Chapter Sixteen

Thomas’s rather loud and abrupt opening of the curtains, along with the outpouring of stark, bright winter morning light, woke Liam with a start. He blinked, the sun’s rays piercing through the foggy mist of his still half-asleep mind.

He’d barely slept. Most of the night he’d spent tossing and turning, the events of the previous evening repeating themselves in an endless loop. Not until the sun had begun its ascent had he finally managed to drift off into a dreamless, restless sleep.

He wondered grimly if someone else in this house had spent such a wretched night.

‘Good morning, my lord,’ the old butler said, somewhat too cheerfully for Liam’s taste. ‘I trust you slept well?’

‘Quite,’ Liam lied, knowing that after yesterday’s festivities nothing less would be expected. ‘Thank you, Thomas. You enjoyed yourself?’

‘Yes, my lord. And if I may say so,’ Mr Brown said, lighting the newly laid fire, ‘it was a delightful surprise to have you join us.’

‘Thank you, Thomas.’

‘Will you be having breakfast downstairs?’ he asked, resuming his normal self. ‘Or shall I have it sent up?’

‘I will come down, I think, Thomas, but, please, no hurry. And I shall dress myself this morning. As I recall, I instructed you all to take the day...’

‘Yes, my lord, as you wish.’

‘Go.’ Liam waved at him, sitting up in his bed, not quite ready to leave it entirely. ‘I order you to find something to amuse yourself, Thomas.’

‘Very well, my lord.’

‘If you could, however, ask everyone to find me at some point this afternoon in my study? I have something for you all. A belated St Stephen’s gift, as it were.’

‘I shall tell them, my lord,’ he said with a bow, heading for the door. ‘A kind and sure to be much appreciated gesture, I’m sure.’

With that, he left Liam to his quiet, lazy solitude.

Liam wondered for a moment what indeed the old retainer would find to occupy his time. He’d come to the realisation, when trying to decide on everyone’s gifts, that he did not in fact know much about Thomas. About who he was, beneath the mask of dutiful butler. A sad thought, considering he’d known the man his entire life.

Though he’d been brought up to be the master, prepared with every lesson, every moment, to be a proper lord, he’d never truly been able to reconcile himself to the notion. When he’d left for the New World and discovered a society without such expectations, when he had found a society where any man could rise, given he had the will...it had opened his eyes and he’d felt, for the first time, that he’d found a society in which he could live, and believe in. Where his blood did not thrust upon him a way of life he neither desired nor could defend. Where work and industriousness defined the man—not his title, nor his family.

Though his idyllic view of that society had been shattered as well, the precept of it remained nonetheless ingrained within his beliefs.

When he’d joined the staff for their celebrations last night, it had been in that spirit. The spirit of equality. When he’d shared their food and drink, danced with them, he’d felt at home. That felt right. It had convinced him that the course of action he’d set himself upon was the right one—that he would never be his father’s son. Not that he’d ever wished to be. In fact, that was the very last thing he would ever wish for.

The sun’s rays caught upon the crystal of the vase on the mantelpiece, sending rainbows of colour dancing across the wall before him.

Flowers...everywhere... Miss Merrickson and her obsession with flowers...

He smiled to himself. That simple gesture reminded him so much of his mother, and of Hal. They, too, had been intent on filling the house with colour and sweet fragrances. They, too, had sought not to cultivate hordes of exotic species, forcing blooms out of season, but to seek out those blossoms which nature provided at any given time. Uneven, wild and imperfect they may have been, but there had been inexplicable beauty in the simplicity and disorder of the arrangements they’d made. As there was in this one.

Liam’s mind turned inevitably back to the events of the previous night. He wished he could feel as he should. Ashamed. A right cad. But he could not.

That kiss...

It had awoken something within him. She had awoken something within him. Despite his lack of sleep, he felt so alive. Last night his restlessness had not been due to worry, or fear, only excitement and...

Happiness. Elation.

When he thought back on the touch of her, the feel of her beneath him, her scent swirling around him, her warmth seeping through him to the darkest, coldest corners of his being...it filled him with wonder. And pleasure. And joy.

There had been such purity, such unguarded gentleness in that kiss. She had opened herself to him, and he to her, in a way he’d never known before. He had found comfort and pleasure with women he’d encountered over the years. But with Rebecca... Everything had melted away as he’d folded himself into her, offering, receiving. And then...

She must have felt it, too; he knew it. He’d seen it in her eyes when she’d pulled away. The possibility beneath the simplicity. The passion, which, left unchecked, would consume them until nothing at all was left of who they were before. Had she not found the strength to move away, there was no doubt of what might have happened. What could have happened.

What could still happen.

What he desperately wanted to happen, had since the first moment.

‘Was there anything else, my lord?’ Rebecca asked that evening as she set down the master’s coffee tray.

Though he’d been true to his word, and asked nothing of the staff all day, he had asked Lizzie to have some coffee brought up when she’d seen to him. Rebecca remained the only one who hadn’t gone to him as requested, so she’d reluctantly volunteered herself to bring up the coffee.

‘And Mr Brown bade me ask if you wished him to attend to you this evening?’

‘Tell Thomas he is not to attend to me, he is to enjoy the rest of his day, as instructed. As for you, yes, there is something else,’ Liam said with a wicked glint in his eyes as he reached into the top drawer of his desk. ‘I have not forgotten you, though you’ve been intent on disobeying again, and have not come to collect your gift, as instructed.’

‘I, that is, I was...’

Pretending to read. Gnawing at my fingernails. Reliving that damned kiss incessantly.

‘Enjoying my day, as instructed.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, offering up a neatly wrapped box.

Rebecca gaped at him hesitantly, eyeing the box as though it might bite her. She’d hoped he might be sensible and decide that it was best, after the previous night’s events, to forgo the tradition. It was with that hope that she’d steered clear of his study, despite his instructions.

Liam gestured for her to take it, looking increasingly embarrassed as the silence thickened between them.

‘You need not have gone to the trouble,’ she said, flustered, finally taking the box. ‘But thank you, my lord.’

‘My pleasure, I assure you, Miss Merrickson. And no trouble at all.’

The dangerous heat returned to his eyes and Rebecca swallowed, unable to break her gaze away from his.

A log shifted in the fireplace, saving her by bringing her sharply back to the room.

‘Goodnight, my lord,’ she said with a curtsey, fleeing as quickly as possible without it appearing a flight at all.

‘Goodnight, Miss Merrickson.’

Proper daft you are, thinking everything would go back to the way it should, she thought, nearly tripping over herself in an effort to put as much ground between them as possible.

All day she’d tried to convince herself that things could go back to the way they should be. That what had happened meant nothing, changed nothing. And then, at the first gesture of thoughtfulness, the first moment alone with him, all those hopeful thoughts had fled, leaving only a rapid heartbeat, flushed cheeks and a stomach full of butterflies.

Slipping into her office, Rebecca threw the box onto her desk reproachfully. Why couldn’t he have forgotten her, or at least pretended to? Made everything easier for her?

Because it’s easy for him. Last night meant nothing, and he’s trying to prove it.

Yes, that was it. She should be grateful. She was overreacting.

Right ninny.

This was nothing. A token no different from anything the others had received. For Thomas it had been his own grooming set. Tim had got a new carving knife. Mrs Murray an apron with her name embroidered on it. Lizzie had been given a delicate ivory hair comb, and Gregory a book on roses. Sam had received a new cap, and Betsy some fur-lined mittens. All thoughtful gifts, simple tokens of appreciation.

That is what this is. Just a tiny, insignificant token, she thought, opening the box, determined to prove her own point.

She froze, however, as she spotted the contents: a small, worn little book. Tamerlane and Other Poems, by a Bostonian.

She extracted it reverently, gliding her fingers over the worn edges, opening it to the title page. The words Liam Reid were inscribed in the top right corner, in faded ink.

His.

This was his, and he’d gifted it to her. Personal, thoughtful.

And still it means nothing, you overly excitable nincompoop.

Rebecca slid down into her chair, and laid the book open. It did not take very long for her to become utterly engrossed in the poems. They were unlike anything she’d ever read before. Haunting, disquieting, enchanting. Whoever this Bostonian was, she decided she liked him very much.

Just as she was beginning to forget herself, Thornhallow and most importantly Liam, she fell upon a dog-eared page. Frowning, she scanned the page. Halfway down, a verse had been underlined. Recently. There could be no mistake; the ink was too fresh, too vivid. It was the only mark she’d found on any of the pages, save for Liam’s name.

Her heart racing again, her mouth dry, Rebecca ran her fingers over the underlined words.

And I turned away to thee,

Proud Evening Star,

In thy glory afar,

And dearer thy beam shall be;

For joy to my heart

Is the proud part

Thou bearest in Heaven at night,

And more I admire

Thy distant fire,

Than that colder, lowly light.

A meaningless token. That was what she had tried to convince herself this was. Liam had accused her of being his torment. Was he not hers, behaving thus?

Rebecca wished she didn’t understand the meaning of this. She wished she didn’t understand the declaration, that he’d left her to wallow and suffer alone. But this...

Was it an invitation? Permission? A request to make the final leap, take the final step? He’d been as bold and demanding as she knew he could last night. Anything further—anything more—would be her choice, and hers alone.

Snapping the little book shut, Rebecca slid it back into the box and cast it away into the bottom drawer of her desk. The choice was hers. And she was making it. There would be nothing more. Already her heart was in shreds.

After a kiss. Nothing but a simple kiss.

What would become of her if she succumbed to anything more?

No. Work.

She would work until her mind was numb and her fingers bruised and bloody. No matter what he had to say about that. At least then she would feel something other than this. The rest would pass. In time. Soon enough. She would see to it.

That was her choice.