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Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

Miles leaned back in his chair, having spent a couple of hours going through clerical business at the church, and slid his penknife into a letter just delivered to him. Once the sealing wafer broke, he unfolded the paper, his eyes naturally dropping to the bottom to see the sender's name.

Jemma?

What was she doing, sending him letters? He could think of a number of people who would not approve, which meant the contents were likely important enough for her to risk her reputation. He quickly sat up in his seat, and his gaze tore to the top.

Dear Miles,

Lesson one for Mr. Romantic: remember the past.

Lesson one? Had Jemma decided it was time to switch roles from student to teacher?

Since it has been made clear that you no longer remember falling in love for the first time, I thought I would take it upon myself to remind you of the account.

Miles blinked. This is what she had written to him about? And who said he didn't remember? He humored her and read the tale through. The story of the ice breaking and him saving Lisette was slightly different told from Jemma's perspective, but the main details were the same.

He set the letter down and stared at it. Jemma was a fixer. She saw a problem and had to address it. Apparently, his feelings for her were such a dire problem that she had to remedy them immediately. He tipped his head back on his seat and stared at the old church ceiling, crumbling in places. Just like his pathetic heart.

Sitting up again, he ran a hand over his jaw and pulled out his own sheet of paper to record his response. When he finished, he stared at the finished product. He didn't want to get Jemma in trouble by sending it to the house. He would have to hold on to it until he saw her again. Who knew when it would be since she had clearly not forgiven him for trying to kiss her.

Despite her resistance, he knew she cared in her own way. He sensed it when she looked at him, when she let him hold her hand, and when she confided in him her fears and worries. Love either existed, or it did not. His devotion to her was real and tangible, like the air he breathed, but it wasn't that simple for her. Mr. Bentley had crept into the picture, and Lisette was already its center. Perhaps Jemma did not know her own heart.

Perhaps she did not truly know his either. If she thought a lesson on romance could sway his feelings, let her try. She would fail.

He had lost the choice to fight or feel. His heart had awakened, and it wouldn't sleep again.

y

Miles had not expected an opportunity to deliver his letter to Jemma to come so soon or for it to be because of an unfortunate circumstance.

"Lisette is sick?" Miles met Tom's and Cassandra's solemn gaze after church services.

"I stopped by Manning House yesterday for some strawberry starts, and Mrs. Manning told me." Cassandra had her arm tucked into Tom's. "They think she caught an illness during their charity visits. She has a fever, but the doctor said she is faring well."

From their charity visits? The widow Talbridge had had a fever too. It was Miles's fault for taking the ladies with him to see her. "I will ride over this afternoon to see if there have been any changes."

"We thought you would want to know." Tom squeezed his shoulder in parting, and the couple made their way to Lord Felcroft's carriage.

As soon as Miles gave out his bag of sweets to the eager children and said goodbye to the last parishioner, he mounted his horse and rode to Manning House. By the time he arrived, the air had grown heavy and the sky had darkened with a thick layer of ominous clouds. He pushed away any concerns about the weather along with his uncomfortable thoughts of speaking with Jemma again. This would force them to see each other on neutral ground—as friends once more. If it were even possible.

The butler let Miles into the drawing room to wait for anyone who could attend to him. Miles wasn't in the mood to sit, so he studied the garden painting above the mantel and the knickknacks from the Mannings' travels. Nothing seemed to keep his attention. Not with Jemma somewhere in the house and Lisette ill.

Mrs. Manning greeted him from the doorway. "It is always a pleasure to have you visit, Mr. Jackson."

Miles stepped away from the mantel and toward her. "Mrs. Harwood said Lisette has a fever. Is she any better today?" He searched Mrs. Manning's face, but besides a few fatigue lines around her fair eyes, she seemed relatively cheerful.

"After three days, she is finally up from her bed. She requires more rest, but the doctor assures us it is a fairly mild case."

"I am relieved to hear it." Fevers were unpredictable in their longevity and power.

Mrs. Manning patted him on the arm. "Lisette will be so happy to know you have come to see how she is doing. She is anxious to be back on her feet. I am afraid she is tired of being tucked away from everything."

"May I sit with her for a time?"

Mrs. Manning hesitated. "A generous thought, Mr. Jackson, but we would not want our vicar catching an illness."

"Please, I feel responsible. After all, I chose the locations of our charity visits. The least I can do is provide a distraction for an hour or so."

Mrs. Manning finally let slip a smile. "How very kind of you. Let me show you to my sitting room."

Miles had been upstairs only once in the Manning House, many years ago, during a game of hide-and-seek. Nothing was terribly familiar except for the general layout, a sort of box design with the corridor forming an angular circle. Mrs. Manning's sitting room was around the first bend on the right.

Mrs. Manning knocked on the door and stuck her head inside. "Dearest, you have a visitor." After a moment, Mrs. Manning motioned him inside, leaving the door ajar. "I'll return to sit with you in a trice." Jemma stood from a chair beside Lisette, and his attention was immediately arrested by her wide, green eyes. She looked well. Thank heavens. He nodded a greeting to her.

Jemma seemed neither happy nor unhappy to see him, but there was no warmth for him either.

"Please, sit here. I will take my leave." She collected her lace shawl cast aside on the chair, one that reminded him of the late Mrs. Fielding, and quickly stepped around him. He caught her brief scent of roses, but it dissipated all too soon.

He hated how she felt the need to flee from his presence, but he did not let any emotion show on his face. Now was not the time to think about Jemma. He slid into her vacated seat, a maid hovering nearby, and took in Lisette's pale complexion. Her flaxen hair was pulled into a loose bun at her neck, and strands hung limp by her cheeks. She wore a collared dressing gown with a blanket across her lap.

She gave him a tired smile. "You did not have to come, Miles. I am not dying, as you can see."

"I am relieved to see it. You will forgive me for taking you to see the widow Talbridge? I feel terrible that you caught her illness."

"Is she faring better?"

"How like you to worry about someone else when you yourself are unwell. She did not attend services today, but her neighbor said she is on the mend."

"Good news, considering her health has been poor for so long. How were services today?"

"Very dull, indeed, without the Manning family."

Lisette laughed—not a full laugh like Jemma's but soft and lyrical. "Don't be absurd, Miles. We all know the Mannings do their best to fade into the background."

"Then you can imagine how we suffered without our usual background. A lack of consistency is always problematic."

Lisette laughed again.

He told her some of the good deeds the children reported to him, drawing more amusement from her. An hour passed quickly, and Miles was glad he had come. Lisette had always been a good friend, even if at times he felt the necessity to avoid her.

He wished her well and slipped from the room. He had planned to leave forthwith, but when he reached the bottom of the staircase, he peeked inside the drawing room in hopes of catching a glimpse of Jemma. Empty. He made his way toward the library.

The door was open. There she was, curled up on the lone sofa, a blanket stretched over her legs and a newspaper in her hands.

He leaned against the doorframe, content to watch her without her knowing for a moment. "Any news on the island of Chios?"

The newspaper came down until he could see the top of her head and her green eyes, but no more. "More casualties discovered. More slaves taken."

"Sorry news, indeed."

The newspaper came down a little more so only her chin was hidden.

"May I come in?"

That she didn't stand or make any pretenses testified of how comfortable they had grown in each other's company. Her hesitation, unfortunately, said differently. After a half minute, she swung her legs to the floor and shifted to the corner of the sofa.

He took it as an invitation to enter, but he stopped when he reached the sofa. Had she been resting because she was becoming sick? "Have you been unwell at all?"

She shook her head.

"You are still speaking to me though?"

She cleared her throat. "I believe my long walks and all the fresh air have helped my constitution."

He sighed inwardly with relief. She was healthy and speaking to him. He set his hand on the sofa's back, fingering the smooth wooden trim. "I have been thinking a great deal about our last conversation. I want to apologize for crossing any lines. You have my support in whatever you choose. If it is Mr. Bentley, then I wish you all the happiness in the world."

There, he'd said it. Even if he did not quite feel it yet.

Time stretched in the silence between them, making a minute feel far longer than it was.

"Thank you, Miles." Her shoulders seemed to visibly relax. "I'm sorry too. For being awkward. I didn't want to be this way. I just am."

He had been told he was an excellent actor from all their Rebel escapades over the years, so he borrowed Tom's easy grin, pretending he was more collected than he felt. "You were a bit awkward."

She gave a short laugh. "Thank you for noticing."

He pulled out his folded letter from his waistcoat pocket and dropped it on the sofa. He made certain she saw it before dipping his head in a silent parting. He was not eager to leave her, but the disconsolate air around them.

As soon as he had mounted his horse once more, the rain began. It beat against the brim of his hat and ran down his jacket. He didn't feel a thing, even though he knew it had to be soaking him through. There was too much on his mind. He couldn't go back to suppressing his feelings for Jemma, but neither would he press them on her. There was too much history between them to do otherwise. He was a Rebel, but not on matters of the heart.

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