have been in the right all this time. And yet . . . and yet part of me knew that Doctor Lam was telling me the truth – or at least that he himself believed it. He never knowingly lied to me, either. You and he should meet one day. I think you’d like him.’
‘Emily . . .’ He clenched his hands in front of him. ‘Emily . . . I have something to discuss with you. A matter of some great import, to me at least. I have had the chance to raise it before, and have not done so, and regretted it. Ever since you left, I have cursed myself for lacking the courage to speak . . .’
‘Cristan, please . . .’
He was as pale as ever she had seen soldiers on the eve of battle, his fists clenched so tightly that the knuckles had gone white. ‘Emily, I have conceived an affection for you.’
His unwieldy turn of phrase almost made her laugh, but she kept quiet.
‘Emily,’ he said again. ‘I have found for some time now that you, of all the women of my acquaintance, are . . . most possessed of all those qualities that I value in any human being: intelligence, strong character, good – if sharp – conversation. Before you enlisted, I had commenced a . . . campaign of my own, so to speak, to sound you out – to provoke you, I think, into seeing me as some man other than . . .’
‘Other than the man that ruined my father,’ she finished drily.
‘Quite,’ he said, without shame. ‘Indeed. You see, I thought that you interested me, and that you would make a fine companion for me, and all manner of other nonsense that men of middling position think when once they begin to court.’ He looked glumly down at his hands. ‘And then you left to go to war, and I realized the most abject thing, a revelation that quite spoiled my enjoyment of life. I found that my bargains, my rumour-mongering and my oh-so-very-clever dealings quite failed to bring me any happiness and that, left to my own devices, all I did was brood on you and wonder what you might be going through, with me not there to lend an underhand helping hand. In short . . .’ He paused, and she thought that, after all, he would not be able to actually say it. ‘In short,’ he continued, more quietly, ‘I realized that I was utterly and dismally in love.’ The words, now said at last, seemed to roll out towards the distant Wolds and come echoing back.
She found that it was she herself who was speechless. Somewhere between the blustering and the slyness, he had struck a vein of sincerity. Now his eyes were fixed on his hands as he waited.
‘Cristan . . .’ And if I do, I lose my sisters, unless I can bring them round. And Scavian. I have already given my love to Giles, haven’t I? And what will people say, who knew my father? Can I spend my life with a man such as this, so venal and devious?
‘Please,’ he said, as soon as a heartbeat had elapsed without her answer. ‘Do not . . . answer too hurriedly. Please take time. Please think of what we have shared, if only on paper. Please think.’
She reached out and took his hand, held it between both of hers, feeling his skin surprisingly cool despite the sun and his embarrassment. Thinking – she could not help herself – how it was such a contrast to the heat that had flowed from Giles’s body.
‘I need time,’ she told him. ‘Believe me, I need time to think. I owe you so much, but I cannot allow myself to be bound just because of that. I need time.’
‘I understand.’ His voice betrayed only intense relief that finally he had at least been able to speak the words.
*
Try as she might, she could not have her life back. Each day she felt as though she were trying to find it again through a labyrinth, winding and turning, dead end after dead end, and never any sight of the comfort and ease of mind she had once known when the worst to trouble her had been her feud with Mr Northway or a shift in the weather.
As she observed Alice and Mary go about their lives, she felt as though she was watching them from behind thick glass