Chapter 26

M iss Callaghan stopped him in front of the table, which was laden with a picnic. Savory pies and tarts, sandwiches, and bread and cheeses of every variety lay before Julian like a feast, but his gaze drifted to the sweets. Haydon had provided an array of puddings, cakes, and sweetmeats, and he reached toward a slice of sly cake, the fig and sultana filling luring him in like a siren call—only for Miss Callaghan to slap his hand away.

Yanking it back, Julian stared at the lady, who offered up a meat pie.

“You need something more substantial than sugar, Mr. Knight.”

For all that he felt like a scolded schoolboy, Julian didn’t argue. Pork. With a hint of something he couldn’t identify in it, but taste was not his primary concern at present; as much as his stomach rebelled a the thought of food, he dutifully swallowed it.

“I haven’t made a spectacle of myself, have I?” asked Julian as he glanced out at the crowd.

Miss Callaghan shook her head. “As I said, you are not so far gone as all that.”

“Then thank you for stopping me,” he murmured, forcing more of the pie down his throat.

“Thank you for listening,” she replied, and as soon as he finished the pie, Miss Callaghan served him a hunk of stottie cake with thick slices of ham and cheese stuffed inside the bread. “And you shouldn’t feel too embarrassed, Mr. Knight. It is the way of things. My family’s way of living is intoxicating, and you are not the first to succumb to its lures.”

When she offered a glass of lemonade, Julian gladly washed down the makeshift sandwich.

“But it doesn’t appeal to you?” he asked when his mouth was clear.

“Does drinking until you make a spectacle of yourself, only to wake the next morning with a pounding megrim, appeal to you?” she replied with a raised brow.

“At times when I was younger.”

Miss Callaghan studied him, a considering hum on her lips that barely carried over the noise of the crowd. “I was raised in a family who believes ‘more’ is always better. More drinks, more games, more laughter. They believe the only contentment comes from consuming anything and everything, often overlooking the unassuming joys all around them, and I do not understand it.”

Shaking her head, she continued, “They speak of living a life to the ‘fullest,’ but I do not know what that means. Is a life filled with quiet companionship and simple pleasures wasted? I cannot think of anything that has made me happier of late than a little stroll through the woods with a friend who was willing to listen to me unburden my heart.”

Applause thundered, stealing Miss Callaghan’s attention as she glanced towards the dancers. Most of the gathering hardly noticed the interruption, but she gave a few dutiful claps for the musicians before returning her gaze to Julian. And those blue eyes shone with concern, a lifetime of worry and heartache simmering in their depths.

“Please, do not give in to that lure, Mr. Knight.”

Julian’s shoulders sank. “I fear it has been more appealing of late, Miss Callaghan. I arrived in Haydon believing I knew what I wanted for my future, but my time with your family has been so wonderful. I do love spending my days reveling in poetry, and though I had thought myself content to keep it in the periphery of my life, this has been so invigorating and inspiring—though I doubt I could ever find the same success as your father. His talent dwarfs mine.”

“Balderdash! You are more of a poet than he has ever been or ever will be.”

Brows raised, Julian stared at the lady fiercely scowling at him.

“I hate to disagree with you, Miss Callaghan, but he has published three volumes—”

“Over the span of nearly thirty years!” Her brows rose as though her exclamation was perfectly understandable. When he didn’t respond, she huffed. “How often do you see Papa working? You’ve written so much during this time—despite the lunacy that occurs under our roof—and has he put quill to paper once?”

“Yes…” But Julian paused as he considered that. “I know he’s been struggling with his muse at present.”

“And I give that a double balderdash! If one truly loves a thing, he does not wait until the mood strikes him, going weeks or even months without doing an ounce of work. And certainly not when it is one’s profession. It may be a struggle at times, but if it is one’s passion, wouldn’t he continue to do something—anything—rather than allow his passion to gather dust?”

Placing her hands on her hips, she added, “And what does publishing have to do with actual talent? For all that they espouse a love of art, publishers are businessmen first and foremost, and even the greatest talents may be overlooked if publishers believe it will not sell. And they are more than willing to put out endless drivel as long as readers snatch it up.”

Julian stuffed more bread into his mouth so he needn’t reply, though it was clear from her narrowed expression that Miss Callaghan saw the doubt on his face.

“I will not argue that it takes skill to write,” she conceded. “However, publication and even financial success does not determine the talent of the author nor is it an indication of their passion for their work. I have heard you speak of your poetry, and your feelings are far purer than anything Ernest Callaghan feels. You do it solely because you love it and will continue to do so, whether or not anyone reads it.”

Julian didn’t know whether the food was doing its job or not, but Miss Callaghan’s passion filtered through the fog, and he found himself staring at the lady as she expounded on the subject, her eyes brightening as she spoke from the very depths of her heart. She thought herself incapable of love, yet her soul shone bright with that light, chasing away every shadow.

How did Miss Callaghan not see it?

“The world is full of creativity!” she continued. “And only the small-minded insist it is found in writing, art, or music alone. Whether you are sorting out how to describe the petals of a flower or resolve your clients’ financial troubles, you enjoy using yours both in verse and in business. What is wrong with that?”

All valid points, but before Julian could respond, she hurried to add, “To say nothing of the fact that you may not enjoy poetry as much once it becomes your profession. When your livelihood rests on publishing success, compromises have to be made, as you are no longer a mere artist but a businessman who sells your art—and that requires catering to an audience. Desires must be curtailed to publish that which people will buy.”

As she spoke, her gaze drifted away from him as her shoulders slumped, and she murmured, “Unless you are keen to spend your days scrimping for every penny.”

“That is not appealing to me, no,” he said with a shake of his head.

Miss Callaghan’s brows pulled together, and she stepped closer as her eyes pleaded for him to listen. Even if Julian had wished to, he couldn’t have looked away.

“Why choose one or the other? Why give up the work you love? With that steady income, you are free to do whatever you wish with your poetry. For all that Papa thinks your profession ‘restrictive,’ you have far more creative freedom than those who must appease their publishers and the public to pay for the clothes on their backs. Do you truly wish for that?”

“No.” The answer came quick and firm, surprising even the speaker, himself.

If he were to acknowledge the truth that lingered beneath the excuses he’d offered, Julian would admit the appeal of the poet’s life was the ability to do precisely what he wanted whenever he wanted. Such as sitting about reading all day. While Ernest was correct in saying it did serve as inspiration, laziness simmered in Julian’s heart, and it had latched onto those golden lures his friend set out.

“I hadn’t considered it all in that light before,” he murmured. “But I will admit that, once again, I think you may be right on all counts, Miss Callaghan.”

“I usually am,” she replied with a prim raise of her brow, which drew a smile from Julian.

The starting notes of the next song filled the air, calling the dancers to take their places, and he held out his hand to her. “Would you do me the honor, Miss Callaghan?”

“Are you in a state to dance?”

“I’m not as bad as all that.”

Miss Callaghan gave him a look that would’ve sent a lesser man fleeing, but Julian merely smiled.

“I am well enough,” he promised, and it wasn’t an idle one. More than the food in his belly, her presence helped to sober him; when surrounded by Ernest and his lackeys, it was easy to get swept up in their antics and laughter, but now that he was safely tucked in calmer waters with Miss Callaghan, Julian’s sanity returned.

“Besides, I can always count on your guidance if I go astray.” Julian spoke those words with utter conviction, for time and time again, Miss Callaghan was there to call out warnings and restore his equilibrium when he spun out of control.

“Assuming you listen,” she replied with a challenging raise of her brows, though there was a smile in her tone.

Laying a hand over his heart, he nodded. “I give you my word.” Then, with a bow, he offered his hand. “Will you dance with me, Miss Callaghan?”

But the lady merely looked at the proffered limb, her brows knitting together as she considered it.

“Please,” he added. “I want to stand up with you.”

She drew in a deep breath, and her cheeks seemed to pink (though Julian couldn’t say if it were genuine pleasure or merely a trick of the light); then Miss Callaghan stepped closer and set her hand in his, and his fingers clung tight to her as they wove through the crowd.