Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Marjorie stifled a yawn as she shuffled to the sideboard in the morning room and poured herself a cup of tea.

"You were out late," said her sister, Emily, walking into the room.

Marjorie didn't bother turning around. Her response mulled around on her tongue at the mere memory of her kiss with Alfie against his bedroom wall.

Instead of telling the truth, she remained quiet.

"I wasn't home," her sister continued, "but your silence is confirmation enough."

Marjorie spun around, pointing at her. "That was a nasty trick!"

Emily crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows, her dark beady eyes shining brightly behind her gold-rimmed glasses. She leaned against the dining room chair, her cane resting nearby at the foot of the large table. "Well?" she said smugly.

Marjorie only swatted her hands as if to shoo her sister away. She loved having a twin sister most of the time.

"I need tea," she barked instead, her mind fumbling for words as memories played over and over again.

When she had returned home last evening after dinner, in the carriage, she couldn't sleep. Instead, she spent the night writing, pacing back and forth across her room with her quill in hand, acting out the story. Satisfied at last that she had worked through a troublesome plot point, she thought to let Percy have her old manuscript without protest. Her current story was much better anyhow.

No.

The pit in her stomach deepened. Could she allow Percy to claim her work as his, never challenging him? All because it was easier?

That manuscript had been hers, tucked away with the intention it would only remain for her eyes. He was not entitled to it—then or now.

"Well," Emily said at last, "if you wanted to know, I was out because Mrs. Turner had her baby. Another lovely, healthy boy."

This time Marjorie did yawn. She wiped her eyes and collapsed onto the armchair by the fireplace with a cup of tea in her hand. She nodded. "I didn't believe you were sneaking out for any other reason."

Emily glared at her for a moment. "Is there something you want to say?"

Marjorie stiffened. "I meant no offense. Sister, you believe I wouldn't support you? You have a brilliant mind for medicine, and I wish for you to pursue it whichever way you can find. It is not easy for us women to make our way in a world where men's voices are as loud as their brash actions."

It was Emily's turn to be surprised. "I was under the impression you preferred ballroom walls, not conquering the spaces men inhabit. Why didn't you say that first?"

She was so sure she would brush it away as she had for years now, even with the truth impatient on her lips.

Maybe it was because she was still remembering last evening. Or maybe because she was fed up with hiding all her life. Marjorie wished to take up space, to be a part of this world, and no longer be a wallflower.

"I know because I am an author," she said at last.

Emily scoffed. "You are a writer," she insisted. "I know you love to write your stories." She pointed toward Marjorie's ink-stained fingers now clutching a near-empty cup of tea. "You spend hours writing them. But you haven't pursued that, have you?"

Marjorie rubbed her eyes, exhaustion pulling at her eyelids, and her body buzzed with some strange frustration. She blamed Alfie for that. She was restless at the mere thought of him. Her heart began to race in her chest, and she thought she would forgo some sleep to see him again. Later, she told herself.

"I am an author, Emily. I have written four novels published under my pen name, M.E. Gastrell."

Emily sank down in the chair opposite her, her mouth agape. "You've kept a secret from me. You're the author?"

Marjorie nodded. "It was too dangerous to write under my own name. Mother and Father would never allow it."

"But you kept it from me," Emily said. "Me? I'm your twin. I will support you no matter what."

Marjorie shrugged, shame creeping up on her cheeks. "You are my twin, yes. But at the time..." She stopped, not wishing to remember her sister nearly dying and the void that had threatened to consume her.

"At the time," Emily continued, "I was ill."

"Yes," Marjorie said, "and it felt silly to share my news, no matter how important to me, when I was desperate not to see you leave us."

Emily scowled, briefly reaching under her glasses and wiping her eyes before putting her hands back in her lap. "Even on my sick bed, I would have been happy for you, and I'm happy for you now. But I think I might need a day or two because it hurts to know while you have been in London, living this secret life, I have been kept in the country and written off by our parents, wasting my days playing with plants and learning about the human body, and desperately wanting..." She swallowed hard. Now the tears began streaming down her face. "I promised myself I wouldn't cry."

Marjorie set her cup down and swung her legs off the arm of the chair, quickly walking to her sister and embracing her. "There's nothing wrong with crying." She dropped a kiss on top of her sister's head.

Emily only grunted in response, but finally, after a moment, she gazed up at Marjorie. "I want so desperately to have a bigger life than I have been allowed. And it feels foolish to think so. Now I have just learned my dear sister has been doing just that. And I couldn't even enjoy the journey with her because it's been a secret."

Marjorie nodded, wiping away the tears on her sister's scarred face. "My dear, you are living a large life, even if it is quiet. You are helping those around here. You are learning medicine, and you are fearless when you do so. Our parents are preoccupied with their own large lives. We can't let their shadows darken our paths. If you want to come to London, I will be there right beside you. And until then, I will remain here in the country with you."

"Because you're busy writing," Emily said. It wasn't so much a question as it was an accusation.

Marjorie sighed. "No, not because I am writing, though I am. Because I'm hiding, because my heart has been broken, and my work has been stolen. I am too afraid to do anything about it."

Emily glanced up at her, her brows furrowed. "I think you have more secrets to tell me."

Marjorie helped Emily over to the sofa. The two sisters faced one another, and Marjorie proceeded to tell her how she foolishly fell in love with Percy those summers ago and how she dreamed up a life with him. How they talked about books for hours and how one evening at a party, she made the mistake of telling him her secret and believing he had felt the same for her. And in doing so, she laid her heart and trust at his feet, and he smashed everything and stole an old manuscript, publishing it as his own.

"Anyway," she continued, "that is why I have returned. I asked Alfie for help. I figured if anyone could help me, it would be a duke."

"But he won't help because why?"

Marjorie didn't feel it was her story to tell how Alfie was battling his own demons.

"Alfie can't help," she said instead. "I must do it for myself. But hiding isn't the answer. I only wish for others to acknowledge the fact that he did not write that book. Those are my words. My time, my effort, and I can't, in good conscience, let him take the credit, even if he's counting on me to remain quiet."

"You have the reputation of a wallflower around London," Emily said. "I suppose he believes you'll remain quiet."

Marjorie nodded, pressing her knuckles against her mouth for a moment before she blew out a deep breath. "I need to confront him, and then I think I need to reach out to his publishers. But the problem is," she said, hesitating, "I'm afraid by doing that, I will lose everything I have worked so hard for when I speak up."

"Because speaking up for yourself will out you as the author?" Emily readjusted her spectacles. "M.E. Gastrell is very well respected. People will surely be pleased and thrilled to learn the truth."

"It'll be a scandal, and our parents will hate it."

"Let them." Emily reached for her sister's hand and squeezed. "Let them throw a fit. I will be here with you. Bring me to London if you must, but I can't promise you I will be well-behaved. I never liked Percy."

Marjorie hugged her sister and sighed because, the truth was, she realized she had never liked Percy either.

* * *

Alfie had bathed, read the newspaper, and attempted to finish reading the novel he began the day before.

Attempted because he couldn't stop moving. Suddenly, his room was too small. The space that had been his sole comfort since his return. And his only prison. And now he paced his suite like a caged animal, waiting.

Would Marjorie return or had he scared her off last evening?

He reached for his cold cup of tea from the stack of books beside him and groaned, resting his head back against the chair.

But to feel her against him once more? To feel her lips against his, just as equally demanding. If she never returned, it would be a kiss that would forever haunt him, the very kiss to lead off all his private fantasies.

He shot to his feet and marched to the small balcony overlooking the gardens and the fishpond. His hand hovered about the doorknob. If he couldn't leave from the hall, maybe he could bring himself to stand on the balcony for a few moments.

He glanced over his shoulder, blowing out a steadying breath before glancing back toward the doorknob. His stomach soured, and the all too familiar cold metal tang filled his mouth. He braced his shoulders as panic exploded in his chest.

"No," he said out loud. "No!"

If he were to have any chance with Marjorie, it would need to be outside of this room. Whether Hollyvale or London, he needed to show up in the world and stop hiding.

Then why was it so bloody hard to leave?

His hand hovered, shaking when the door to his room swung open, and he froze.

Marjorie stood in the doorway, her cheeks pink from the walk over, her dark hair wild from the breeze, and her eyes silently challenging him.

But he could barely breathe. She stood on the other side of the door. It might as well have been another country. He wished to haul her inside and slam the door shut and keep her to himself, safe from the rest of London.

From the rest of the madness tearing apart the world.

"I didn't feel much like climbing today," she said with a small shrug.

Alfie meant to nod, but his heart was hammering in his throat. He could hardly blink, never mind move a limb.

And there she stood, the gentle morning light falling behind her in the hallway in a beautiful violet dress.

"You came back," he finally choked out.

She clasped her hands in front of her, still remaining in the threshold. For a moment, she glanced down at her feet and swished her skirts before glancing back up. Marjorie nodded, her large brown eyes studying him.

"Were you…"

"In the middle of losing my mind? Yes?"

She smirked. "Only in the middle? Now really, Alfie."

He didn't understand the warring pressure in his chest. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and kiss her senseless, and at the same time, he feared stepping closer would mean leaving what he had known behind.

"Come away from the door," he said, his voice cracking.

Marjorie remained still. She didn't shake her head or speak. She just filled the doorway, tempting him by standing there with steady reassurance while he remained by the French doors. He couldn't open that doorknob if he wanted to right now. He couldn't take his eyes off Marjorie.

Swallowing hard, he tried to ignore the throbbing pulse in his ears and the icy shiver racing down his arms. He swore he felt a sweat break out on his forehead.

He was coming apart in front of her. He didn't wish for her to see him this way. And yet she remained quiet and steady.

"What would you like me to do?" she said.

Alfie slammed his eyes shut and shook his head. He couldn't logically make sense of what he wanted from her right now. What did he want her to do?

He wanted her to race to him from the hallway and close the door behind her. He wanted her arms to be laced around his neck and her lips against his. He wanted all of it, as grand as it was, because he still had hope that one day he would cure whatever was wrong with him. One day, they could have a future. But as long as he was trapped in this room, it was selfish to ask her for anything more.

He had proposed to her last night like some lovesick schoolboy struck by the local beauty, professing his undying love. Alfie, at thirty-one years old, hadn't seen her for years. Instead of trying to keep something for himself, he just threw himself at her feet, knowing he could never be a good husband.

Damn the title. He hated that title. He hated who he'd had to lose to have that title.

"Alfie," her voice called softly across the room, gentle and reassuring.

He opened his eyes slowly to look back at her, certain he appeared like some wild, crazed thing, but she hadn't run away.

"Come here," she said at last.

When he shook his head, he knew the refusal would cost him everything. He turned his back and, leaning against the wall, thought it would be better if she left. It would be better if she returned to London. He would reach out to Percy, he would do something, but she should return to London, not hide away.

He was the perfect example as to why. But then again, Marjorie knew that as well. Keeping a secret was not a privilege. It was a burden.

In and out. He concentrated on his breathing, trying to root himself in the room, trying desperately to make sense of the fact that his feet were firmly on the floor. That he was not falling apart. That the world was not ending. That he was safe. He could feel the cool breeze from the open window across the room. He could smell her perfume, chasing him, haunting him in the doorway.

He licked his lips, waiting for his heart to slow down, waiting for his lungs to finally have enough air so it didn't feel as if he were drowning in the river in the park.

"Darling," she whispered beside him. She slipped her hand into his and rested her head against his shoulder. "I'm here."

With a ragged breath, he tilted his head so he could meet her eyes, not ashamed there were tears of his own as his mind struggled to stay present.

"I will only let you down," he said.

She pressed her lips together and tilted her head. "There's no way that's possible."

He moved his head back again, hiding away like a coward, even as her palm was warm against his, and it was the one thing keeping him tethered. He hated being lost to this overwhelming tide. Sometimes it felt as if he would lose himself for hours or days to it. He didn't want to.

"You're safe," she said. "You don't have to leave if you're not ready. I will go to London myself. I had no idea." She paused, inserting herself between him and the wall, her lips now nearly ghosting over his. With her free hand, she skirted her fingertips up his shoulder, back into the nape of his neck, playing with the ends of his hair.

"He stole your damn book," he growled. "I'll burn down London until he pays."

"No," she said, slipping her hand out of his and placing it on his cheek, wiping away a tear with the pad of her thumb. "Alfie, I need you to listen to me. Because this is important."

He nodded, struck by the sight of her lips. The feel of her fingertips brushing against his skin was both calming and enticing all at once. This panic began to be chased away by anticipation.

"I cannot kiss you and make this go away, as much as I want that to be the case. I wish it were so simple. And I know you want to hide away. I know you are hurting." She placed her hand over his heart. He couldn't stop crying, and he hated himself for it.

"Alfie, darling," she said again. "I have to return to London, and I realize now I must do so alone. But I need you to understand it's not because I don't love you. And it's not because I don't wish to be your wife. It's because I want to keep what is mine. I don't think he deserves to keep that book just because he thinks I'll be quiet."

Questions began swirling in his mind, questions about plans and what she meant to do. But all he could focus on was what she said—it wasn't because she didn't want to be his wife. What did that mean? How could she possibly feel anything for him when he was holding himself up now against his bedroom wall, crying because he couldn't open a door? He was weak and a failure, and he would only let her down.

She clasped both hands on his cheeks, squeezing slowly, pulling his attention back to her.

"Look at me," she said. "Look at me, Alfie."

He swallowed hard. Why was it so difficult to stay present? Why did it feel like his mind went one way and his body the other?

"When I walked in, you were going to open that door," she said. "Do you want my help?"

The door. Right.

He glanced quickly behind him. The door was still open, the light from the hallway pouring into his room, making the room look so much larger than it was.

That was Marjorie. She was his light, pouring into his life, and he didn't deserve her. It was selfish to ask her to remain here with him.

Her lips pressed against his throat, and he returned his attention back to Marjorie. Searching, trying to find some truth there in her eyes, something that would make this better.

He hadn't expected her to return. He hadn't expected her to climb through his bedroom window. He certainly hadn't planned on confessing how he felt for her and proposing.

"You don't have to open that door. And you don't have to go into the hallway," she said. "Not until you are ready. And I know one day you will be ready. Until then, I'll be with you when I can. I won't leave you. So, I'll ask one more time. Would you like to try?"

And even though everything in him screamed "no," there was a small push from his brain to say "yes." Because he had already fallen apart, and she was there. He had nothing else to lose.

He nodded.

"Very well. Hold my hand," she said, "and we'll do it together. Look at me."

She placed his hand on the doorknob, lacing her fingers tightly with his, and he remained staring at her, studying her face and those beautiful brown eyes of hers, the freckles on her cheeks, and the little bow in her lips, perfectly plump and pink they were. And then he felt the door turn and slowly crack open. A burst of air slipped in between him and Marjorie. She remained holding the door with him.

"How's that?" she said.

Fresh air swept across his face, and he was holding Marjorie's hand.

He whispered, "Perfect," and then met her lips with his.