Chapter Thirty-Two

Blythe

“Sabrina Dixon is wrong about Briggs Goswick.”

Across from me in the carriage, Charlotte yawns. “And you couldn’t simply accept that and go to bed?”

“I am intent upon proving it to her,” I say. I still wear my black dress with the vibrant flowers from the day’s events, though it’s well past midnight now, and I’m beginning to feel a pang of guilt over dragging Charlotte out of bed and forcing her to come with me to a distinctly unladylike event. “I was upset at first, but then I realized: Mr. Goswick is not the person she’d like to believe he is. I know he isn’t. He would never simply get up and leave for a boxing match after he…after we…”

Charlotte arches an eyebrow. “After you…?”

“There was kissing involved.”

She doesn’t have the reaction that I expected her to. She only smiles knowingly, as though she had orchestrated this all along, and continues her study of the dark scenery out the carriage window.

We travel through the night, down the winding road and through Brumbury, and while Charlotte’s eyes flutter with sleep, my blood is still pulsing, my fists clenched. I don’t want to find Briggs at this boxing match. I want to be right about him.

Finally, the carriage slows, and one of the grooms jumps down from his post, opening the door and extending a hand to help first Charlotte and then myself out into the field. Several hundred feet away, there is a huge bonfire, and a crowd of mostly men drinking and carousing.

“We’ll wait here for you, miss,” says the groom to Charlotte.

“Thank you, we won’t be long.” She links her arm through mine, and we trudge through the field to where the action is taking place. “Father must never find out that we attended this event,” she informs me. “Otherwise he’ll never trust me again.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come,” I say suddenly, taking in our surroundings. This really isn’t the kind of place I want to find Briggs—nothing good can come of this place. But at the same time, I realize I do want to find Briggs here, because if he isn’t here, then where could he have gone?

“We’re here now.” Charlotte wraps her cloak more tightly around her body. “There’s no point in turning back. Let’s see where Mr. Goswick has disappeared to.”

We weave among people, and while they are loud and agitated, they eventually settle. Their attention is turned to a makeshift square in the middle of the field. A man puts two fingers into his mouth and whistles sharply, calling the whole assembly to attention. Charlotte and I come to a standstill, holding on to one another childishly and waiting to see what happens.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says the man. The flames from the fire cast shadows, and light leaps across his face. “We have the reigning champion, the young Mr. William Jones from Camden Town, and his challenger…”

Here, the crowd begins to cheer, and some of them seem rather astonished.

“Our very own Mr. Briggs Goswick!”

Charlotte clutches my hand. “This must be a joke.”

But from among the crowd, Briggs emerges, coat tossed aside, shirt completely removed, and he stretches each of his arms over his chest. I am all at once impressed by how professional and primitively masculine he looks, but I can’t deny the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

Sabrina was right. She was right about him.

She was right about me .

“He cannot fight a real pugilist!” Charlotte cries. “Surely, this is a joke. Blythe, do something.”

I swipe at a tear that’s escaped down my cheek. “And what would you have me do?”

“This is madness,” says Charlotte. “This is madness .”

I cling to my cousin’s hands, searching the crowd for signs of anyone I might know. From several yards away, I think I spot Mr. Parker, and then, beside him, August Goswick and…my father.

“Charlotte,” I say, “I think my father is here.”

“That’s ridiculous, Uncle Anthony is most certainly in bed, fast asleep. This is no place for a gentleman.” She shrugs. “Well, except Mr. Goswick, I suppose.”

“Charlotte, I don’t think you fully understand the appeal of a boxing match. It doesn’t care whether you’re common or wealthy or nobility. It just cares that you have money to throw at two men beating one another to death.”

“Oh, dear,” says Charlotte, chewing on her thumbnail. “Do you think there will be blood?”

I stare at her in amazement.

“Mr. Goswick’s blood?”

“What does it matter whose blood it is, if there is blood at all?”

“I’m not really sure now,” says Charlotte thoughtfully.

I grab her by the hand and drag her toward where Mr. Parker, August Goswick, and my father all stand, intently watching as Briggs and his opponent circle one another, almost as though they’re each afraid of throwing the first punch.

“Blythe, my dear!” cries my father upon seeing me. His face blanches. “What are you doing here? This is no place for young ladies.”

“I don’t think it’s a place for me, either,” says August, flinching as someone’s knuckle connects with someone else’s flesh.

“It isn’t the place for you , Papa!” I exclaim. “What could you possibly accomplish here?”

Papa’s cheeks puff and his eyes narrow with anger. “Don’t you speak to me that way, Blythe Rowley. I am your father, regardless of what you may think of my current circumstances. I always have what’s best for you in mind.”

“Are you gambling?” I ask, standing close to him and trying to keep my voice as low and even as possible.

He grumbles and turns away.

“Papa, please. I’m begging you. This is no way to help Awendown. I know you’re desperate, but—”

“Well, it’s too late now, girl,” he says. “Besides, young Mr. August here guaranteed that my bet is a winner. Even though now my bet is on Mr. Goswick, I suppose.”

I’m seething, confused. I know how upset Papa has been with our financial circumstances, but I never thought he’d gamble. And then my confusion turns to rage. Rage that he would gamble with what’s left of our family’s money rather than allow me to contribute in a more meaningful way.

My attention is drawn away from my inflexible father and back to the fight, where yet another inflexible male ruins my evening, and possibly my life.

I stop where I am, my eyes, despite my best efforts, unable to tear themselves away from Briggs. The fighters’ movements are fast, like they’re testing one another, and Briggs makes contact. I cheer, even though I had no intention of being emotionally invested in this fight whatsoever. I try to tell myself it’s simply because Father’s placed money on him.

“Don’t draw attention to our presence, Blythe,” Charlotte whispers. “We shouldn’t distract him.” Her fingernails dig into my forearm.

Briggs hits the boy again and again, then ducks to avoid his vengeful fist. Again, Briggs strikes his opponent, and I had no idea he was so skilled at boxing. I had no idea that this was something that required grace and agility, something that demanded concentration and attention, and something that made me want to vomit. My fear for him intensifies with every passing moment.

“He’s doing well!” says Charlotte.

I don’t reply.

“Don’t you think?” she tries again. “Do you think he’s doing well?”

“Charlotte, I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know the rules. I don’t know what to expect. I just showed up.”

I elbow my way through the crowd, trying to move forward, trying to gain a better vantage point. When I’m finally at the forefront, I have a clear view of the match, surrounded by shouting men, angry fists punching the air, and the beat of my heart slamming in my chest.

Briggs looks weary. He’s been busy all day. He drank. What could have possibly enticed him to start this match? The boy circles him, aware of Briggs’s obvious deficiencies. He throws a quick punch that lands just below Briggs’s left eye and sends his head flying backward at an angle that makes me believe it will surely snap from his neck. Briggs blinks slowly, staggers, trying to shake the shock from his person, but the boy is getting ready to take him down.

Before I can stop myself, I hear my voice travel outward, screaming, “Briggs, no!”

He turns, his eyes finding mine, and the boy hits him squarely in the ribs, then upward under the chin, sending Briggs sprawling backward, unable to stand again.

The crowd hisses and boos, but the man in charge of the match grabs the winner by the arm and raises it in the air. I try to maneuver through the crowd once more, but there is too much movement, and for every step that I take toward Briggs, I’m shoved backward.

“Blythe,” says Charlotte beside me.

“I have to go to him,” I reply, trying to shake my cousin from my arm.

“Blythe, no, wait,” says Charlotte. “Your father.”

I turn to see what has her so distraught, and she points through the throng of men to where August Goswick stands, trying to hold my father upright. Papa’s face is red, his eyes bulging. August is yelling something, yelling for someone, yelling for help…

“Papa!” I scream.

…

Charlotte sits with me in my bedroom at Wrexford while we wait for the doctor to tell us Papa’s prognosis. Outside my door, August’s heavy footfalls pace the hall. Occasionally, he glances inside, as though to check and make sure that neither Charlotte nor I are too depressed. I wish I could tell him not to feel so guilty for bringing Papa tonight. But even I feel guilty. For yelling at Papa. For making him upset.

“Have you heard anything about your brother?” Charlotte asks August.

I close my eyes. Briggs Goswick is the last person I wish to hear about. I envision him still lying unconscious in the middle of the field, all of the spectators dispersed and at home, tucked in their beds. But he’s alone.

Which is what he deserves. His frivolous nature has thrust all of us into despair. Silently, I chastise myself for ever believing him to be more than the foolhardy fop that Sabrina Dixon knew him to be all along. The kind of gentleman who leaves a girl in a precarious predicament when the opportunity for revelry appears.

Maybe Sabrina was right. Maybe I wanted Briggs to be someone he’s not. Maybe I wanted to be someone I’m not.

Before I can spiral any further, the brisk clip of the doctor’s pace draws all of our attention down the hall.

“Miss Rowley,” he says, clutching his medicine bag before him. “Your father is weak, but stable. He’s suffered angina. I believe he will get better, but he must rest and eat healthily. Fresh fruits and vegetables.”

“Of course, Doctor, thank you,” I say. I close my eyes and press the heels of my hand against them, my entire body sagging with relief.

“May we see him?” Charlotte asks, coming up behind me and wrapping her arms around my shoulders.

“I think we should let him get some sleep,” the doctor suggests. “Lady Rowley is with him now, and if he should need anything, she is right at his side.”

“Thank you,” I say again.

He bows before us and leaves.

“Get some rest, cousin,” says Charlotte, and she spins me around so that she can hug me. We hold each other for a long while, and I rest my chin against her shoulder, breathing in her consistency.

“I don’t know how I will sleep,” I murmur. “It’s already dawn.”

“Why not go to the library? I left my latest read on the side table, and I think you might enjoy it. Reading always makes one sleepy.”

I smile and laugh tiredly.

“Miss Barlow, Miss Rowley, I will return to Mistlethrush Hall,” says August. “But don’t hesitate to call for me. For anything. I’m at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Mr. Goswick,” I say. Both Charlotte and I squeeze his hands, and he departs to get what little sleep he can manage.

“Try to rest, cousin,” Charlotte says again, and she plods down the hall to her room.

I decide to take her advice. Perhaps reading for a while wouldn’t be the worst idea. Even if it didn’t put me to sleep, at least it would take my mind off of my current situation. I could become lost again in a world that is not my own. Forget what I know. Forget what I felt. It’s better that way.

But the universe has other plans for me this morning, I see. As I descend the stairs of Wrexford Park, I’m greeted by a gentleman standing in the foyer, dripping from the rainstorm outside.

“Lord Colchester,” I say, my hand resting on the banister in an attempt to keep me upright. I didn’t expect him, and he is the second to last person I’d like to see this morning. I know he must mean well, showing up here at Wrexford Park, but I don’t think I have it in me to add yet another emotion to my already full plate. My heart aches from exhaustion.

“Miss Rowley,” he says, removing his hat from his head and allowing a footman to take his soaked cloak. “I wanted to surprise you yesterday for the harvest festival, but I was delayed. And now your uncle has just informed me of your father’s health.”

I nod, then cover my mouth, unable to stop the sob that escapes my throat but unwilling to let Lord Colchester see. I’m not sure what’s inspired it—my ailing father or my utter ignorance to believe that Briggs Goswick was a greater man than I had originally assessed. I should have known better than to doubt my judgment.

Or maybe I’m crying because a perfectly decent man stands before me, has traveled all this way to surprise me, and I don’t love him. I’ve tried, and he has done everything to secure my reciprocation, but I cannot. Not the way that he deserves.

“Is he…?” Lord Colchester asks.

“He’s alive,” I assure him. “He’s resting now, and my mother is at his side. I’m sorry for my state, of course.”

“No,” says Lord Colchester, coming closer and placing his right foot on the first step. “No, don’t apologize. You’re exhausted, of course. Can I get you something? Some tea, perhaps?”

I shake my head. “You are so kind,” I say, my hand still over my mouth. “You’re so kind, and I cannot postpone what I’m about to say any longer.”

He looks almost hopeful, and as much as I hate the words that are about to spew from my mouth, they’re inevitable, and he deserves the truth.

“I cannot marry you, my lord.”

He steps back again, his mouth parted in confusion.

“I cannot marry you,” I say again. “I cannot leave my family. I cannot leave Awendown House and be the wife you deserve.”

“I can wait—” he tries.

“No,” I say, and the tears stream endlessly down my cheeks. “No, it’s not a matter of time. I cannot love you the way you deserve. And I should not have led you on. Please believe me that I hoped. I hoped my feelings would change, but the longer the summer went on, the more I realized…”

“Is there someone else?” he asks.

I don’t reply. I don’t think I have to.

He smiles despite his sadness, and I wish he wasn’t so considerate. I wish he were angry or shouting, but he doesn’t do any of that. “It’s all right,” he says. “I understand. Really, I do.”

I shake my head, wishing I had a handkerchief.

Lord Colchester bows before me. “Thank you, Miss Rowley, for a lovely summer in your company.”

“I’m sorry,” I half-whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

He retrieves his cloak and paces to the main entrance of Wrexford Hall and, before stepping back outside, says, “Please don’t be sorry. I wish you every happiness.”

“I wish the same for you.”

With a brief nod of his head, Lord Colchester disappears from Wrexford, and suddenly, the walls seem too close. My breath comes too fast for me to catch. I just turned down the most eligible gentleman of my acquaintance, perhaps the only gentleman who will ever propose to me. One I haven’t hated since we first met. One who was kind and comfortable and would let me keep my bees, let me keep myself.

I turned him down because of Briggs Goswick, who despite all of his plotting, and scheming, and determination this summer, still managed to trick me into thinking he was changed. That he was capable of growing up and being the gentleman I thought I saw in him.

The tears burn the backs of my eyes, and my feet move of their own accord. I leave Wrexford behind, weave through the gardens, and then trek across the pastures to where a narrow lake cuts my uncle’s property. The land on either side is connected by a Palladian stone bridge with stately Grecian archways that lure me with their promise of cover from the impending storm. Above me, the thunder rumbles through the darkening coal-colored clouds, and a steady, gentle rain begins its descent from the sky.

I pause in the middle of the structure and remember the story Mama once told me and Amy on an afternoon walk. She said the bridge had been built by our great-grandfather, as an offering of goodwill to his neighbors, the Goswicks, as Barlows and Goswicks had been neighbors for centuries. It was a bridge that connected our two families, and I scoffed at the idea then. Thought it absurd that we would want to be connected with any family that was capable of producing someone as odious as Briggs Goswick.

But now, almost a decade later, I wish that we were the something that connected our two families. The two of us.

I lean on the stone railing, watching as two swans paddle under the bridge, pausing briefly to caress one another’s necks. I stare for who knows how long, wallowing in my own self-pity and marveling at my foolishness until I hear the slow clop of hooves to my right.

Briggs rides his speckled gray gelding, soaked from the rain, and when he reaches the bridge, he dismounts, leading his horse by the reins, and then takes off his hat. He’s all in one piece, hardly a wound to be seen, and I withhold the urge to touch him, to prove to myself that he’s all right. My relief is palpable.

“Blythe,” he says quietly.

Immediately, his arms are around me, but I take a step back, slipping out of his grasp. I’m still too hurt from last night. I’m hurt from far too many things to just allow him to hold me like that without any kind of explanation.

He eyes me curiously but accepts my distance. “I sought you at Wrexford first, but one of the footmen said he saw you go out onto the property. I came to find you.”

“Here I am,” I say quietly, unsure exactly what kind of response he was expecting from me. “I’m surprised to see you standing upright considering the night you had.”

“I’m fine,” he assures me.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Blythe, I don’t know why you’re angry,” he tries.

“I’m trying not to be,” I say, my eyes still upon the two swans. “But I can’t seem to manage being civil, either. If you insist upon talking to me now, I’m afraid this is all you’ll get from me.”

“I came to apologize, Blythe. And to explain.” He stands beside me, his hand resting on the balustrade, inching forward, like he wants to touch me but isn’t sure what my reaction might be. And rightly so. I don’t know what it will be, either.

“Apologize for what?” I ask. “For leaving me in the drawing room with Sabrina Dixon? For running away, chasing a good time to cap off the good time you had earlier with me?”

“What? No, Blythe, that’s not what it was. How could you think—”

“Then explain to me what it was, Briggs. Because it looks like you left me in rather a vulnerable predicament in order to go play with your friends. To go and box and gamble ! What will it take to make you learn your lesson? How much more of your family’s money do you have to lose?”

His nostrils flare, and he runs his hand down his face, flicking away the rainwater. “I see,” he starts quietly. “Are you so convinced of my character, then? You think I would use you like that and then dispose of you?”

“That’s what you did!” I cry, finally turning to face him.

“I had to leave!” His volume matches mine, his green eyes perilously dark. “Julian told me. He told me the state of your father’s finances, so when Westley informed me that your father had followed August— August , of all people—to a boxing match, I couldn’t let him lose what little money he had left. And lo and behold, my brother had convinced your father of the soundness of his bet. He convinced him to bet on a boy hardly out of knee pants against a professional boxer backed by wealthy lords out of London. So yes, Blythe, I took Thomas Walker’s place. I took my tenant’s son’s place because I had the same training as his opponent, and I thought there might at least be a chance that I could beat him, and your father could walk away richer, and not squander his family’s savings the way my father did!” He smacks his heaving chest.

My voice cracks at the admission. “Your father?” I ask quietly. Briggs turns from me, staring out at the lake, but I touch his cheek, guiding his attention back to me. “Your father is the one who gambled and spent your fortune?”

He nods slowly.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me believe it was you this entire time?”

“Because he’s my father.” Briggs chokes back a sob. “Because he’s my father , and that’s all he left me. Not a goodbye, not a legacy to carry on. Just his debt, and his indiscretions, and his shame. You already thought poorly of me, so what did it matter if I proved you right?”

I shake my head, trying my best to keep my face from contorting from my crying. I have been wrong, so, so wrong. “I don’t think poorly of you,” I say, both hands going to his cheeks. “I don’t think poorly of you. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have made you feel that way.”

He shifts away from me, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands, and I want to hold him, to keep him against me, but there’s a rigidness that’s overtaken him, and now I’m afraid I can’t get the old Briggs back. “I should have told you,” he finally says. “I should have come back and told you where I was going instead of leaving you. I’m sorry, but helping your father was foremost on my mind. I apologize for what happened between us after the harvest festival, Blythe.”

What happened between us? I think. What happened between us was uninhibited, and wonderful, and inevitable. There’s nothing about what happened between us that I’m sorry for. “Why are you apologizing? I consented to what happened at the harvest festival.” I step forward, securing his chin between my thumb and forefinger and forcing him to look at me. His eyes are soft and sad as they sweep my face, his breathing heavy and labored.

“We shouldn’t have. I should have had more control. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to believe that we—”

I take a step forward, my face pinching with the weight of his unfinished sentence and how its lack of finality makes my heart pound torturously. “That we what?”

“That anything between us is possible. Your family is relying upon you to make a better match than me. My family is relying upon me to maintain Mistlethrush. We should never have let what’s between us get as far as it did.” Briggs grips the banister of the bridge, staring down into the murky lake water. “We both know what I need to do, Blythe.”

My voice is low and burdened. “You can’t be serious.”

“For once, I am serious. It’s possibly the only decision I’ve ever made that feels rooted in responsibility rather than the inconsistency of my feelings.”

“You would marry her?” I ask. “After all of this? After everything we’ve shared this summer? You would still marry her?”

“There’s no other choice to be made, Blythe.”

“There is, but you’re too much of a coward to make it.”

He looks stricken. “That’s not fair. This is me finally growing up, Blythe, being…being the man you never believed I could be.”

My head spins with the inherent absurdity of what he says. “This is what you think being a man is?” I dare him. “Marrying a girl you don’t love, what would you call that, Briggs? Bravery? ”

He grabs my wrist. “Yes, actually, that’s exactly what I would call it.”

“You’re ridiculous.” I yank myself from his grasp and shove past him the way I came. I run my hand down his horse’s neck to make sure he knows my departure has nothing to do with him.

“I’d rather you think me ridiculous than for you to resent me, to hate me,” says Briggs.

I pause, turning back to him. “Hate you?” I ask, squinting as though that will make what he said clearer to me. “Hate you?” His words break over me like shards of glass, embedding in my skin. I close the space between us, shoving him in the shoulders with both hands. “I love you! I couldn’t possibly love you more, and you would throw it away like it was nothing.”

“You’re everything,” he says softly. “You cannot comprehend what you mean to me. It’s because I love you that I must let you go.” He grips my wrists, patiently waiting for my tears to stop, but there’s no point in that. They flow without hesitation now. I’m flustered and embarrassed, and I’m so, so angry.

“Lord Colchester asked me to marry him,” I admit quietly, and Briggs’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “And I told him no. I told him no because I knew I could never love him the way I love you. I did that for you, for us.”

He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a weary sigh. “Well, you shouldn’t have,” he says finally. “Why would you? Why would anyone trade him for me? Hell, I’d marry him if he asked.”

“It’s not funny, Briggs.”

“No, it’s downright depressing, Blythe.” He takes a step closer, his hand cupping my cheek, and then says quietly, “He could give you everything. Everything that I cannot. That’s what I want for you, what you deserve .”

I shake my head. “No, no.”

Briggs inches his fingers into my hair, easing me into the soft place between his shoulder and his neck where I cry openly, gripping the lapels of his jacket. Slowly, his cheek drops to the top of my head, and we stand motionless until my body wears itself out. “I cannot live with your resentment, Blythe,” he murmurs into my hair. “I could live with anything but that.”

“Even watching me marry another man?” I ask.

But Briggs doesn’t answer.

I push myself away, and he stands there, watching me, his expression exhausted, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I’m tired,” I say. “I need to go. I can’t be here like this any longer.”

“Blythe, please,” he tries one more time.

“No,” I say, swiping at my tears and sniffling pathetically. “I wish you and Miss Dixon every happiness. I hope she’s all that you think she will be.” I gather my skirts and trudge back out into the rain, leaving Briggs calling my name from behind me and a piece of my heart with every step farther I take.