Chapter Forty-Six
Her brother groaned, looking up at her through pale eyelashes. His collar was rucked, his coat sleeve torn at the cuff – and there was a line of blood smeared upon his left cheek.
‘Go home, Ava,’ he muttered.
‘I am home,’ Ava said, casting a glance at Damien – who was frozen beside her. ‘Are you … drunk?’
‘You’re drunk,’ Oliver mumbled, his head slumping forwards. ‘You’re spinning.’
Ava stepped past him to slide her key into the lock – opening the door into darkness. ‘Pa?’ she called – but there was no answer.
‘He’s out,’ Oliver said. ‘With Mrs Moss.’
‘Come on,’ said Damien, crouching to put Oliver’s arm across his shoulder. ‘Help me get him up.’
‘Who’re you?’ Oliver tried to push Damien away, but only succeeded in pawing a hand feebly against his forearm. ‘Don’t touch me.’
‘You’ve met before, remember? At the teashop? This is Damien.’
Oliver mumbled something that might’ve been ‘lemon cheese’ through his lips, although it was hard to tell.
‘On three,’ said Damien. ‘I’ll help you get him inside.’
They lifted as one, though Oliver did nothing to help, and it was like trying to lift a sack of potatoes. Except perhaps that would have been easier, for sacks of potatoes didn’t tend to strain backwards – throwing their weight in entirely the opposite direction.
‘Use your legs,’ Damien growled, voice straining. ‘We can’t lift you otherwise.’
‘Then let me stay here,’ Oliver slurred, eyes fluttering shut. ‘I want to sleep.’
‘You cannot sleep on the doorstep,’ Ava huffed, eyeing Damien. He nodded back with grim determination, and they tried again. This time they half managed it, although she almost tipped forwards – into the doorway.
‘Walk now,’ Damien commanded. ‘One foot in front of the other.’
‘You’re not the boss of me …’ Oliver said, although he put one stumbling foot over the threshold, and then another, until they were able to lead him back into the parlour, and towards the mustard settee.
‘Let me get a bucket,’ Ava said, hurrying into the kitchen.
The iron pail they used to bring water from the pump outside was full – and it felt wasteful to simply tip it all into the sink, but she did – though not before she’d dipped a rag into the cool water.
She hurried back through to the parlour, placing the now-empty bucket beside Oliver on the settee, crouching beside him to tend to the cut upon his cheek.
‘Pa said you were going to the market today.’ She wiped at the blood. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it was a long one – stretching almost the full way to his ear. ‘I see that was a lie.’
‘Not a lie,’ Oliver muttered, his eyes closed. ‘I did go the market. And then to the pub.’
‘Clearly,’ Ava murmured, blotting gently, the rag going from a dull grey to a pinkish-red.
‘S’your fault,’ Oliver said sluggishly. ‘You told Mrs Moss I was eager to see Awful Portia again. And now she’s writing me reams of letters.’
Damien’s eyebrows tweaked upwards. ‘“Awful Portia”?’
‘Mrs Moss’ niece, Miss Collins,’ Ava explained. ‘And I did nothing of the sort.’
‘You did,’ Oliver hiccuped. ‘“Oliver’s very eager to see her again,” you said. And Mrs Moss took it to heart.’
‘No one is forcing you to write back,’ said Ava. ‘Just tell the woman the truth.’
‘The truth?’ A pained expression flashed upon Oliver’s face then, and he sat up – retching into the bucket.
Ava sighed, turning back to Damien. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘You needn’t stay and watch this.’
A smile tweaked at the corner of his mouth. ‘Let me help. I can fetch more rags.’
‘The kitchen is just through that doorway.’ She pointed towards it. ‘And the water pump is in the courtyard outside.’
Damien nodded, disappearing behind the swinging door, and Ava sighed, turning back to her brother, who had slumped between the cushions, his blond hair dark where it stuck to his forehead, his skin ashen. ‘What has got into you?’
‘Whisky,’ Oliver mumbled.
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’d gathered that much,’ she said, plucking up the damp rag and wiping at the flecks of browned blood on his cheek.
Oliver groaned. ‘It’s my fault, Ava.’
‘Of course it’s your fault,’ she said, though she kept her voice low – and there was no heat in it. ‘You drank it.’
‘Not this,’ he murmured. ‘Everything,’ he said. ‘Jem. You. All of it.’
Her hand slowed. ‘What do you mean?’
He leaned towards her, struggling to gain purchase on the settee, his brows slanted downwards, his expression pleading. ‘I never wanted you to be heartbroken, Ava.’ His pupils danced as though he couldn’t quite focus upon her face. ‘You have to know that.’
It took everything she had to try and turn from the memory bubbling up in her mind, the expression on Jem’s face, the feeling of something pressing down on her windpipe as he’d pulled back from her.
‘It wasn’t your fault either,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes, it was.’ Her brother’s voice was low. Insistent.
She rolled her eyes. ‘How, exactly?’
‘Because I should’ve told you,’ he murmured – swallowing hard – his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. ‘I should’ve—’
‘Should’ve told me what, Oliver?’
He closed his eyes, voice soft. ‘That he was in love with someone else.’
Ava felt the words land – felt their swift slice, the slow burn of pain low in her stomach. ‘What?’
She didn’t see the kitchen door swing open, and then swing shut again. Didn’t see Damien hesitate on the other side of it, another sopping rag in his hand.
‘He’s in love with someone else,’ muttered Oliver.
‘That’s why he couldn’t marry you. That’s why you have to believe it’s not your fault.
Because if you didn’t, I couldn’t – I couldn’t—’ Oliver’s eyes widened, and he flailed once more – reaching for the bucket hurriedly.
‘I’m sorry, Ava,’ he said – his voice echoing sadly into the tin.
She opened her mouth, and then closed it again. ‘Who is it?’
Oliver shook his head – only his blond hair visible atop the bucket. Her mind scattered like a hundred marbles. A woman he’d met at the shop? Or worse – was it someone they knew?
And suddenly – Jem’s words made sense. What he’d said on the doorway – that there was more to life than ‘managing’ together.
You’d want more than that, Ava.
I’d want more than that.
And she’d thought he’d meant it in an idealistic way. In the same way Miss Fairchild wanted to marry someone rich and titled, or the way Lillian wanted to recast the entire theatre in gold.
But now Ava wondered if he’d meant it literally.
If he’d said it like that because he’d already found it.
And whatever it was – whoever it was – it wasn’t her.
And though the pain of that didn’t sting as it might’ve, once, it scratched at something in the darkest part of her mind.
The part she tried to keep behind a door – the part she tried to shut away.
‘You knew this,’ she said slowly. ‘Didn’t you? That’s why you were so angry at him … so … so …’
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, spitting into the bucket. ‘I’m so sorry. I should’ve protected you better. I should’ve—’
‘Shh,’ she said, her voice a cracked whisper. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong.’
For it had always been the three of them, together.
Her, Jem and Oliver.
Until Jem had proposed.
And then it had been none of them.
And now …
Now Damien stepped through the doorway, a wet rag in one hand, and a glass of water in the other.
‘Here,’ he said, handing her the cup. ‘See if he’ll drink this. It’ll help.’
Oliver had slumped back onto the settee, sweat written in shining lines upon his face, his breathing becoming soft, and even.
‘Perhaps it’s best if we let him sleep,’ she said – feeling oddly numb, as though she had loosened herself from her body, and floated somewhere nearby instead. ‘You should go.’
Damien looked at her, his brow furrowed. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea or something first,’ he said. ‘You’re pale.’
‘Am I?’ She reached up to touch her face, rubbing the dampness from her cheeks before he could see it, and followed him.