She shrank back, her doubts reaching up and puncturing the hope bubbling in her middle. “You didn’t write me any letters.” This offense seemed the most cutting of all. If he’d been thinking of her all this time, enough to collect these trinkets, why hadn’t he told her before now?
“I wrote you every day, multiple times.” He let his eyelids fall shut, shame marring his bold features. “I wasn’t brave enough to send them.”
He dipped his chin towards the trunk, and the faint rushing in her ears turned to a storm, rivaling the blowing snow shaking the windowpanes. Her feet moved without her willing them, and when she touched the latch holding the lid closed, she hesitated. Would the contents answer her questions, soothe her worries andher battered heart, or would they drive the wedge further between herself and her husband?
Lily had never been one to back down from a challenge, and she crouched, her red satin skirts billowing around her as she flipped open the latch and lid before she could talk herself out of it. She’d rather know than wonder, even if it broke her.
Her breath caught when she saw what was inside. Stacks upon stacks of folded paper, sorted into piles and tied with twine. Each bundle was marked with a paper tag; when she leaned closer, she could read the numbers.1896. 1899. 1903.The last stack was the thickest, the papers tucked in matching, slim envelopes. The oldest were mismatched scraps of paper of all shapes and sizes, and she pulled the first one free, her hands trembling as she unfolded it.
Her vision swam as she saw the date. “You wrote this the day you left me.”
He didn’t respond, simply fell to his knees beside her.
The words were scrawled in a heavy script, the letters shaking and slanted unevenly across the page. Blotches spread the ink in multiple places and rendered the text nearly indistinguishable, except for one phrase repeated, again and again.
Please forgive me.
The paper slipped from her fingers, and she grabbed another letter, tearing it open. This one was from a midsummer, two years after he left.
My body craves the drug every moment of the day, even when my heart and mind crave you. I pray every day for my heart to overpowermy body. To bring myself back to you. But I’m not strong enough yet, my love…
She threw that one aside, too, as a mass of anger, confusion, and sorrow swirled into a tempest in her gut.
Another letter, from the pile marked 1900.
I’m writing from Düsseldorf, and another disappointing treatment. I had such high hopes they would have the answers that would bring me back to you, and I’m ashamed to have failed you again. I wander the market at night, wishing I could be by your side this Christmas. I bought you an ornament…
“Philip,” she breathed—lord, how were her lungs still functioning with all the pressure in her chest? “There must be hundreds here.”
He nodded, then made a sound low in his throat when she removed one of the more recent letters, the last that wasn’t in an envelope. “That—that one is from the day I met Dr. Bailey. Before I knew she’d save my life.”
I’d ceased praying, my love. Yesterday I wrote a letter—one I would actually send, if you can believe it. I wrote that I’d stopped hoping, stopped thinking I’d be enough to come back to you. I wondered if I had ever been good enough to be your husband, given I’m not worthy of your love. But it was a miracle, my sweet Lily. I met a man with a Pembroke scarf, and he welcomed me into his home…
The tears were falling in earnest now. She sat back and pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her shaking arms around them. “I don’t understand. If you wrote all these, why didn’t you sendthem?”
His head was bowed, as though in prayer. As though she were worthy of worship. “How could I have sent them, knowing you’d read them? You’d see how weak I was. How unworthy of you I was all along. If I lost you, I’d have nothing to fight for. You were keeping me alive.”
A broken sob escaped, and she lacked the strength to swallow it down. “But you werekillingme.”
He put his hand on hers, but she pulled away, scrambled to her feet and cursed herself for wearing this blasted dress to look prettyfor him, when riding breeches would have allowed her to flee so much more effectively. Glaring down on him should have made her feel powerful, but she was nothing but weakness, an exposed, gaping wound throbbing with broken promises and wasted time.
She gestured roughly to the trunk. “All that proves is that you werealone. That you chose to keep the truth from me. You weren’t protecting me, you were protecting yourself.”
He was on his feet in a second, his lips parted, eyes glassy. “Staying away was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. You wouldn’t have wanted me—”
“That’s not true!” The words scorched her lungs, her throat, the air between them. “I love you! I loved you then, and I love you now. What hurts the most isn’t that you left, but that you didn’t trust me to be by your side while you were struggling.” She held up her hand, pointed to the gold band on her finger. “We swore our love for better and for worse, Philip. Both halves. We can’t choose when and how we’ll love each other.”
His long throat worked on a swallow, his eyes wide and pleading. “You wouldn’t have wanted me as I was.”
She advanced, crowded his space. “That was my decision to make, not yours.” She pressed her palm to his chest, and his heart thundered, matching the violent tattoo in hers. “This is mine. You gave it to me when you called me your wife. And I’m not giving it back.”
Philip lifted his arms, hesitated the barest amount before wrapping them around her, pulling her close. She collapsed against him, letting the heart she’d claimed beat against her cheek.
“I never thought I’d hold you again,” he whispered. “With every moment that passed, I knew it would be harder to return to you. I never expected…”
He broke off, shook his head.
“No.” She leaned back and cupped his jaw, forcing him to meet her gaze. “You’ve held back so many words. You don’t get to keep any more.”
