock rolling through him in waves. Could it be? Had Alaric been so blind? Was his cousin … his wife … was I such a fool to have missed that now seems so obvious?
Apparently, he was.