42. George
George
Night had long since fallen when I climbed to bed after spending the evening with Jacob and Father in the library. Jacob had agreed to try his hand at writing the column, and I thought it would work. Even Father said he had a good feeling about it.
A refreshing breeze drifted through my open windows, and despite the late hour, a faint light still glowed in Sarah’s room. Her windows stood open to the evening air.
Crickets wove elaborate harmonies into the quiet of the night, inviting me to add my voice to their chorus, echoing the words in my mind.
Chree, chree, chree…
I’m sorry… ree… ree…
If only the crickets could apologize for me. I leaned through my window and let a faint whisper slip into the dark, testing the taste of the words on my tongue. “I’m sorry…”
I cupped a hand to my mouth. “Sarah. Psst. Sarah.”
Nothing.
A bit louder. “Sar-ah. Gold-eeee.”
Nothing.
I lowered my voice an octave and tried again. “But, soft. What light through yonder window breaks?”
Sarah appeared in the window, a light robe wrapped around her. She held a book to her chest, her finger marking a page. “Shakespeare?” A hint of amusement colored her voice, though I couldn’t make out her expression in the dark.
“I can read. Went to school, remember?”
“Yes.” Her light chuckle echoed between our houses. “I am sure you are quite accomplished.”
“What are you reading?”
“Re-reading one of my favorites—Pride and Prejudice.”
“Austen. Should’ve guessed.” I leaned both hands on my window frame. “How do you like Jacob?”
“I only spent a few minutes with him, but he seems like what Viola described.” Sarah set her book down and pulled over a low stool. She sat, leaned one elbow on the window, and propped her head in her hand.
“What does she think of him?” I asked.
“Not sure I’m at liberty to say.”
“Hmm. Blink once if… scratch that. I can’t see your eyes. The big question—does she love him? Cough once for yes and twice for no.”
She brought her fist halfway to her mouth but made no sound.
I folded my arms and rested my hip on the sash. “Take your time. I’ve got all night.”
After a quiet scoff, she coughed once and dropped her hand from her mouth.
“She loves him. I knew it.”
Sarah laughed. “She is trying not to.” The moonlight flashed across her smile.
“Of course,” I said. “How could I forget her manifesto against all things love and marriage?”
“What do you think of him?” Sarah asked.
“I think he might love her, too. He flushes every time I mention her name.”
She covered a yawn. “So that’s love? Flushing?”
“I know nothing of love.” Too much honesty in my words quieted me, and the crickets, for a heartbeat. I shrugged it off. “What does your Jane Austen say?”
She tapped a finger to her lips. “Many things. She never says it straight out, but she illustrates, again and again, how we are all fools in love.”
“Fools, exactly.” It was time. I swallowed. “Listen. Sarah. I want to apologize for what I said?—”
“No. You were right.”
“For how I behaved when Viola went missing. I treated you poorly. I was unfair. I?—”
“I made a terrible choice. If you hadn’t found her, I would have never forgiven myself. I would’ve been crushed under my guilt forever. I still have nightmares.”
“Don’t take on guilt you don’t own,” I said. “Trust me. Guilt is a heavy burden.”
“Thank you, George… for finding her.”
“Thank you for talking to me. Please, say you forgive my harsh words. I’m beyond sorry.”
“I forgive you,” she said, “even though there’s nothing to forgive.”
“So you don’t hate me? I dislike being hated.”
“What? Why would you think I hate you?” Her blonde hair floated around her as she shook her head. “George—you’re the hero. You found Viola.”
“You’ve been ignoring me for weeks. You… you wouldn’t even meet my eyes.”
Sarah dropped her forehead to her hand. “I’ve been so embarrassed. You’re the triumphant hero, and I’m… I’ve felt like the villain or the village idiot. Pemberley. I thought you were angry with me.”
“I’m not angry.”
“I don’t hate you.”
I reached into my pocket and let seven pennies slide through my fingers. “Friends?”
“Friends.” Sarah nodded, stood, and stretched. “Good night, George.”
“Night, Goldie.” I backed away from the window and fell onto my bed, arms spread wide.
She didn’t hate me.