Chapter 20
Twenty
One week.
Seven days had passed since the ball. There’d been seven nights of lying awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling and hearing his tone echo through the hollow chambers of her chest. don’t say my name like that.
Not here. Not when I cannot touch you the way I want to.
There’d been seven mornings of dragging herself out of bed before dawn, of kneading dough until her arms ached, and of smiling at customers while something inside her slowly died.
He hadn’t come. He hadn’t sent a word. He hadn’t done any of the things the old Dominic would have done. There were no dramatic appearances at her shop door, no passionate declarations, and no reckless pursuit of a woman who had slapped him and run. She’d told him to stay away. He was staying away.
She should be relieved.
Nell stood at the kitchen table in the grey pre-dawn light, working the dough with mechanical precision.
Flour dusted her forearms and clung to the creases of her knuckles.
She pressed the heel of her hand into the soft mass, folded it over, turned it, and pressed again.
Her shoulders ached. Her back ached. Everything ached, and none of it had anything to do with the labor of baking.
Her hand had stopped tingling days ago. The phantom sensation of his cheek beneath her palm had finally faded, but she still felt the sharp crack of it in her dreams. She still saw the shock in his glacial eyes and the way he’d stood perfectly still while she fled.
The children came down as the sun crept over the horizon. Lily appeared first, her spectacles already crooked and her nightgown trailing behind her; Oliver followed, quieter than usual, watching Nell with eyes that saw far too much.
“Mama.” Lily tugged at her dress, her small face pinched with worry as she looked up. “You’ve been sad all week.”
Nell’s hands stilled in the dough, and she forced a smile that felt like shards of broken glass on her lips. “I am fine, love.”
“You are not.” Lily pressed closer, her arms wrapping around Nell’s waist while her spectacles fogged from the warmth of the kitchen. “You haven’t laughed once. Not even when Oliver fell in the flour yesterday.”
“I am just tired.” Nell smoothed her daughter’s wild hair back from her face, her throat aching with the effort to remain composed. “That’s all. Just tired.”
Lily didn’t look convinced, but she let it go, retreating to the table where Martha was setting out breakfast. Oliver lingered a moment longer, his dark look reading Nell’s face with unsettling intensity.
“Is it because of Lord Westmore?” He asked it quietly, so Lily wouldn’t hear, while he shoved his hands deep into his pockets.
Nell’s hands trembled. She gripped the edge of the floured table to steady them. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you’ve been different since the ball.” Oliver shrugged, his jaw tightening in a way that made him look far older than nine.
She opened her mouth to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, but the lie wouldn’t form. “Go eat your breakfast.” She forced the words past a throat that felt raw and tight, gesturing toward the table with an unsteady hand. “I will be fine.”
He went, but his eyes lingered on her all the way across the room—a boy who had learned too young that his mother sometimes needed watching.
Daphne arrived at half past seven, her dark gaze sweeping over Nell’s face with the knowing look she’d worn all week.
She said nothing. She simply hung her cloak on the peg and tied her apron with brisk efficiency, and they fell into the familiar rhythm of the morning—ovens, dough, counters, customers—without a word about any of it.
The midday lull had just settled over the shop when Edmund walked through the door. He stood with his hat in his hands, turning the brim between his fingers. He looked tired—shadows sitting heavy beneath his brown eyes, lines carved around his mouth that hadn’t been there a week ago.
“Mrs. Ashford.” He nodded to Daphne, who was watching from behind the counter. “Might I speak with you? Privately?”
Daphne’s gaze flicked to Nell, a silent question in her expression. Nell stepped forward with a nod.
“I will watch the counter.” Daphne stepped aside, brushing her hand lightly against the edge of the table as she gestured for Nell to pass. Her shoulders relaxed, and she gave a small, encouraging nod. “Take your time.”
Nell led Edmund through the kitchen to the storeroom. Every familiar corner stirred a memory, and she couldn’t help the slight tightening in her chest as she thought of the countless times she had hidden here from the world.
“Edmund...” She started.
He raised a hand before she could say more. He leaned slightly forward, grounding himself, like to make her pause and listen. “Please. Let me speak first.”
He set his hat aside on a barrel of sugar, his movements careful and precise. Then he turned to face her, his brown eyes meeting hers without flinching.
“I saw you that night.” He said it quietly, without a trace of accusation, his hands now clasped firmly behind his back. “At the ball. Dancing with him.”
Nell’s stomach dropped. She pressed her back against the wooden shelf behind her, seeking support. “Edmund, I can explain...”
“You don’t need to.” He cut her off gently, taking a single step closer. “I have eyes, Nell. I saw how you both looked at each other. I saw how he held you, and how you ran afterward.”
She couldn’t deny it. She wouldn’t insult a man of his character with lies. She stood there in silence, waiting for the anger that never came.
“I am not angry.” He said it almost with a smile, his head tilting slightly as he studied her. “I am not even surprised, if I am honest.”
Nell’s brow furrowed, her confusion finally cutting through her shame. “You are not?”
“There has been something between you since the beginning.” He shrugged, his shoulders lifting and falling in a slow, weary motion that seemed to age him a decade.
“I saw it the first time I saw him in your shop. The way you looked at each other… It was like you wanted to either kill each other or kiss each other. I hoped it would fade. I hoped you’d choose sense.
” He leaned in, the distance between them vanishing until his words were a warm, heavy weight against her skin. “That you’d choose me.”
“Why did you not come sooner?” The question escaped in a frantic rush, her nails biting into the soft flesh of her palms. “It has been a week.”
“I needed time.” Tension flickered across his face before he forced it to settle.
“Time to think. Time to decide what I wanted to say. Time to decide what I wanted to ask.” He looked at her, his expression stripped of its usual careful composure.
“I spent seven days trying to convince myself that what I saw did not mean what I knew it meant. I tried to believe there was still a chance.”
“Edmund.” She tried to say more, but her throat tightened, the air catching against a sudden, sharp constriction.
“I need to know.” He closed the final inch between them, his presence gentle but immovable. He reached out and gathered her hands in his, his palms steady and grounding. “I have been patient. I have waited. But I cannot wait forever, Nell. It’s not fair to either of us.”
Silence stretched between them. It was heavy and expectant, filled only by the distant sounds of the shop.
“I am asking for an answer.” He squeezed her hands and earnestly searched her face. “Not about him. About me. Can you see a future with me? A life?”
She looked at him. He was a good, kind man with steady hands and warm eyes, for his love was comfortable and uncomplicated.
He would never hurt her. He would never call her nothing in front of a crowd.
Yet, he would never make her feel like she were burning alive, or the way her skin were too tight for her body, or as if she might die if he didn’t touch her.
He would be safe. He would be steady and reliable. And she would never love him. Not the way he deserved.
“You are a good man.” She said it softly, her fingers tightening briefly around his before she began to pull away. “The best man I know.”
“But?” He heard it coming. His expression shifted, his shoulders squaring like bracing for a physical impact.
“But I cannot.” Her throat closed around the words, and she had to force them out into the cool air of the storeroom. “I am sorry, Edmund. I cannot marry you.”
He didn’t flinch. He simply nodded, a slow and resigned movement, the way he’d known this was coming all along.
“Because of him.” It was not a question. He let his arms fall to his sides.
“No.” She shook her head, finally pulling her hands completely free and tucking them into the folds of her apron. “Because of me. Because I would be settling. And you deserve more than a woman who is merely settling for a life she doesn’t truly want.”
“You love him.” He said it flatly, without inflection. He watched her with a piercing clarity.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The words stuck in her throat like shards of broken glass.
“You don’t have to say it.” He released her and stepped back, reaching for his hat where it sat upon the sugar barrel. “I saw it that night. I saw the way you looked at him when you thought no one was watching.”
“I refused him.” The words scraped out of her, raw and ragged. She gripped the edge of a shelf until her knuckles turned white. “I told him no.”
“I see.” Edmund settled his hat on his head, his movements deliberate and graceful. “But refusing someone and not loving them are not the same thing.”
“Edmund.” She reached out a hand toward him, but he was already moving toward the door.
“I hope you find what you are looking for, Nell.” He paused at the threshold, looking back at her with a gaze that held both sadness and a quiet acceptance. “I hope he makes you happy. Truly.”