Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

L ovie was thankful for the twelve days allotted to her and Remington. He had agreed to stay for the Epiphany, but that was almost a month ago. She had seen little of him since then and only in the company of Rochester or her brother. He had gone home to his grandmother's estate, where she imagined him burdened with melancholy and drinking himself to sleep. She wrote him, and he wrote back, but the words were never enough, even if he did end every letter with Love, Remi .

The last face-to-face conversation with him had turned into an argument about him leaving. She wanted to go with him. He wouldn't hear of it.

"There you are," Rochester said, standing in the doorway of his chaotic library. "Now that we've settled on the right doors, I'm forever lost in this house."

"And I am forever happy you finally added them." Lovie looked up from where she sat on the floor like an island in the middle of a hundred stories. "You know Rochester, these books"—she waved a small leather-bound edition of Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe —"are valuable, and you treat them like disposable parchment."

"Yes, but not the ones on gaming."

With her skirts spread in a circle around her and books piled in small stacks on the muslin hem, she picked up three more, turning them on their edge and checking the spines. "When do you have time to read?"

"Never, but a proper house must have a library. Besides, it was already here when I moved in. Minus the books, of course."

"So, it's for show."

"Let's not be cruel. I am a man of detail." He pushed away from the door casement, where he was leaning, and crossed the room to her. Kneeling on his haunches close to her, Rochester began perusing the books piled around her. "Do you really care about the books? Or are you hiding from the household?" Lovie watched him warily as he continued to search titles with nonchalance.

She shrugged, more for herself than him. But in the end, it didn't matter because Rochester could read a lie a mile away. "I wanted to be out of the way. You and Hudson seem to be very busy with your tournament planning." In truth, she was bored and sad.

"You know, Lovie, you never said how Christmas day went."

"It was the usual fanfare with a feast and a merry gathering for the local cottagers and their families."

"That sounds very noncommittal. I know you normally like that sort of thing, which is why I didn't worry about you while you were away. Even Hud assumed you were glad to be caught in poor traveling conditions."

"For some reason, this year, the celebration made me melancholy."

"Lovie," he said, gently touching her arm to stop the endless busy work. "What happened while you were there? Was it a mistake to allow Hawke to travel with you?"

"No. It wasn't a mistake." The answer meant something different to her than it would to Rochester.

"You two seemed to be at odds before you left, but I assumed it was innocent banter."

"It was." She knew her answers fell short of satisfying Rochester's curiosity and brotherly concern.

"He was almost as short of answers as you are."

She looked up suddenly. "Please do not tell me you've been harassing him with the same inquiry?"

"Am I harassing you?"

She gave a deep sigh, long and drawn out. "Of course not. I don't know what happened, Rochester. Except he shared stories with me, and I came to like him, to understand his plight and loss. He… we talked of personal matters."

Rochester changed his position, sitting on the floor, one leg drawn up. He put the books aside, but it didn't stop her from nervously sorting through the same books and restacking them in different piles. He simply watched her with concern written in the pinch of his brow.

"He's been through so much in such a short time. He lost his mother and grandmother in the same year and his father some years back. And his childhood. Oh, Rochester, he has stories that are funny and sad. I don't think he has anyone. Where I had wondered at your sanity for bringing home a stranger at Christmas, I am now glad that you did. I hate to wonder what his holiday would have been had you not done so." She pinned Rochester with a sincere look. "I found him drunk at his grandmother's estate."

"Like you found the both of us on the night I brought him here?" The question, the inflection, was clear.

"No, not the same. He was… not enjoying it," she finally said.

"Was he close to his grandmother?"

"Perhaps. I believe they kept up with correspondence even an ocean away. He's lost everything, Rochester. Everything important. What's to happen when he leaves and returns to America?"

"Honestly, I haven't heard him speak of returning. I don't know why, but I assumed he was staying."

She shook her head. "In the spring, when the weather clears for travel, he plans to return."

"And that bothers you." He dipped his head to see her.

She turned away and picked up another book.

Rochester leaned forward, sliding the book from her fingers, and she fought back burning tears. "You don't want him to go?"

She couldn't face him. "There's no reason for him to stay."

"Isn't there?"

She gave a sharp look of denial. "No. There isn't."

Rochester rolled to his feet and walked to the sideboard, where he poured two glasses of Irish whiskey. Holding one by the rim, dangling from his fingertips, he bent down and handed it to her.

"You think I need this?"

"No," he said. "I think I need this." He held out his drink, tapping hers with a clink. "To wanting what you cannot have." He took a sip, making his way to a comfortable chair.

She paused with the drink just under her nose, breathing in the smooth undertones of oak and wondering at Rochester's toast. She sipped. No sputters. No coughing. She'd learned to drink alongside Hudson and Rochester alike. The warmth and familiar aroma soothed her more than the drink itself. "Was that toast for me or for you?"

"I wouldn't presume to know." He pulled back another drink, raising his eyebrows, which hinted at a few secrets of his own. "Can you share what he told you? Not that I'm prying."

"Of course you are." Setting her glass aside, she went back to the books.

"No, Lovie. I truly am not. It's only that you made it sound so dire."

"He told me a story from his past when he was a boy of fifteen."

"A life-changing event?"

"Something like that." She gave him a dubious look, wishing he would drop the subject.

"It's none of my concern, I'm sure, but you are. I'd like to see you happy."

She slid him a speaking look, pressing her lips together in a near frown.

"I don't mean that you haven't been, but sometimes the sacrifice is worth it."

She wanted to ask him about that comment, but she didn't have the energy at present for the answer. Rochester was fighting his own battle working through a reputation he had all but destroyed. And she suspected his heart belonged to someone. His every action the past year had shown her that much. But Lovie didn't know the woman's name. Not even Hudson knew.

Rochester cleared his throat. "It's obvious his soul is scarred." He spoke of Hawke. "Perhaps he needed a Christmas miracle."

"Don't be trite. Christmas doesn't make miracles happen. They are available all year."

"Perception places them heavily on the holiday, however. But since the holiday is past, and you claim miracles all year, then there is still hope." He set the glass aside and gathered his hands, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, looking like an arrogantly comfortable gentleman. "You can heal his scars, Lovie."

"I cannot. It's too much for one person."

"Not for you. Not the great Lovie Wright. Your name alone is made for it. Your heart too."

"My dear cousin, if anyone deserves love, it is you."

"We'll see. Right now, my concern is your welfare. Hud's worried about you, too."

"I wouldn't say he's worried. He's taken issue with his own ego. Not a small challenge, I'm sure. Not for either one of you."

Rochester chuckled deep in his chest. "Because he thinks Remington Hawke is a better billiard player than I am."

"Is he?" She winged a brow.

Rochester eyed her, a dangerous twist to his mouth.

"You want to kill him." She exaggerated a wide-eyed response.

"Only a little." He made a minuscule space between his thumb and forefinger, peering through it with a wink. "Actually, I rather like him. Competition makes a better game and a better player."

"I don't think he's interested in your line of capital, anyway."

"He better get interested in cattle real fast because that property he's inherited is prime for farming and livestock."

"He's familiar with livestock, that much I know." She turned aside, feeling her cheeks flame with the memory of their discussion about the heifer and the bull. She made a humming giggle in her throat.

"Something funny?"

"No. Not really. Just something he said about a cow."

Rochester watched her suspiciously. "What makes you think he knows farming?"

"He told me so. He raised sheep as a lad, but then his family moved away, and he gave it up to learn finance. Or so he said until I noticed that his hands were not soft like a banker's but rough like a farmer's."

Rochester looked dubious. "I won't ask how you know that."

"For the love of God, between you and Hudson, one would think I'm a ninny of sixteen."

"Aren't you?" He winked, chuckling again, teasing her like an older brother would do.

"Rochester? Do you think love can heal such tragic events as losing someone?"

"I think love covers a multitude of sins."

"Perhaps that's what you need." She watched him closely.

"That subject is better left closed."

"For now. But you have too much to offer to stay a bachelor. Just look at this house?" Her gaze arced over the room.

"When did this conversation turn? I missed the fork in the road somewhere between billiards and farming. I assure you that I am the least of your worries."

Rochester was right. She did have trouble of her own brewing unless her courses started soon. She'd already missed one right after Christmas. Not unheard of to miss one. But two? That was grounds for concern. As uneducated as she had been about the act of love, this was another matter. She was well aware of the mechanics of it, the where and how babies are born. Her ignorance had only been for the options available to those with an imagination, according to Remi.

She wasn't sure how to feel. There was a side of her that was excited at the prospect—the side of idealistic dreams. And then there was reality. He was leaving in the spring.