Alex hadn’t noticed he was crying until his mother pushed the tear from his cheek.
“You love her, you say?”
“I thought I did,” he choked out. “But this pain… I can’t let her hurt me again.”
“She made a mistake, Alex. A serious one indeed, but you have to decide if that’s enough to throw away what you could have together.”
Chapter 32
Grainsofbleachedsandfell from Fern’s fingers as she sat on the beach overlooking the Solent strait towards the Isle of Wight. When the last one fell, she filled her palm again, letting gravity pull each grain from her hand until she was empty again. Wind buffeted her face, slapping loose strands of her hair against her pink cheeks.The wind was a welcome respite from the oppressive heat that settled over Hampshire in the past week. On a clear day she could see all the way across the Channel to the coast of Cherbourg-en-Cotentin, but today she would have to make do with the picturesque island. Small boats, their sails a patchwork of blazing whitesagainst the blue-gray sea, were the only indications of human existence as far as Fern could see.
She had come to crave the bite of the wind. It was the only thing that could pierce the shell she had grown over her heart in the past weeks. She moved from a state of wrenching, all-encompassing pain to numbness, a state of nothingness allowing her to get through the day.
Prior to meeting Alex, Fern craved solitude. A day alone was a day of bliss, with only her books to keep her company. But since meeting Alex and tumbling helplessly in love with him, she ached from longing. Despite years of self-imposed isolation, she had never felt trulyalonebefore now. She had given him a piece of herself, its absence a presence itself.
Fern closed her eyes against a gust of wind. They were constantly itchy from lack of sleep, and while she was certain she had no further tears to shed, she consistently wokebefore dawn with her pillow soaked with tears. Her clothing hung loose on her body. Nothing tasted good, and even the cook’s efforts to appeal to her sweet tooth failed to bring out Fern’s appetite. She felt as though she was wasting away and welcomed it. Perhaps if there was less of her she would hurt less.
Standing to dust the sand off her tan muslin skirt, Fern secured her bonnet back over her hair and began the long walk back to Exbury, her great-aunt’s “cottage,” in reality a fifteen-room Tudor estate boasting twenty house staff and over one hundred acres of green pastureland. She entered the house through the kitchen gardens, stopping briefly to refuse the scone offered by the cook before slipping down the hallways toward her room.
“Back so soon?” a familiar voice called as she passed the library.
Fern backtracked and entered the library, forcing a pleasant expression on her face. “Good morning, Aunt Margaret,” she said. The elderly woman rested across a velvet settee in her dressing gown, strands of her white hair falling loose, a copy ofPride and Prejudicein her hand.
“I simply hate all of this longing and pining,” she said, tossing the leather volume to her lap and wrinkling her nose. “I don’t understand why Elizabeth won’t simply say what’s on her mind. It would save several hundred pages of wasted print.”
Fern sighed and selected another book from the shelves. The organizational system of her aunt’s library resembled that of Boar’s Hill as the most frequently accessed books sat piled on any available surface to ensure easy access. She handedIvanhoeto her great aunt and then resumed her seat. Margaret scowled at the title but did not discard it outright. “You’re back early from your walk today. Do you have plans?”
Of course not, Fern thought. The life of a companion is dreadfully dull when your ward never wants to leave the house during the summer for fear of insects and freckling. “It was windy,” she said, hoping her simple answer would suffice.
It would not. “You must do something to fill your time. You’re becoming an annoyance.” Fern flinchedand dug her toe into the rug, tracing a swirl on the oriental rug with the tip of her shoe. Her aunt was right. She could not keep her concentration long enough to read and her piano playing was sloppy at best. She had no purpose, nothing to fill her days except her thoughts.
She had not heard a word from Rose. She did not expect to hear from Alex, but the lack of resolution stung nonetheless. Fern started dozens of letters, some pages long and others just a name, but all were crumpled and tossed into the fire.
“I was thinking of taking my watercolor set into the garden,” Fern offered. She was dreadful at watercolors. They lacked the precision of the pen and pencil, and everything became irreparably smudged and blurry. She preferred everything, including color, in its place.
“I received another letter from your father,” Margaret replied, ignoring Fern’s remark. Fern's stomach dropped and dread settled in her bones. “He wants me to send you back to Oxford.”
Swallowing hard, Fern shifted in her seat. Margaret did not know what had come to pass with Rose and Alex, nor did Fern want to share it. “Did he give a reason why?”
“You’ve been here nearly a month and you look like you’ve been gutted. I assume it is to face whatever fool thing you did before hopping in a carriage to come here.”
Fern blinked several times, staring at her aunt’s placid visage. “I—did you—did he—“
“He told me nothing, but you must have done something foolish because you have barely said a word since you arrived, can’t finish a book, and moon about on the beaches all day like a lovelorn ninny.” Margaret sat up with a grunt and smoothed her magenta dressing gown over her legs. “Does it have something to do with the young man from dinner?”
Fern stiffened, and Margaret nodded at her change in posture. “I thought as much. Did you try to steal him away from Rose?”
“No!” Fern cried, then curled her shoulders inward. “I didn’ttryto, exactly, but it…happened.”
Margaret gave her a knowing half-smile. “You threw yourself at him then.” Fern’s cheeks felt so hot she wondered if she might spontaneously combust. “What happened then? Did he reject you?”
“No, he… We had a beautiful night, but just one,” she confessed. There was little point in being coy.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Margaret replied. “Every woman deserves the memory of one toe-curling interlude to keep her warm at night.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, the pain coming back so forcefully she felt her chest caving in. “I lied to him, and Rose, and it all came out at once. He wants nothing to do with me, and Rose won’t speak to me either.”
“What was the lie? Something small, I hope.”
