Chapter Seventeen

Briggs

They say there’s a fine line, a very fine line, between pain and ecstasy.

And I say whoever coined that phrase is full of shit. Because the other night, I was in pain. Literal and actual pain, and it couldn’t be mistaken for anything even remotely close to ecstasy. Granted, I don’t know if I’ve ever actually experienced ecstasy.

Before that afternoon, before Blythe Rowley knelt between my knees, gripping my thigh, close enough so that I could smell the lavender water she must have used to bathe, her mouth mere inches from my own, I might have said I knew what ecstasy was. But if there’s anything our encounter has taught me, it is that I have yet to experience any kind of sensation of the sort. And I was close. So close.

I’ve had an entire day and a half since then to rest and recuperate. And to reflect. My body feels significantly better. Blythe was right that the effects of the stings have basically disappeared, and even my side feels more like a dull, aching memory rather than a sharp reminder of poor life decisions.

The reflection element of my day, however, has been trickier than that.

It’s clear now, as I stand at the entrance to the music room of Hemington Manor, sipping what’s left of my glass of wine while I wait for the other guests to filter in from dinner, that I have truly offended Blythe Rowley this time. I’ve overstepped a boundary. She isn’t her usual acerbic self with me. In fact, if I were prone to suspicions, I’d say she’s avoiding me altogether.

Or, somehow worse than that, she really is taken with Lord Colchester.

I observe them now over the rim of my wineglass. They’ve been attached to one another all night, Colchester hanging on Blythe’s every word, Blythe surely pretending that every comment he makes is the funniest thing in the world. They walk together toward the music room, followed by Lord Drummond and Miss Barlow. When Blythe is close enough, I attempt to make eye contact, and I’m almost successful. Her eyes flick from the music room before her, set up with curving rows of seats around an elaborate pianoforte, to me, and then back again. She inhales quickly and passes me by.

All right, clearly something is amiss, and it probably has to do with my wild flirtations in the kitchens the day before yesterday. It felt right at the moment, but of course it was inappropriate. I’m supposed to be pursuing Sabrina Dixon, and there I was, bending over backward for Blythe Rowley’s attention, and she was right to pull back. What happened in the kitchen—what almost happened—isn’t how I want Blythe. Sneaking, stealing her affection in the shadows of a side room, gulping her down like I’m parched in a desert. She deserves to be savored, placed on a pedestal for all the world to see, and that’s not something I can offer her.

It’s something Lord Colchester can offer her. It’s something he’s currently doing, in fact.

I survey the room, locate Miss Dixon, and then weave my way through the crowd in order to secure the seat beside her. She offers me no indication of her feelings on my presence; she simply clasps her hands in her lap, sits up a bit straighter, and waits for the music to begin.

I half expected Drummond to have a professional musician perform for us this evening, some prodigy from Vienna or a songstress from Italy. But the performances are produced by the guests, starting with Miss Barlow. Charlotte is a fiend on the pianoforte, playing a brisk concerto that goes on for several minutes. I’m not sure how she’s even able to lift her arms when she finishes, but she curtsies politely to the crowd’s enthusiastic applause and smiles at the next lady who takes the piano bench.

“She’s a very talented musician,” I whisper to Miss Dixon.

She nods in response.

A response is a response. I press further. “Do you play?”

Another nod.

Fine. You win, Miss Dixon. I relent. “Ah. What a lovely talent to possess.”

Not even a nod this time. I settle more deeply into my seat, running a hand through my hair as Miss Barlow and two other young ladies nudge and encourage Blythe to get up and perform for the crowd. Blythe isn’t the kind to perform to a crowd, though. She’s my girl with the book, sneaking off to the woods to escape the structured, expected entertainment of things like summer garden parties. The image of her leaning against the trunk of the tree over the stream, her fingers summoning whirlpools below, inundates my thoughts. I like that she doesn’t know I was there. I like that I witnessed her without pretense. At least until Colchester arrived.

But Blythe reluctantly stands, much to the glee of her friends. They clap for her even before she sits down at the piano.

Standing beside the instrument, she sorts through the pages of music, searching for the perfect song, and when she finds it, she softly says to the audience, “I need someone to turn the pages.”

“Oh, I think Mr. Goswick would be your best option,” says Westley, turning to see where I am in the audience.

Miss Barlow and Lord Drummond laugh at this, which inspires the rest of the company to do the same. I don’t know why Westley has it out for me so badly, but I inch from my seat anyway, ready to help if I can.

“I couldn’t possibly ask him such a favor,” says Blythe quickly. “Perhaps someone else is willing.”

I fumble to find a response, trying to come to terms with the fact that both my best friend and Miss Rowley have an issue with me, which must make me the most disagreeable person at the party.

“Perhaps Miss Rowley would prefer if I turned the pages for her?” says Lord Colchester, standing. Well, if he isn’t just the most dashing gentleman in the room.

“By all means,” I say. “Save me the chore.”

People around me snicker, but it’s that nervous laugh that wonders whether or not I’m kidding.

“That’s very kind of you, Lord Colchester, as Mr. Goswick has difficulty counting without the use of his fingers,” Blythe adds with a brilliant smile, which invites the audience to chuckle along. Now they’re in on our game, our usual banter.

“Oh, Blythe, my dear, you got him that time!” cries Henry Barlow. Her uncle has always found her infinitely amusing.

I mutter under my breath, “I went to Oxford .”

Lord Colchester takes his place to the right of Blythe, just behind her so that he reads the music over her shoulder.

Placing her hands on the keys, Blythe takes a shaky breath, then begins her song. I don’t actually recall how long it’s been since I heard Blythe play and sing, but it’s been some time considering how it surprises me when I hear her now. Her voice is soft and thoughtful as she warbles out a song about a girl pledging her heart to her beloved. There’s something charming in her singing. Talented but unsure. I wouldn’t mind it if she were the only person to perform for the rest of the evening.

Naturally, though, Lord Colchester has to join in. In harmony. Blythe looks back over her shoulder at him in surprise, but it soon softens into relief that she’s not the only one whose voice is on display. Though I’m loath to admit it, the song is actually improved by their duet. They sing for another few minutes, and finally, as the song concludes, Blythe’s hands float back into her lap, Lord Colchester touching her shoulder gently.

When she finishes, she offers me only the most fleeting of glances before resuming her seat next to Lord Colchester. It’s fine, I assure myself. It’s fine if Miss Rowley is cross with me. She deserves to be. We made a promise this summer. A promise that was bigger than the both of us. A promise to help one another preserve what we love and, in Blythe’s case, pursue what matters most to her.

I cannot let a passing fancy come between my loyalty to my family. To my tenants. To everything that the Goswick name stands for. Even if that passing fancy makes me wonder if there’s room in my heart for more than that.

...

Sometime later, everyone decides to go out of doors for a rousing game of Blind Man’s Bluff. I should follow all the guests, I know. I should go outside and play. Try again to make Miss Dixon like me. Try again to get Westley to talk to me. Try again to make amends with Blythe for overstepping my bounds. But I’m too tired of the rejection and constant avoidance, the feeling that I continually make mistakes that drive people away.

So I saunter out of the now-empty music room, filch a decanter of whisky and a crystal tumbler from the dining room, and pace upstairs to the window at the end of the hall where I have a perfect view of the party playing their game in the gardens. I take a seat on the cushioned bench, pour myself a drink, and watch as the blindfolded Lord Colchester hunts down his quarry, grabbing Blythe by the waist and whirling her around. She cries out, her hands on his shoulders, laughing uncontrollably while the onlookers clap at the earl’s success. Doubtless they’re all whispering what a beautiful couple they will make. How Blythe will be a glowing countess.

I take a long swig of my drink as a bolt of lightning cracks open the sky, followed by a rumble of thunder tumbling inland from the sea. The rain begins as a soft patter against the window, causing the partygoers to look up and ascertain that their evening’s entertainment is over. They’re not, however, able to make it inside before the storm is upon them, soaking them to the skin.

Leaning back against the wall of the alcove, I revel in my relative dryness, take another sip, and wait for everyone to come up the stairs, their evening finally coming to a close.

But no one does. I can hear them, distantly, playing the game now in the grand entry of Hemington Manor, and I settle more deeply into my seat.

“You won’t exactly win over Miss Dixon with your disagreeable sulking,” comes Blythe’s voice from the end of the hall.

I sit up a bit straighter, taking her in with what little light is offered by the winking candles that dot the length of the corridor. She’s soaked, of course, from her time outside, and she reaches up and unpins her hair until it falls across her shoulders. The layers of her dress cling to her long legs, the curve of her hips, the subtle swell of her breasts, and my heartbeat thrums violently in my ears.

“It doesn’t seem like I’ll win her over with flirtation, either. But I suppose I’ve always loved a challenge.” I finish my drink with a final gulp as Blythe saunters toward me. “No more games this evening?”

“Not with the weather being so disagreeable.”

I chuckle down at my lap as she stands beside me, her scent a wild tangle of apple blossoms and the sea. “And here I hoped there’d be at least one person who noted my absence.”

“Feeling sorry for ourselves, are we?” she asks, plopping down on the bench before me and leaning her elbow on the windowpane.

“I’m afraid not all of us can be as popular as you are, Miss Rowley.”

Now it’s her turn to laugh. “I decided to attend this event so that I might secure investors and prospective clients for my apiary business, and what have I achieved so far?”

“You’ve secured Lord Colchester at least.”

Blythe doesn’t say anything.

I pour more whisky from the decanter and offer her a swig. I think I’m surprised when she takes it. Maybe I shouldn’t be. “Lord Colchester is more than transfixed by you.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she scoffs, taking another sip.

“He is,” I repeat. “And good for you. You’ll never have to worry about your family, or your bees, or Awendown if you’re a countess.”

“No,” she says, staring out at the sea. “I suppose I wouldn’t.” Sharply, she turns to me, offering up the whisky. “I take it things with Miss Dixon haven’t progressed?”

I accept the drink from her hand and pull a long swallow. “I tried to speak with her during the recital, but she seems rather determined to keep me at a distance.”

“Is that why you retired before the game this evening?”

“Partially.”

“And the other part?”

I shrug, looking down at my glass. “I greatly dislike the idea of fawning over a girl who wants little to do with me. It’s embarrassing.”

She turns away from me, allowing the light from the nearby candelabra to illuminate the smooth oval of her face. “Your pride will get the better of you someday, Briggs Goswick.”

“Once again, Miss Rowley, I humbly request that you abstain from making assumptions about me. You’re determined to think the worst. At all times.” I place the glass on the windowsill between us, then nudge it in her direction.

“Then prove me wrong. If it isn’t your pride getting in your way, having to humble yourself to win over a girl when they usually fling themselves at you, then what is it?”

Suddenly, the darkness of the hallway cloaks us with an intimacy I hadn’t anticipated. “I seem to be making a mess of things quite frequently. Miss Dixon, Westley, you on more than one occasion. Maybe I fear that I am a laughingstock, much to my father’s eternal dismay.” I chuckle to usher the pain out from the close confinement of the alcove. “It’s eternal, you see, because he’s dead, and there is nothing else I can do about it.”

“Why do you say that?” she asks. “Do you think you disappointed him?”

I shrug. “My father was a very capable man. He was assured and detailed, and everyone who relies upon Mistlethrush Hall relied upon him, and they knew that, and they never doubted his competence. Since he died…” My voice fades. My father was so good at so many things, and yet my tenants have no idea about his downfalls. His gambling, his affair. In their eyes, he can only ever sit on a pedestal, and it’s difficult to watch now that I’ve noticed all of the cracks. I look back at Blythe. “Our tenants and our workers have been kind to me, and I want to do right by them. But I know there are times when they’re frustrated, and they’re just placating me because I’m Mr. Goswick now. There’s no one else over my head to run to when things go wrong. And I fear I’m a constant failure. I feel as though I let my family down, my tenants. Now, even Westley.”

I’ve never spoken those words to anyone, too afraid that if I did, there would be no chance of regaining any speck of veneration. But here, sitting so close to Blythe, hidden by the darkness of the late hour and my words practically drowned out by the rush of the sea in the distance, I feel oddly safe.

“How did you let Mr. Parker down?” she asks me.

I rub at my eyes, trying to think of a way to tell Blythe what I saw without actually saying what I saw. The last thing I would ever want to do is betray Westley’s trust again. “I was made aware of something that was not my business. And I think he believes I was purposefully seeking out that information when I was not.”

She nods. “And now he’s mad at you.”

“Yes.” I take a deep breath. “And this whole time, I’ve been asking myself what my father would have done if he were in this very situation. How would he prove to his best friend that he was on his side? Capable of keeping this information private?”

She sighs, leaning back against the wall behind her. “What did your father possess that you can’t seem to secure?” she asks me. “What did his friends, and family, and tenants respect about him that you feel you’re lacking?”

“Competence.”

“You are competent.”

“Yet I can’t seem to prove it.”

“Then you ought to start thinking of ways to amend that.”

I nod, lifting my head so that I can see her. She’s right, of course, and the knowledge warms my insides. This knowledge that she knows I’m capable, and suddenly I want to tell her more. I stare down at my glass and say, “Before my father died, Westley and I took a trip across the Continent. And my father, he warned me. He told me I needed to start taking my responsibilities more seriously, learning from him while I could, yet I thought he was being dramatic, of course. I thought I had all the time in the world left with him.” I close my eyes at the memory. “I guess we all feel immortality surging through us when we’re young, don’t we?”

Blythe is quiet, and I’m afraid I’ve said too much. We’re only just starting to get to know one another, and now I’ve unburdened all of my problems to her. But she has a quality about her that makes me wish to be as honest as possible. Wordlessly, though, and still staring out the window, she brushes her hand against my wrist and threads her fingers through mine. When I exhale, the air trembles through my lungs.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

“Thank you.” I allow the warmth of her hand to settle into my palm for one second, two, then steal my hand back, this gesture being somehow even more intimate than what we almost shared in the kitchens. “But enough about my problems. Tell me you’ve secured Lord Colchester’s patronage for your apiaries.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t do that, I’m afraid. We strolled together around the lake the other day, but before I could discuss my bees, I was rather distracted by someone else and his horse.” She shifts her gaze in my direction with a playful roll of her eyes.

“Sorry,” I say.

“So am I.” Blythe sighs.

“But surely it’s not too late. I think Lord Colchester has taken quite an interest in you. A walk around the lake, just you and him? A gentleman would never ask a lady for her company on such an outing unless he meant to imply his preference for her.”

Blythe observes me out of the corner of her eye. “He does seem very kind,” she admits. “But I’ve spent far too much time convincing my mother that I have no need of marriage to back down in so extravagant a way that I marry an earl.”

“He is kind,” I say quietly. “A true gentleman. I think you could be persuaded to marry someone like that.”

Blythe smiles, and I almost wonder if she’s making fun of me. “Did you hear what you just said? Persuaded to marry. Like I need a list of positive and negative consequences before I decide to link my life to his. If I marry at all, I don’t want to be persuaded. I don’t want to settle. I want to marry someone who requires no argument on his behalf.”

Something in my chest pinches at this, wondering if she would ever need persuading to be with me. Wondering if the memory of the warmth of my mouth against hers has ever kept her up at night, has ever made her skin grow so tight and hot that she wishes she could escape herself, and then I need to know. I must know. I need to remind her. “Just don’t marry anyone who kisses you in gardens.”

Blythe’s eyes flick to mine and then back down at her lap. “No, clearly an imprudent decision in many areas.”

I lean forward, tilting my head as though I’m about to kiss her again, angling for whatever attention she might spare me. “He would be far too impetuous and wouldn’t know what’s good for him.”

I thought that was a good line. Actually, I was certain it was, but she’s not laughing anymore, just staring at her hands, brows pinched together, and I can’t figure out what I’ve done to put that expression on her face.

“I’m sorry,” I say instinctively. “I said something wrong.”

“No,” she replies. “No. It’s just that was my first kiss, and after certain incidents from years past—”

I don’t feign ignorance over this. I know that my prank in the pigsty must be something she carries with her, and I would erase that night if I could. “Blythe,” I start slowly, realizing I’ve never seized the opportunity to apologize to her.

“No,” she interrupts me. “I’m not sure I would have ever chosen you of all people to share a first kiss with. In fact, you might have been the very last person in England I would have wanted to kiss.” Then she lifts her gaze to mine. “And you were certainly the last person whose kiss I thought I’d actually enjoy.”

My chest decompresses, all dread releasing from my body. Because I don’t think I would have been able to tolerate ruining that for her. It was never my intention. I inch closer, our knees almost touching. “And what about your second kiss?” I ask. “Who have you imagined sharing that with?”

A grin overtakes her face, and she whispers, “Maybe someone who doesn’t want it quite so much.”

For a girl who’s so intent upon teasing me, she does a phenomenal job of making me want her even more. But before either of us can follow through with whatever it is we want from each other, the creak of a door opening at the opposite end of the hall interrupts us.

Blythe looks at me with a sense of desperation, surely afraid she is yet again about to be caught in a compromising position, and so I whisper to her, “Go to your room and wait for me,” pointing over her shoulder at the door.

Silently, she lifts her skirts and dashes behind her bedroom door, leaving it open just a crack.

I take a sip of what’s left of the whisky, waiting for the shape of our uninvited companion to materialize, and it’s my brother who appears before me. “How can I help you, August?”

He clasps his hands behind his back, then scuffs the rug with his left foot. “Came to check in on you. See how you were feeling.”

“How thoughtful, brother. And what spurred this outpouring of fraternal affection?”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Oh, sod off.”

“I suppose I’m still a little sore from my accident the other day.” I refresh the whisky in my glass and then hold it out in a peace offering.

He doesn’t take it, but he does take a step closer to me. “Perhaps you promise that you’ll treat yourself a little more gently moving forward?” he asks quietly.

I think about the bedroom door just over my brother’s shoulder, and I wonder if Blythe’s ear is pressed to it, listening in. I realize I wouldn’t mind it. I realize I’d like it. It’s been a long time since I let anyone take care of me.

August continues, “We played some mindless game called Blind Man’s Bluff outside, and I’ve never missed your company more.”

“I’ll be myself again tomorrow,” I say.

“Thanks to Miss Rowley,” August adds. “If it weren’t for her quick thinking and practical skills, you’d be in terrible shape, don’t you think?”

I glance at the door, as though somehow Blythe would show some sign of hearing this. “Yes, you’re right.”

“You should tell her that.” August stares out the window at the lightning-severed sky. “Ladies love it when you talk about your feelings.”

“Thank you for the advice,” I say, reaching into the pocket of my waistcoat to feel for my handkerchief and Blythe’s pearl. It’s still wrapped safely. I’ve been carrying it with me ever since that night when we fought. When we kissed.

“Good night, Briggs.”

With a nod, I reply, “August.”

When I’m certain he’s rounded the corner of the hall, and I hear the snick of his door shutting, I tap on Blythe’s. She opens it only a crack, still skeptical of our privacy.

“He’s gone,” I tell her.

Blythe nods. “I should get to sleep anyway. Before Charlotte comes up and catches us.”

“A prudent idea,” I tell her. She begins to shut the door, but I place my hand on the jamb before she closes it entirely.

“Is there something else?” she asks, her eyes roving from my hand to my gaze.

The pearl from her dress, I think. I should give her back the pearl. I’ve been carrying it for weeks now. From Mistlethrush to London, back again, and now to the garden party.

She looks up at me with her doe-like eyes, waiting for my response, but I’m suddenly at a loss for words, and I can’t bring myself to return her trinket. “Nothing, Miss Rowley. Never mind. Good night.”

She quirks her eyebrow at me, and her mouth lifts at the corner. “Good night, Mr. Goswick.” Her bedroom door shuts, and I’m left with the darkness of the hall and the promise of another chance tomorrow.