“You have Mavis—”
“No. I do not have Mavis. Mavis is my friend and she is my helper with this house, as is Hampton. But they, Clay, have one another. And in the evening when it begins to grow dark—they leave me here. They return to their own little cottage and live their lives together. And I am here with a lazy, worthless dog and a cold empty bed!”
He shook his head. “That is unfair, Polly. I have never asked you to live by the rules society sets. I have always done my damnedest to preserve your ability to be uniquely yourself, whatever that entails. But that does not mean I can stand idly by and watch some stranger simply stroll in and take advantage of my little—”
“Take advantage?” She practically spit the words out. “Oliver Hawthorne is a man of honor. Impossibly brave, kind, and caring. He could just as easily have aided Cecil in stealing this house right out from under us. He did not have to risk his own life this morning to save mine… and yet he did. The firm he works for may well discharge him for this! Do not malign him so.”
Claymore stepped deeper into the kitchen, leaning against the heavy wooden table where she did most of her work. “I want to protect you. And I’ve left you alone so much that I fear I have failed you in that regard.”
Polly shook her head. “You have not failed me. Despite what English law demands, you are not truly responsible for me. We are, both of us, adults capable of making our own decisions. And I have made mine, Clay. Respect that. Respect me.”
He sighed heavily. “If he hurts you, I’ll kill him.”
Polly laughed softly. “If he hurts me, I’ll let you.”
THIRTEEN
December 20th, just after midnight…
Oliver climbed the stairs as quietly as possible, skipping every creaking floorboard. He’d left the too-short and poorly upholstered settee in the parlor because he was desperate to speak to her. When he reached the landing, he noted that Polly’s door was already open. The soft glow of firelight penetrated the shadows on the landing.
He hadn’t been entirely certain of his welcome, but that open door told him that not only was he welcome, but expected. Releasing the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, Oliver closed the distance between himself and that open door. When he stepped inside, he closed it softly behind him. Polly was sitting at her dressing table, wearing only her nightrail and a heavy shawl draped about her shoulders. Her dark hair was loose, hanging over her shoulders and she clutched a silver-backed brush in her hand.
“I need to speak with you,” he said. “Privately.”
“I thought you might. When are you leaving?” The question was voiced very softly.
“Tomorrow. Early. I need to return to London. I have some things that I must address, Polly. Things that cannot be put off.”
“And you cannot tell me what these things are now? I must wait and wonder while you do whatever it is you need to do?”
“Will you have to wait and wonder? Or will you just know?” He demanded.
She smiled, but it was a sad expression. Her lips turned up slightly but that warmth did not reach her eyes. “It’s harder to know things when my emotions are so heavily involved and so terribly uncertain. I fear that I will only see and believe what I hope to be true rather than what is true.”
Oliver stepped closer to her, close enough that he could reach out and grasp her hands, hauling her up and towards him. “What do you hope for?”
“There are things you will have to wonder about, as well. If you really wish to know then you will return,” she said simply. “But I don’t wish to talk anymore. There are too many things we cannot say and too many things were are afraid to say. So let’s just not speak at all.”
“Your brother is just across the hall,” he said.
“So he is,” she said, as if it mattered not at all. “This is our last night together, at least for now. Does propriety matter so much to you that you would have us spend it apart?”
The blunt and direct question put things very much in perspective. No. He did not want to spend that night alone. The week it would take to get things sorted, to get a future of sorts prepared for them, would see them separated for long enough. Then she stepped closer to him still, her warmth and soft curves pressing against his as she rose on her tiptoes and kissed him. He couldn’t have resisted her even if he wanted to. And he most assuredly did not want to.
* * *
Sunlight was streamingthrough the window when Polly awoke. She was alone. The house was unnaturally quiet. Quiet enough and still enough that she knew, without question, that Oliver had gone. Claymore was likely outside. He seemed to prefer it that way, even in the cold. He would be in the barn with Elspeth or doing something that he likely ought not to be doing given the state of his arm.
For a long moment, she simply sat there in silence, letting it settle around her. It was what she was used to, after all.What she had been used to.Before Oliver, the house had always been quiet, save for the occasional person seeking to have their fortune told or to have her give them a charm to secure the heart of another. But those visits were not so very frequent and most of them occurred in the afternoon or early evening hours. But mornings… they had always been quiet. And now they were quiet again.
After a moment of self-pity, Polly pushed the thoughts of her resumed isolation and loneliness aside. Brooding about it would change nothing. It would not bring him back nor would it take away the awful doubt that assailed her about whether or not he intended to return at all.
Climbing from the bed, she wrapped the large, heavy shawl about her shoulders and made her way to the dressing table. Lying in the center of it was a simple gold ring. The signet ring that Oliver had worn on this finger. He’d left it for her along with a note. It was simple to the point of being cryptic.
Only a few days.—O. H.
The words were scrawled in a bold hand, large but lacking any sort of ornamentation—they reminded her a great deal of the man. His handwriting was a reflection of him more than he might have realized.
