Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Louisa settled down on the shore by the lake under the shade of a tree. She took out her tin box and wondered what to do with it. Whether to bury it or burn it to scatter the ashes; some sort of ceremony was warranted. She held the little wooden figure of the Princess of Glubbdubdrib in her palm and clenched her fingers around it. Her heart quivered inside her rib cage. No, she couldn't burn this darling figure Will had carved with such love. She set the figure aside and picked up the book.

She leaned back, feeling the hard bark of the tree against her. The book's leather felt warm under her fingers, and she opened the book and read.

When she looked up again, the sun was lower on the horizon, and a fresher wind blew. She pulled her shawl over her shoulders and decided with a sigh that it was time to return to the house, as she couldn't bear to get rid of the book and her childhood treasures just yet.

A footstep sounded in the undergrowth. Someone was approaching. There was the crunch of pebbles crunching under heavy boots, and the rustling of branches as they parted.

"There you are. I wondered where you'd disappeared to."

Robert. He was in shirtsleeves and work trousers. He looked like the costermonger again, only this time without the beard. A dark lock of hair fell across his forehead.

How handsome he looked.

Her heart gave an aching jab against her rib cage.

"I visited the village and then came here. It is a peaceful place." She gestured for him to sit down beside her.

He sat down on his haunches. "Have you been resting?"

"Yes." She closed the book. "I was reading this book and lost track of time."

He reached out for it, and she handed it to him. "I used to love coming here when I was a child. I used to spend many summer afternoons here by the lake, reading. Just like this."

He turned the book over and leafed through the pages. " Gulliver's Travels ."

"It used to be my favourite book."

He stared at it for a moment. Then he lowered himself on his stomach beside her, leaning on his elbows, the book in front of him, and began to read. " My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire. I was the third of five sons … "

She listened to his deep voice as he read, fluently and rhythmically, soaking in those familiar words. Words that she'd read and heard so many times she'd fairly internalised them.

She closed her eyes and listened to him, feeling as if she were in a dream, a bubble, as if time stood still and reality was suspended. The present and the past became one, and the future did not exist.

She swallowed and swallowed, hot tears streaming into her eyes.

But he read on, unaware of how much his words were affecting her.

She opened her eyes and looked at him through the veil of tears and saw the strong, lean profile of his face, the proud nose, the dark lock of hair that fell across his forehead. He rested his chin on his hand as he read, absorbed, sucked into this world of make-believe they'd so loved.

It was a moment suspended in time.

An image of a sweet, kind boy that floated up from the recesses of her memory and laid itself over the vision of the man in front of her.

It hit her like a lightning bolt, shaking her to the core.

She opened her mouth with great difficulty. Once, twice. Her lips formed the word, but the sound would not come. Then, finally, it did.

"Will?"

" We set sail from Bristol, May 4, 1699 … "

"Will." It sounded like a groan.

" … and our voyage at first was very prosperous. "

"Will!" She scrambled to her feet, her hands clenched into tight fists, her entire body shaking, tears streaming down her face as she stared down at him.

He stopped reading, put the book aside, stood up, and opened his arms.

She threw herself into his embrace, sobbing wildly.

"Jove's beard, Lulu. Sixty-two days! You really went above and beyond," he said much, much later, after she'd cried herself dry and his shirt front was drenched with tears. He still held her, rocking her back and forth like a child. Random dry sobs racked her body, but the worst was over now. Slowly, her thoughts functioned again.

"Sixty-two bloody days." He shook his head in disbelief. "I kept track of it in my journal. One mark for each day."

"I don't understand." She wiped her cheeks with the corner of her shawl, neither of them having brought a handkerchief.

"That's how long it took for you to remember me. I am mortally offended, you know."

She looked at him, stricken. "But I never forgot you."

A mocking smile curled his lips. "And yet I was right in front of you all the time and you did not realise who I was until now. Sixty-two days, Lulu. Really? I confess I am somewhat disappointed."

"Really, Will. I did not forget you! Not for one moment. Not for a s-single day, I swear."

He let out a disbelieving huff. "I was about to tell you myself when you finally saw the light. I've been dropping hints left and right. What a slowtop you are! I must confess, the joke was getting old, the entire situation was getting rather dull, and I was beginning to lose my patience."

"You were laughing at me the entire time."

"Yes."

"You thought it was a great joke."

"Naturally."

"You planned it all to get back at me." She swallowed. "Because I humiliated you at the ball."

"To the letter. It was the perfect revenge. Strategy has always been one of my greatest strengths, you know." He drew her closer and stroked her arms.

She looked up at his face and the firm set of his jaw. "You hated me."

He looked over her head thoughtfully across the lake, his eyes taking on the hue of the blue-green water. "I confess there was a time when I did indeed hate you."

Louisa pulled away, shivering. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

"But I have found that hate and love are decidedly close together, like different sides of the same coin." He pulled out a penny and flipped it between his fingers, watching it pensively.

She sniffed.

"You're not about to cry again, are you?" he asked, alarmed. He pulled her back into his arms.

"Wilbur said—Wilbur said you'd died during transportation," she choked out, clinging to him, afraid that she was dreaming and that he'd vanish into thin air. "We went to Dorchester prison, and they confirmed it."

"Poor record keeping. What can I say? As the French can easily attest, you'll find that I'm impossibly hard to kill." His hand stroked comfortingly over her back. "And they did their best to transport me six feet under at every opportunity, believe me. All to no avail, for they discovered I don't die that easily."

She pulled away from him to search his face, still not quite believing. "What happened to you?" she whispered. "What happened to the boy you were?" She ran her hand through his thick hair. Traced his cheeks, his nose, his hard jaw. He held still, patiently allowing her to explore his face. "You used to be so small. Even though you're older, I always used to be taller than you, at least a good head taller. I used to look down on you easily. And now …"

His sweet, round, dimpled face had thinned to the hard, chiselled planes of a man, and his features were harsher, more disciplined, almost ruthless. What had he seen? What had he experienced to give him this world-weary expression in his eyes? Only the colour of his light hazel eyes had remained the same, and Louisa wondered how on earth she hadn't seen it earlier. Other than that, there was nothing left in this face that she'd recognised as belonging to the mischievous, bold boy whom she'd so loved. She wasn't at all certain about what to make of the man. He was too big, too hard, and too muscular. She didn't know what kinds of feelings she had for him, for they were a jumbled mess of heated confusion, agony, and joy. Such joy that it terrified her.

"Well, it appears I've finally outgrown you. Thank heavens. I feared I'd stay a podgy little button forever. Turns out I was merely a late bloomer. I experienced a significant growth spurt after I turned sixteen and suddenly shot up like a tree. The rigorous discipline of military life stripped away any remaining excess padding. One is also guaranteed to lose some weight when one is hanging over the railing of a ship for six weeks, puking one's guts out. By Jove, I hate ships! Then the endless trekking through dense jungle and over mountainous trails under the merciless blaze of the West Indian sun. Makes a boy mature rather fast."

"You were transported after all?"

He shook his head. "I enlisted and was immediately dispatched to the West Indies. After enduring the harsh conditions there, I was redeployed to Portugal to take part in the Peninsular Wars. I suppose even a society damsel like you might have caught wind of what we did there," he remarked, his voice laced with a subtle irony. "Turns out I found my life's vocation in the military, Louisa."

"But you always wanted to be a baker. It was your dream. You said you wanted to bake England's best bread."

"I did, didn't I? What a tranquil life I could have led if that had come to pass. Alas, fate had other plans for me." He studied his hands. "Turns out I had more talent with a Baker rifle than being an actual baker and pounding dough. The only bread I ever baked with any kind of success were the dreadful bran cakes that we roasted over the campfire at night. They're pancakes consisting of flour, bran, and chopped straw. Tasty, I tell you." He paused and looked at her gravely. "While waiting for my trial, I was approached by recruiters. I was given the choice between enlisting or a trial. I didn't have to think twice. I figured my chances of proving that I was not guilty were nil. A trial would've ended in transportation to the penal colonies in New South Wales aboard the prison hulks. So, I took my chance in the army. This might have been a death sentence for me as well, but as you can see, Fortuna was on my side, and I survived."

Louisa looked at him miserably. "And what happened then?"

"The Peninsular War." His face hardened as he continued. "Let me spare you the details."

They sat in silence, gazing across the lake at the island, each engrossed in their own thoughts. An icy wind blew across the lake. Louisa shivered.

Wordlessly, he handed her the shawl, which she draped over her shoulder.

"It is getting dark, and the wind is getting cold," he said at last. "You shouldn't be out here so shortly after having been so ill. We should go back to the house." He helped her gather her things, picking up the little carved figure from the box and turning it between his fingers.

"You still have this." A smile lit up his face. "I used to carve an entire army of them. I buried them on Glubbdubdrib. One day, I will row over and see if the box is still there. One day I want to swim with you across the lake in a race, to see who is faster. But not now. Not tonight. It is too cold. Let us return to the house."

They walked back to the house together without touching. It felt like they had more to say, that they'd merely scratched the surface, but somehow it was too much, and they needed to process everything that had been said first.

"That upcoming soirée," Will finally said as they approached the house, "is rather important to me. Some people who are important to me will be attending."

Louisa threw him a quick look. "Why won't you tell me their names?"

"Because they asked me not to."

Louisa frowned. "I hope it's not the Prince Regent. I care little for him."

He barked a short laugh. "Never fear. It's someone of even greater consequence."

Louisa stopped and clutched her hands to her chest. "Good heavens. Who could it be? I'm beginning to feel the nerves."

"There is no need." He gave her a quick smile. "It's someone you have met before; however, knowing you, you might not remember."

"Well then." They reached the house and looked at each other. There was a sudden awkwardness between them.

"You don't need to worry," she babbled to fill the silence. "About the soiree, I mean. None of your guests will want for anything. I will do my best to be a worthy hostess."

He nodded. "I have no doubt in my mind that you will."

Their exchange was formal. He bowed stiffly, and after they entered the house, he excused himself, for he had much work to do.

Louisa wondered what work that might be. There was still so much she still did not know about him. So much that had not been said.

Dazed, she went up to her room to lie down.

Louisa had finally found Will. He was alive and safe and not dead at the bottom of the sea. She'd even married him. Wasn't this the fulfilment of one of her biggest childhood dreams? Hadn't she wanted this all her life? She should be rejoicing. And indeed, she was glad. But it felt as if there was a gulf between them as wide as ever. And inside, she felt hollow.