22 22For what had been billed as a “cozy” family meal, dinner that evening was alarmingly elaborate, even by Lady Constance Gray’s standards. When she had been one of society’s best-known hostesses, she prided herself on throwing fabulous feasts, with risqué touches and dizzying entertainment.
And while there might not be any of her usual risqué touches (she was fully attired and her famed portrait was tucked away upstairs where no one else would see it), there was an alarming amount of food. And as for entertainment, well . . . Rhys was certain that was up to him to provide.
The entire family was present, minus Daniel, who was still too weak for such an event. Delilah and Jubilee sat to one side, doing their best to entertain the younger Miss Morton, Alice. At twelve, she was actually closest in age to Benji. But Benji had become uncharacteristically red and silent in the presence of Alice, stealing glances at the girl from across the table, and so it was left to Jubilee and Delilah.
Eloisa was sitting at his mother’s right hand, always ready to jump in with smooth conversation when a lull appeared. But there were not many. His mother and Mr. Morton were more than willing to fill the silence with reminisces, whether real or imagined, about the home county.
“And then there was the time that Mr. Stevens—”
“No, my lady, I do believe it was Mr. Robertson who—”
“Oh yes, of course, it was Robertson! And he left that poor dog alone for three days—”
“And when he got back from town, the dog had eaten everything in the larder and thrown it back up again!”
“The village talked of nothing else for six months!” Lady Ashby said on a tear-filled peal of laughter. “Oh, I tell you I longed for London then! Something other than talk of Mr. Robertson’s dog!”
“I imagine London is eager to welcome you back, my lady,” Sylvia said demurely from Rhys’s right side. They had been placed rather prominently at the center of the table. And while it presented a picture to place them together, in truth it did not allow for much private conversation.
Thankfully.
Rhys knew what was expected of him tonight. He was to propose to Sylvia Morton, allowing for his father’s return, and for Morton to solidify his standing in genteel society. It would make both their families happy, and presumably himself and Sylvia as well.
He just needed to convince himself to do it.
And to find a way to do so privately.
Because as much as his mother might enjoy a public declaration, Rhys was damned well going to give Sylvia a choice in the matter.
That morning, when his mother had basically said a proposal was forthcoming, Sylvia had turned red and given him a look of complete mortification. And it made him think that perhaps she had some hesitation when it came to marrying him. And while that might have been wishful thinking, even if she did welcome an offer, he would not do her the disservice of doing it publicly.
“You look like you’ve swallowed an eel,” Eloisa said in a whisper as another course was laid out in front of them. Rhys was sure the food was impressive, but as he hadn’t been able to eat a bite he was unable to vouch for it. Sylvia was distracted on his other side by something her father was saying, thus allowing his sister the chance to needle him without being overheard. “Do your best to not get sick on the table.”
“I will try. And I’ll thank you to not crow over me at this moment.”
She turned to him. “I’m not.”
He harrumphed.
“Rhys,” she said, and he turned to see honest surprise on her face. “I’m not.”
He felt all the righteous indignation he usually reserved for his most callous sister dissipating from his core. And for once, he felt like being honest.
“I never thought it would be like this.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I always thought when I married it would be for . . .”
“Are you about to say love?” his sister chided him.
“No,” he replied, but his mind swam with yes. “I simply never thought it would be so . . . forced.”
“Forced,” she repeated. “Rhys, it’s not forced.”
He gave her a look that spoke what he couldn’t say at that table, with his mother and sisters and potential wife present.
“It’s not,” she said. “You have a choice.”
“Do I?” he asked. “Did I have a choice when you arranged for Miss Morton to come to Greenwich?”
“What are you talking about?” Eloisa’s brow came down. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“You’re the only one who could have managed Mother to—never mind. Tell me all about this choice I supposedly have.”
“It’s not supposed,” she replied, almost laughing, but then seeing the pain apparent on his face, quickly sobered. “It is not an easy one, granted, and Mother—and I, admittedly—will fight you tooth and nail over it, but you still have a choice.”
“You mean where I choose between marrying someone I do not love, and estranging and disappointing my family to marry someone I do?”
It took Rhys a moment to realize what he’d said. But judging by the eyebrow that rose to the sky, Eloisa had heard it immediately.
Then, after a moment, “You’re in love with her, then.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m going to do my duty by the family, so does it even matter?” he said, sullen and defeated.
Eloisa simply stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes. “God, I hope so.”
Rhys didn’t know what to make of that. And he would not have time to do so, because Eloisa quickly turned in the opposite direction and said, “I think it’s time for us to retire to the sitting room. Don’t you agree, Mother?”
“Retire?” their mother admonished. “Eloisa! The treacle tart was just served.”
“Yes, but if we take our desserts into the sitting room, it will allow for more conversations. Private conversations,” she said with a knowing wink to Rhys. A wink Lady Constance Gray did not miss.
“Of course!” she said, rising from the table with a clatter of silver on serving dishes. “Mrs. Watson, be so good as to have the treacle brought to the sitting room. We’ll all have a lovely time there, eating our desserts. And, er, Rhys . . . would you mind showing Miss Morton the library before joining us? She was just telling me the other day about a book she would like to borrow.”
With scrapes of chairs and a scurry of servants retrieving slices of tart, the whole party began the migration to the sitting room doors. As she passed, Eloisa whispered in his ear.
“Time to make your choice, Rhys. I hope you make the right one.”
Rhys blinked after his sister, but she was gone just as quickly as the rest of them. Leaving Rhys staring down into the owlish face of Sylvia Morton, surrounded by hurrying servants.
“Miss Morton,” he said, clearing his throat. “Have you seen our family library?”
“I . . . have not,” she said tentatively.
“Would you care to?”
“. . . Yes, Dr. Gray. Rhys. I believe I would.”
A choice. Strange, he had been marching toward this for so long—avoiding it at every turn but knowing it loomed before him—he’d never really thought about his choice in the matter.
As he led Sylvia to the library, they passed the doors of the study. That door—on just the other side of it, he and Margaret had spent some of the most thrilling moments of his life. He paused, for less than a second, letting his eyes drift to that door as they walked past.
Then, as they continued down the hall, they passed a small table lain with family trinkets. Including a miniature of his brother Francis. Before he had left university, he had been tall and strapping, the picture of pink-cheeked English health. He had their mother’s curls, and goodness knows he had been missed by her. Almost as much as their father.
They reached the library doors and Sylvia came to a stop.
“Oh . . . you know where the library is, then?” he asked.
“I was sent here a few times while you were saving your brother’s life,” she said. “Your mother kept suggesting things to distract her.”
“Did any of them work?” he asked as he guided her toward a set of chairs by the banked fire.
“Not really,” she admitted.
“I have not thanked you properly for your kindness to my mother during that time,” he said.
“I was pleased to be of help,” she said prettily, seating herself in one chair, allowing him to sit as well. “I know that I am not as staunch and eager to get my hands dirty as some, but I like to think I can be helpful in other ways.”
“Yes,” Rhys said, considering.
“In fact, I think that being a help is about being the kind of person another person can’t be. To know to serve tea to guests while someone else carries on the conversation. People can work very well in contrast to each other.”
“True,” he said.
“Take us, for instance,” she continued. “We are not terribly similar. We have different strengths, and different ideas for the future. But together . . . I think we would be splendid.”
Rhys blinked twice. “I have to give you credit, Miss Morton,” he said. “You certainly chance a boldness that I have not managed.”
“You mean by speaking about our future openly?” she asked with an amused sort of smile. “I think at this point, speaking in generalities is a bit of a fiction, don’t you?”
He nodded. And, he thought to himself, she had earned that right. She had been told for years that she was to marry him. She had come here to London, danced with him, waited on him. Why shouldn’t she have expectations of him?
“I think we shall rub along together rather well, don’t you?”
They would, he realized. He could see it. She would sweep into his life in Greenwich, and organize it. There would be meals on the table and things dusted and callers. She would make him stop working for tea every day. She would encourage him to lecture in London, so she could come and visit friends and shop. She would avoid his laboratory like the plague—likely for fear of the actual plague—but otherwise they would build a very comfortable life.
And it made him so very tired thinking about it.
“Yes, we would rub along together well, Miss Morton. Except . . .”
“Except?” she prompted.
“Except . . . is it enough?”
And once the words were out of his mouth, he felt the rightness of them.
Her smile faltered, just at the edges. “Enough?” she repeated. “I . . . I don’t know what you mean . . .”
“I mean, is it enough, Miss Morton? Sylvia. I worry that it’s not. Rubbing along together. We both deserve more than that.” He shook his head. “And to be forced into this to please our families—it’s unfair.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, her eyes falling to her hands. “I thought you liked me.”
“I do. I think you a very worthy young lady. But . . . there is more to it than that.”
She looked up at him from beneath wet lashes. “What more is there? Speak plainly, I beg you.”
Rhys hesitated for a moment, not wanting to inflict any more pain on the girl than he had to. And that was enough time for a knock to sound at the door.
“Excuse me, sir,” Chalmers said, sticking his head in. “But this note came for you. I would not have disturbed you, but I was told that it is a medical emergency.”
Rhys, half annoyed, half relieved, crossed to the door and took the note from the butler.
“I was told it was an emergency by young Frederick, sir,” Chalmers said low, making Rhys’s heart quicken.
What could the young gardener-in-training’s emergency be? But it only took a glance at the handwriting for Rhys to know that it was not Frederick who needed him.
Dear Rhys—it said, and the sight of his name in her hand made his pulse quicken.
This is how it all began, isn’t it? We met, and then, not willing to let the conversation stop, wrote each other letters. As if we knew we couldn’t be mere acquaintances. And so, what better way to say what I need to say than in a letter?
And what I need to say is simple. It’s good-bye.
You have been my friend for a year now, ever since we began our letters. But it feels like longer than that. It feels like there has always been a part of my life reserved for you. For someone who knows how my mind works, because that’s how his mind works, too. Someone who is so familiar, and yet it is our differences that make us curious about one another. What other friend in the world would have gone to the Horticultural Society for me? For what other friend would I have helped tend to his brother?
You listen to my petty annoyances, and make me smile. I know the way your brow creases when you’re listening to your patients, and the way it lifts when you laugh.
We take solace in one another. And we celebrate each other, as only the best of friends do. And as such, I would want to stand by my friend, and celebrate his new life with his bride, but I find that it hurts far too much. Because while I love my friend, I am also in love with my friend.
I love you. I’ve been in love with you longer than you know. Longer than even I knew. And I cannot separate that from the part of me that is your friend. It’s all just one person. Just me.
I try to tell myself it will be easier for you too if I leave. For you and for Sylvia. But I know myself to be much more selfish. So I will head back to Helmsley and try very hard to not feel a pang of regret every time the mail arrives.
Unless . . . there is a reason for me to stay.
A long time ago, when I was hesitant to step outside of my greenhouse, my mother would challenge me. She would look me in the eye and say, “What’s the worst that would happen?” And then, once I told her, she would dare me to do it anyway. By naming the worst thing, it had been robbed of its power.
You have dared me to step outside of my greenhouse with every letter you ever wrote. I’ve been daring myself every single step of this journey to London. Every single step toward you. And so I dared myself to write this letter.
If you choose to give me a reason to stay, you will find me in the garden.
If you do not, know I will cherish every moment we had. They, and you, will not fade from my memory. And I will think on you fondly, and wish you happy.
All I ask is that you pose yourself this question: what is the worst that could happen?
Love,
Margaret
The blood rushed through his veins as he read every word, drank in every drop of what she had to say. She had put her heart to paper, and he read it over and over. He wanted to memorize it . . . but he didn’t need to. He could have written every word himself.
She loved him, he thought, letting the thrill of it course through him. And he loved her; it was undeniable. And leave it to Margaret Babcock to make him see his choice in the simplest of terms.
What was the worst that would happen? If he did not marry Sylvia Morton, his family would be unhappy. And the difficulties with her family would continue. It would put an end to any hope that things would go back to normal. But . . . that wasn’t any different than it had been. The past several years had gone on, and it had become their normal.
But if he did marry Sylvia, and he did not go to Margaret right now . . .
She would leave.
And that is something he would regret for the rest of his life.
“Miss Morton, I am so sorry,” he said, quickly folding the letter back up. “But I cannot stay.”
She rose, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. “You cannot stay? When we are in the middle of our conversation?” she said, her voice as sharp as her face was pale. “A rather important one, if I may be frank.”
Rhys knew he would have to break this girl’s heart. He would have to shatter her expectations. But it was better to have a moment of pain than a lifetime of it.
“Miss Morton,” he said as kindly as he could. “There’s nothing left to say. Perhaps if circumstances were different, I’m sure we would rub along together very well . . .”
He moved forward, and was surprised to see her give a brave sort of smile as her eyes fell to the note in his hand. Her mouth formed a perfect O of understanding.
“Dr. Gray, I understand completely.” She wiped at her shining eyes. “You said it yourself, if circumstances were different . . .”
“Yes,” he agreed as he walked to the door. “If things were different.”
But things were different, he realized as he stepped out into the hall and toward the back of the house. Because for the first time, he was letting go of what everyone else wanted.
For the first time, he was daring to go after what he wanted.