Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

She forced her eyes upward. Her gaze rose from the black buttons on his coat, to the simple white knot at his throat, to the yellow-bruised face.

"You need not answer me now."

Eagerness flickered to the brim of her. The flame heated her face, the back of her neck, then extinguished with so much force she nearly swayed. The children are fond of you.

"You are not bound to me by anything my father wished." He glanced at her mouth, then looked away. "Or anything else."

He was giving her opportunity to reject him. As if he wanted her to.

The children. Fond of you.

Her breathing shallowed.

Need a mother.

"The ship departs in a sennight. I realize it is not much time—"

"You are doing the right thing." Her chest suffocated. "The children will be happiest there. You will be happiest there." She glanced at his hands, shiny and discolored with healing burns. "Where you can build things. You always wanted to build things and do something that was more than all this." She glanced about the room—the dusty globe, the matching settee and chairs, all the perfect glassware and trinkets.

He took one step forward, but she cut him off before he could say anything. "I wish you Godspeed on your journey, Mr. Fancourt, and every measure of prosperity. If you think of me, you may write. Mamma and Mr. Lutwidge have decided to move to his estate soon, but I shall remain here in London. I am fond of it here." The words fell flat. "Very much fond of it."

His nod was stiff. His throat bobbed.

"You will tell the children goodbye for me?"

Another nod.

She answered with one of her own, then forced a smile summoned by nothing more than sheer willpower. "Thank you." For saving her life. For being willing to die for her. For caring for her enough to pledge himself in matrimony, despite the fact that the only woman he was in love with was his dead wife.

Silence stretched.

She wanted to say something—something that would make the ending more sweet and less bitter—but nothing came to her.

With one last glance, she curtsied and departed the room, sickness swarming through her with near-paralyzing dominance. He wanted her for the children. He wanted her out of pity and wretched obligation. He wanted her because he had teased her with the kiss and he was too much a gentleman to taunt her heart.

I love you, Simon.

She glanced back at the parlor door through a blur. He still stood watching her, and she wondered if she imagined the moisture in his gaze.

She almost wished she had died in that room and the fire had consumed her.

Because for the first time in her life, as he burned for her, she had believed—if only for a moment—the most beautiful fantasy in the world.

That Simon Fancourt loved her back.

"Son, you have not spoken in over an hour." Mother occupied the same dinner chair at the head of the table, and Mr. Oswald seemed to suffer no irritation at being treated as a guest in his own house. Indeed, he played along with encouraging smiles, as if allowing her one more chance to play hostess brought him pleasure.

"I am sorry." Simon scooted his chair away from the table. He glanced at the children. "You are finished?"

"Yes, sir," they answered in unison.

"They could not have possibly eaten everything. Not with all this chatter." Mother attempted to sound disapproving, but softness lightened her voice. "Tell Grandmother. Did you clean your plates, dears?"

"Yes, of course they did." Mr. Oswald provided the lie with a wink across the table. "An impressive feat, considering the tales of cheesecakes I overheard them speak of."

"Pshaw. Cheesecakes indeed. Simon, Son, you should not allow the children to indulge in sweets throughout the day. It will make them more susceptible to diseases. Any good physician will tell you as much."

"There will not be sweets in America." His tone must have been too severe, because Mother let out a downhearted "Oh."

Simon stood. "Children, I think your grandmother wishes to play some tunes with you before bed. You will help her to the pianoforte?"

"I do not need help." She smiled in Simon's direction. "And it would please me if my son would listen too. We only have one more evening together, after all."

Every part of him wished to decline. He needed to escape. He needed the night air and horseflesh beneath him. He needed the sky, the stars, anything that would remind him of home.

Not her.

But he followed Mother into the music room. The children played on the floor and hummed along to the songs, Mr. Oswald drank half a decanter of port while he listened, and Simon fought memories of musicales and young voices and a girl who smelled of jasmine.

When it was over, Mother kissed his cheek. She clung to his neck, more tightly than she ever had in his life, and said into his ear, "I wish everything had turned out differently, my son."

When she departed the music room with John and Mercy, Mr. Oswald approached with a second brim-full glass. "Here. You look as if you could use this."

"No thank you."

"I vow that I did not poison it." Mr. Oswald chuckled. "Though I thought of it a time or two. Jealous rage, you know."

Simon turned to leave.

"Just a minute." Mr. Oswald downed the glass himself. "The ship will be leaving in the morning at eleven. You shall have your own private cabin, and although I have a meeting and shall not be there to see you off, Sir Walter has agreed to do the honors himself."

Simon's brows rose. Sir Walter was the last person he would have fathomed to send him off, considering that both of his office visits had been rejected and all of his letters unreturned.

Not that Simon blamed him.

"I admit to vast disappointment." Mr. Oswald circled the glass with his finger. "Aside from my sister, I have never been more jubilant to see anyone depart England in my life." When Simon attempted to turn again, Mr. Oswald stilled his arm. "One thing more."

"What?"

"I finished going through your father's study this morning. I stumbled upon a stack of letters I think might interest you. They are awaiting your perusal on the desk."

Simon nodded, but instead of turning toward the study, he hurried outside and saddled a horse. He rode for too long. He remembered too much.

Better this way. He promised himself that was true.

He had no right to drag Georgina Whitmore into a wilderness. He had no right to subject her to more hardship. Had he not assured himself he would leave it in the hands of God?

He never imagined she would say no.

He had been unprepared.

He deserved that.

He deserved the knife in his chest, every painful twist—the tragic reality that he had touched her for the last time, felt her smile for the last time, heard her voice for the last time, known her sympathy for the last time.

Lord, I cannot bear this. I cannot lose her. He heaved. I cannot lose her too.

By the time he returned to Sowerby, dawn had already streaked the sky, and when he entered the study, a lamp still glowed beside the stack of letters.

Simon took the chair behind the desk and untied the ribbon. The papers were crisp and new, as if they had never been posted. The words baffled him, as he scanned the length of the first letter. The date was a mere fortnight after he ran away twelve years ago:

Dear Simon,

The weather is good. Nicholas has taken to attending cockfights, and though your mother protests, I have attended too many in my younger years to scold your brother terribly. The house is quiet without you. Hope you are well.

The next was written a month later.

Then another a month after that.

Tightness constricted Simon's throat, as he devoured each letter with thorn-pricking pain. Why had Father never sent such letters?

He should have known Simon needed them.

That he'd waited for them.

Dear Simon,

Michaelmas was pleasant this year. The goose, your favorite I remember, was prepared with onion gravy and roast carrots. Nicholas was in bed for the feast. Everyone seems to be ill these days. Must be something in the air. Hope you are well.

Near the bottom of the stack, two of the letters seemed more hurried than the others, as if the hand that held the quill trembled.

Dear Simon,

Nicholas is still ill. I have never seen him so weak. I wish you were here to cheer him.

Dear Simon,

I would have written sooner had I the strength. Your brother passed last Tuesday. He is buried beside his great-grandparents in Worcestershire, one of his last requests. I have spent most of the days since his death in the turret room with your paintings. They seem to calm me. I wish I had looked at them all before when you were still here.

Moisture jumbled the words together. Simon blinked harder and finished the letters. He was not certain why Father had never posted them. Perhaps pride. Perhaps a vein of vulnerability he was too afraid to expose.

Whatever the case, it did not matter.

He had thought of Simon.

He had wanted him home.

Somehow that made up for losing Sowerby House, the years of silence, the lectures, the strict demands. It made up for everything.

Simon restacked the letters, tied the ribbon, and doused the lamp. He left the study, but before he shut the door, he slipped back in. He smelled Father, sensed Father, and the bitterness dissipated from the memory like pain fading from a healing wound.

"For what it is worth, Father," he said to the empty chair behind the desk. "You were right about her all along."

Simon could have been the happiest man in the world if he had only realized sooner.

The ship departed this morning.

Georgina sat with her chair scooted next to the bedchamber window, fingertips on the glass. Thunder vibrated the pane. She saw smokestacks, distant town houses, a sullen cobalt-blue sky and…

Simon.

She saw Simon, a faint and imagined reflection, real enough she stroked the window as if it was his cheek.

"Darling?" Mamma's voice behind her, the thud of a door. "Oh, there you are, silly child. Do hurry and come downstairs. Mr. Oswald has come to visit again."

"I cannot see him."

"Tut, tut, dear. Of course you can. After all, if you do not soon show a wealthy gentleman proper favor, I fear you shall be a spinster after all." Mamma gave a small pat to Georgina's shoulder. "Come, come. We must not keep him waiting."

"I said I cannot see him."

"But see him you must, dear, for—"

"I said no!" Georgina yanked the curtains over the window, banishing Simon's face. She stood and whirled on Mamma. "I cannot see anyone, not even Mr. Oswald, and if you are troubled that I am not yet affianced, you might as well reckon with the fact." Her shoulders deflated. "I have no heart left."

"Hardly a vital component of marriage, dear. All one needs is a good mind and enough in common to ensure amiable companionship."

Frustration tinged at her last cord of patience. She sank back into the chair. "Mamma, please."

"Very well. I shall send him away. But when you are more yourself, you shall regret this, I am certain." With a huff, Mamma left the room, and the world grew so quiet that even the first splatters of rainfall echoed like bombs.

Georgina massaged her head. The hurt was madness. She ached everywhere. She was sick, fatigued, weak—but she had so much painful energy that she longed to throw something through the window or bust the lamp or scream.

Dear God, help me. The prayer carried her anguish to heaven. Help me not to hurt forever.

A loud banging rattled the door the same time thunder echoed outside. "Georgina, open up." Mr. Oswald, louder than usual, with a desperateness to his tone. "I know you do not wish to speak with me now. I realize what today means for you."

"Go away."

"You make a fool of me. I hope you realize I have never pursued anyone who did not wish to be pursued. I have never lent attentions where they were not encouraged. Do you hear me?" Another bang. "Georgina." Silence, then the door crashed open.

She jumped, but he hit his knees in front of her chair before she knew what to do.

"I told you once that we were the same. You lacked interest in matrimony for reasons you could not say, and I lacked interest in matrimony for reasons I would not say." His face tightened. "I have never told anyone this in my life, but my father had as many courtesans as he had cups of tea in the morning. His infidelity killed my mother, corrupted my sister, and made a devil out of me. I never married because I feared I would carry on the sins of my father. That I could not…" He closed his eyes. "That I could never be faithful to any one woman."

Georgina sucked in a breath. "Alexander." She should not have used his Christian name—especially now, of all times. But the words cooed from her, like a comfort she would offer a hurting child.

"I am not telling you this to extract your pity. Heaven knows I want none of that." He reached into her lap, grasped her hands, pulled them closer to him. "Georgina, I want to marry you."

"I cannot—"

"You are the only woman I have ever met in my life that I was certain I could be true to." He sniffed, looked at the floor, then back to her face as lightning flashed behind the curtains. "I could never love anyone else. You are…" His burning eyes roamed her face. "You are what painters immortalize and what poets write about and what men wait their whole lives to meet."

"Simon." She did not mean to speak his name, but it was the truth.

"I realize you love him. I knew that all along."

"Then you know I could never—"

"Love evolves. It is different every day. It finds new objects when old ones become memories." He drew her hands to his cheeks. "I would wait forever until that object was me."

Her heart writhed. She resisted the urge to retract her hands from his skin, or to hold them in place until she was blinded to everything else that brought her pain.

"I will make you forget him." He kissed her fingers. "I promise. Georgina, give me the chance to prove I can be everything you desire. Marry me." Another kiss. "Marry me, Georgina. Marry me now. Please."

She opened her lips to deny him, but she could not speak the words. She was repulsed and tantalized and confused, but she knew one thing.

She wanted, more than anything, to forget what she had never been able to on her own.

Perhaps this was her chance.

"I just spoke with the boatswain. Your luggage is in the cabin, and he says you might board whenever you are ready." Sir Walter pulled his topper forward, as if to shelter his face from the misty rain. "The crew is loading up the last of the cargo now."

Simon nodded, shifting Mercy to his other arm. "Here." He unbuttoned his coat. "Put your head in there to keep dry."

Mercy wiggled her face under his coat, still half-asleep from her nap in the carriage.

John sat next to them on a wooden mooring post, scanning the wet-stoned quay for any lost pennies.

"Captain Doubiggin is a good man. He treats his crew fair and makes no small effort to keep his ships on schedule." Sir Walter kept his eyes fixed on the three-masted packet ship, jaw firm. "I have asked him, as a personal favor, to see you receive any accommodations you need."

"That was…" Simon bit back the word unnecessary and said instead, "Thank you."

"Upon your arrival, Mrs. Fancourt insists you write. She was an anxious woman before you returned, but even more so now that she has someone to worry after."

"We will get there safely."

Sir Walter nodded. For the first time, he looked at Simon—his spectacles rain streaked, his expression tight, lips a hard line. "I have court in a couple of hours, so if you have no more need of me—"

"This likely will not do any good." Simon raked in a breath that stung of salt water and regret. "I am not good at saying things. I am not even good at being a friend." The loss of yet another person he cared for burrowed deep to the core of him. "But for what it is worth, I wish…I wish for once in my life I had not been a fool."

Sir Walter stared at him, bobbed another nod, and turned as if he was ready to leave. But he paused and glanced back, eyes as sharp and resolute as Father's had ever been behind his desk. "If you wish to stop being a fool, Fancourt, stop being one."

The creaking and rocking of the anchored ship already had turned Mercy's face ashen. She'd been on board less than thirty minutes on their last journey when the sickness had claimed her.

"Sit here, Mercy. This is our bed." John guided his sister to the narrow, stacked bunk beds along the wall of their cabin. "Papa sleeps up top."

"Me belly hurts."

Simon lit the wall lamp, as the cabin was without windows. The chipped walls reeked of rum-flavored tobacco and mold. The confinement of the tiny room, the lack of natural light already knotted him with tension. "I will find a bucket." Even when he departed their cabin, the passageway swallowed him like the jowls of a snake, squeezing the life from him.

Fool, fool. The words rang like a chant, rising cold sweat to his brow.

When he returned to the cabin, bucket in hand, the children were already under the gray coverlets. The drawing book lay open in their laps.

Simon wanted to rip it from them. He wanted to tear out the drawings, shred the faces of the ones he'd lost, and feed the pieces to the sea.

But he ducked under the bed with them instead. He listened to John's pleasure as they discovered the new drawing of Miss Whitmore, then Mercy's sighing praise, "Her is pretty."

Simon took the book.

The children glanced at him oddly, startled, but he opened to Ruth's portrait anyway. His fingers dampened as he eased the paper from the binding.

"Papa, you is tearing it up."

"No." He folded the paper. He was not certain what he was doing, what it symbolized in his heart, but he handed it to his children. "This belongs to you now. You will always remember what she looks like."

"Me can have the other one too?"

"She means Miss Whitmore," said John. His gaze was heavy, his voice a little wobbly, as if the woman shut up in this book was as important to remember as his mother.

Perhaps she was.

Of course she was.

"I need to speak with the captain." Simon crawled out from the bed as if it was in flames. He barreled from the room. He slammed the door too hard.

In truth, he had no need to speak with anyone.

He just needed out of that room.

Grinding his teeth, he paced the length of the swaying passageway, blood heating. Another fifteen minutes, the vessel would launch. He would never see Mother again. He would never visit Sowerby House. He would never regain the affection of Sir Walter.

All things he could have left behind.

Slight inflictions of pain, not crippling ones.

But her. He backed against a rocking wall and rubbed both hands down his face. He groaned because his palms came back wet. Lord, what am I doing?

What was so important to him on the other side of the world? What was it, all his life, that was so vital he accomplish? Building a cabin that would one day crumble? Proving to himself—or society, or his father—that Simon could overcome the obstacles of frontier life?

What did all that mean? What did anything mean when all day tears dammed the back of his throat, weakening his voice? When he loathed the picture of Miss Whitmore because he knew it was all he had left of her?

For as long as he could remember, he'd been driven by the need to do something and become something. He'd never discovered what. Maybe there was nothing.

Or maybe what he was meant for had always been in front of him.

Instead of hiding away during balls and shunning his parents, he should have emerged from his solitaire. Instead of avoiding his brother because of differences, he should have found common ground and bonded. Instead of disregarding Miss Whitmore for childish offenses, when he had plenty of his own, he should have looked for the girl beneath the shy and blushing smiles.

Perhaps there was no grand thing Simon Fancourt was meant to do.

Perhaps it was as grand and little and wonderful as loving his children, sacrificing for those he cared about, and fighting with as much vigor and desperation for Georgina Whitmore as he ever had for Ruth in the cabin.

Up the passageway, a door opened and shut. Little feet pattered. "Papa, Mercy threw up." John glanced at his soiled pant leg with disgust. "She didn't get to the bucket. I don't know what to do."

Simon barged back down the hall, grasping John's hand, and busted open the cabin door with a pounding chest. "Help her into another dress and gather up our coats." Simon threw the drawing book back into the trunk and locked the lid, then hefted it toward the door.

John gaped. "What are we doing?"

"Getting off this ship."

"Mr. Fancourt, what a surprise." Georgina's mother rose from a parlor chair, her tight curls peeking out from a bright blue turban. Her bosom shook with a giggle. "And here I thought you were off again across the great blue ocean. Hmm, is that not a lesson? One simply cannot depend on gossip at all these days."

"I would like to speak with Miss Whitmore. The butler said she is absent."

"Well, you need not confirm his word with me. He has never been known to tell anything but the truth." Her smile faltered. "Oh. But of course you would be distrustful, what with the atrociousness you endured from your own butler. Such a tragic affair. I do hope you shall not hither forth distrust all your hired help—"

"Please. I must speak with her."

"Is this not a novelty?" Mrs. Whitmore—or whatever her new name was—tilted her head in astonishment. "Two calls in one day, and here I was certain the poor child would never wed."

"Where is she?"

"I hardly think it is proper I relate such details to you, sir." She smiled with feigned shock. "Especially, I daresay, not now."

Impatience rankled him, wetted his palms, but he kept his features unflinching. "What do you mean, now?"

"Oh, heavens, I should not be the one to say it." She flew a hand to her cheek, blushing. "A woman prefers to announce her own engagement of marriage, I think. Or at least, I always did." She leaned forward, as if deciding to take Simon into her confidence. "Mr. Oswald called earlier today. He was most urgent, and when I granted him a private audience with my daughter, I could not help but overhear more than one usage of the word marriage ." She sighed. "They told me nothing of their engagement, of course, but as they both left together for Sowerby House, I have no doubt that she accepted his offer. Likely, she is going to explore every chamber in the house. I did the same when I married Byron, as there is such an elating sense of satisfaction to view a house one may do with as one wishes. The first thing a woman cares to change are always the curtains. Perhaps the upholstery too. Yes, most certainly the upholstery because…"

The words faded, everything faded, as Simon backed from the room.

He hurried out into the rain and returned to the tobacco-scented hackney, the wet clothes heavy on his skin. "To Sowerby House," he told the jarvey, as the carriage door clicked shut.

But the voice did not sound like his own.

Nothing was real.

He was detached, cold, as denial and numbness pierced his stomach like a javelin.

It's too late.