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“He finally gave out,” Hannah whispered, setting her work aside. “I didn’t have the heart to leave him.”
“I’ll take him to his room,” Lucas said.
“He’ll only wake up and insist on staying if you try. Better he stay here and get what sleep he can,” Lavinia said. Hannah nodded her agreement.
“Very well.” He laid a soft kiss on Lavinia’s cheek. “I will bid you good night, then, my dearest Lavinia. I must retire to my room, as I expect to do a great deal of praying tonight—that should make Isaac happy to hear, don’t you think?”
Lavinia smiled. “Spare a few prayers for Delia while you’re at it.”
“I will—and for Artie too. He and I both know how it feels to wait while the women we love keep us in terrible suspense.” He kissed Lavinia one last time and nodded to Hannah. “Good night to you both.” And then he was gone.
“Seems I missed something important while I was up here keeping our Artie company,” Hannah murmured.
Lavinia crossed to where Hannah was seated and knelt on the floor next to her, then laid her head in Hannah’s lap. “He loves me, Hannah, and heaven help me, I love him. He has asked me to marry him—in truth this time. And I am sorely tempted.”
“Of course you are, luv.” Hannah stroked Lavinia’s head. “’Tis only to be expected.”
“But what am I to do? If I marry him, Primrose Farm will be his, and if he proves as untrustworthy as every other man I’ve ever met, we will have nothing.”
“Do you really think him the sort to do such a thing? And what’s all this about ‘every other man’ being untrustworthy? You’ve only to look across this very room to see one of the most devoted men there is.”
“Artie, yes; he’s a dear. And yet, for all his devotion, he’s never declared himself to Delia, has he? He’s never asked to marry her. They’ve known each other for years, and he’s never spoken the words.”
“Artie’s never felt worthy of our Delia, luv. Delia Weston—my, but she was a grand lady in her day, Livvy. Nearly as popular as your Ruby Chadwick, she was. Artie was a fair success himself, never quite the leading man, although he always had steady work doing lesser roles, but nothing like our Delia. Very few compared to our Delia back then.
“So there’s Artie for you—as fine an example of a devoted man as you could ever hope to find. And from the looks of things around here, there’s another devoted man or two—Mr. Isaac and Mr. Thomas seem to fit the bill, not to mention his lordship himself. They have wives what seem content enough, if you was to ask me.”
“Hmm,” Lavinia said.
Hannah gently patted Lavinia’s head, like she’d done so often when Lavinia was a child. “Now, luv, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll be off to my bed. You should too. Artie will be well enough, asleep as he is, here at Delia’s side.”
Lavinia lifted her head from Hannah’s lap and stood, and Hannah rose from her chair and picked up her sewing basket. “You must do what you feel is right, and only you can answer that, luv. You can take a risk for a chance at happiness and find you made a mistake, or you can hold back out of fear and never know what you could have had. But I’m guessing right now, Artie’s wishing he’d chosen differently.”
* * *
Lavinia did not sleep a wink. She tossed and turned, she plumped the pillows, and then she tossed and turned some more. Her head was full of thoughts that plagued her all during the night:
Livvy, my girl, your looks are your prized possession and your poison. Have a care.
Forget marriage, my sweet. It’ll never happen. Be practical instead.
All will be well, I promise you, love.
Trust me.
Several hours later but long before dawn, feeling restless and uncomfortable, she got out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. She may as well sneak down to Delia’s room and make sure Artie hadn’t toppled out of his chair at some point during the night.
She lit a candle and tiptoed down the corridor. All was dark and quiet; the house was asleep. Apparently, she was the only one who wasn’t.
She listened at Delia’s door for a moment or two before turning the knob and quietly opening the door a few inches.
And then she stopped.
Artie was kneeling on the floor next to Delia’s bed, holding one of her hands in his and speaking softly to her, unaware that he now had an audience in Lavinia. “Delia, if I could go back and do it all again, I’d tell you how I feel. I swear on bended knee I would,” he declared in a heartbreaking whisper.
He rested his head on the bed, not letting go of her hand. Delia, illuminated by the light of the moon shining through the window, looked like a sleeping angel. Artie sobbed quietly. “‘Is there no play, / To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?’” he said and sobbed again, his bony shoulders heaving.
Even in grief, the dear man must quote Shakespeare. How like Artie it was to do so.
“Come back to me, Delia,” he went on. “I love you, my sweet girl. Always have. And I don’t think I can bear it if you leave me without knowing howI feel. Please come back to me. Please. Oh, Delia.” He sobbed some more.
Lavinia quietly shut the door and returned to her room. She’d intruded on a private—even sacred—moment, for what was more sacred than pure love? But she could not be sorry for her intrusion. It had been a gift, and her heart was full.
She had her answer.
