Page 100 of Holding Onto Love

“Which is not what you want?”

“Not now. Because it would look the same but not be the same.” He paused at the end of the hallway and put his hand to a door. “Countess’s room.” He pushed the door open. “No, Reg let me see what time has wrought. Through neglect that was partly my fault. And now it has to be reshaped. Re-formed. I suspect there is something even more beautiful here than what I remember.” He went on into her room and dropped her valise onto the bed. He gave her an ironic smile. “There is a metaphor in there somewhere.”

She stood in the doorway, feeling awkward. Everything about this was inappropriate.

Crispin glanced about then seemed to realize she had not followed him into the bedroom. Which was clean and airy with delicate furnishings, brushed and polished. The carpet, curtains, and bedding appeared new. He returned to the door.

“Excuse me.” He slid past her and smirked. “You can go in now.”

“Crispin, you said you had just two months’ leave. How do you intend to reshape this place in two months?”

“Another week is all I can spare. At most.” He laughed at her expression. “Yes. So it’s idiotic of me to have spent the day clearing a few feet of brush from the lakeshore.” He swiped at the dirt on his smock. “I’ll go change. Then we can have supper. Then, if you are interested, I’ll walk you down to the lake.”

*

The trek down to the lake was arduous. But worth it. They emerged from the trampled path into a small clearing surrounding a large rock that jutted into the water. Crispin helped her onto it, and then they sat, regarding the moon beginning to show itself above the trees. A sliver of moonlight shone on the rippling lake. She understood why, if Crispin had only a week, he prioritized this.

They sat in silence. Crispin had likely talked himself out at dinner when he’d told her about Vitoria. Not the triumph of it, but the bitter conclusion. Rather than pursuing the French and destroying the western division of Napoleon’s army, the British soldiers descended on the town they had just liberated to engage in an orgy of looting. Crispin said the war would now drag on another year. Or maybe longer.

At supper, he also had asked if she’d ever been contacted by her brother. She told him about the one time, long ago after Crispin had saved him.

“It was just as you said. Freddy believed the letter was forged. He gave me this.” She’d looped her finger under her necklace and retrieved the ring and pendant from her bodice. “This ring. He said if I ever did need him, to send this, so that he wouldn’t be fooled again.”

“It would seem his character was not so weak, after all.”

“No.” She didn’t mention the fact that the Marquess of Hilyer had not only disappeared from London that night but disappeared altogether. It was something she and Jasper never talked about, and she suspected Crispin would not want to speak of it either. “I heard from an old friend that Freddy is taking a larger role in running the Culpepper mills.”

“Because your father is declining.”

“I don’t know. Will did not say—”

“No. I am saying. He’s declining. Some of his more recent decisions have been erratic.”

Vanessa had only scowled in response. Her father was none of Crispin’s business.

“Have you ever considered a reconciliation with your family?”

“Not with him.”

Crispin’s expression had been unreadable, but he nodded his understanding, and she didn’t feel judged. They spent the rest of the meal talking about lighter things. Cartmel, mostly.

Now it felt peaceful and comfortable to simply sit there by the lake in quiet contemplation. She was grateful to Crispin for saying nothing more about Jasper. For not pressing his brother’s case. She couldn’t go backward. She would not.

They were there for nearly an hour, lost in their own thoughts, when Crispin rose and extended his hand.

“We should get back before it gets any darker.” As he helped her to rise, he took a half-step back to anchor himself. “Would you like—” But the rock was slick and uneven. He slipped, reflexively clenching her hand and yanking her with him as he gasped with alarm. Too late, he let go of her.

For a moment, Vanessa saw trees and sky whirling to a blur as she fell, pulse bounding, shrieking, toward the edge of the rock. Somehow, Crispin rebalanced himself and caught her, one hand in her armpit and the other on her shoulder. His hands clamped vise-like as he hauled her against his torso, pinching her neck and bruising her arm.

He righted her and, after a moment, stepped away. His wide-eyed fear gave way to a flush of mortification.

“Vanessa, I am so, so sorry. That was the clumsiest thing I’ve ever done. Are you all right?”

Breathless with terror, she tried to laugh. “Thank you. I can’t–I can’t swim.”

“To swim, we dive off the other side. If we’d fallen here, we would’ve had our brains dashed out. My God. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m all right,” she said shakily. “Are you?”