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He kept pushing through the crowd. Abruptly, he was assailed by an old memory of his mother and father dancing together in the small living room of their home in Bradford.
It had been a celebration of some sort—perhaps someone’s wedding. Their home had been crowded with people. Then the music had started. A few people had gotten up to dance. He recalled his father holding out his hand to his mother, beckoning her to dance with him. She had demurred at first, telling him she was too busy overseeing the festivities, but he had insisted.
It was one of the only times he had really seen the love his parents had for each other. Usually, they were not demonstrative people. They didn’t show affection for each other. Their lives were too busy. They worked from the minute they rose to when they collapsed in bed at night. There weren’t many occasions when they could relax. It was just the way of it for working-class people.
He hadn’t even known if they were truly in love, even though they got along well and rarely fought. But this time, as his father slow danced with his mother, he knew that they were. Perhaps it had dimmed over the years with the hardship of their lives, but on this occasion, it flared to life again, as bright as a candle in a dark room.
He recalled his father holding her close, tenderly kissing her forehead. His mother had gazed up at him with shining eyes. He had seen clearly in that moment the young lovers they must once have been. The young lovers who were still there, beneath everything. The love that had endured.
Ambrose stopped, leaning against a wall. The memory was so powerful that he felt floored by it. He was confused. Why was an old memory of his parents dancing together affecting him like this?
Because it felt the same as when I danced with Delia.
The thought shocked him. Quickly, he pushed it away. He gazed around the room again. She wasn’t here. She must have left and gone up to her room.
He didn’t hesitate. He reached the edge of the room, bounding up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. He only knew that he must find her. Beyond that, he couldn’t think.
It was a long hallway with rooms leading off it. And at the very end of it was Delia, leaning against a wall, taking deep gulps of air. She looked distressed.
His heart somersaulted in his chest. How beautiful she was. She shone like a star in the heavens.
“Delia,” he called in a quiet voice.
She jumped. Her eyes widened.
“You must leave,” she said. “You cannot follow me like this. Anyone could see.”
He kept walking towards her. “I do not care if anyone sees,” he replied, his heart pounding hard. “I owe them nothing. You owe them nothing.”
He had reached her. He saw a vein twitching in her left temple. She was still flushed from the dancing and probably the whiskey as well. He knew that she wasn’t used to strong liquor, and it had surprised him when she had actually consumed it.
“This is madness,” she said in a low voice. “I cannot do it any longer. You are playing with me. I know that all you want is to get me into bed.”
He felt a stab of shame. “I thought that we both felt as strongly as about the other.” He exhaled slowly. “I thought you wanted to be with me as much as I want to be with you.”
“I do,” she cried, looking distraught. “But it cannot happen! I would compromise myself. At the end of this trip, you will leave me…and if there were any consequences, I would be left alone to deal with them.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. He felt another pang of guilt. He was used to being with women who knew how to take care of such matters—experienced women who made sure there wereneverany consequences. He had relied upon it.
“I have never been with a man,” she whispered, her eyes shining with tears. “And I will not compromise myself for something that is not real.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “I know you have no intention of seeing me once we get to Bradford. When this trip is over, we will go our separate ways, and that will be the end of that.”
He swore softly. This was the moment when he was supposed to reassure her that he would see her when they got to Bradford—when he was supposed to reassure her that he took her seriously. But he couldn’t do it. It would be a lie.
God knows hewantedto keep seeing her. But doing so would entangle him deeper, and she would expect marriage. She had just admitted she was a maiden, which he had suspected anyway. She wasn’t the type of woman to indulge in a light casual affair.
Delia wanted everything. She wanted to be swept off her feet.
She wanted love.
He swore again. Suddenly, he wished fervently that he could give it to her. He wished he wasn’t the type of man that he was. Why had it always been so hard for him when it was so easy and natural for other men? Men like Mr Giles. He had said that it was the best thing in this life. Even losing the woman he had loved forever didn’t change that.
“I care for you,” he said in a quiet voice, struggling to articulate every word. “You must know that.”
She turned her face away. “I do not know it. I know you feel desire for me, and that is all.” She took another deep breath. “I must take care of myself. I am alone in this world.”
He was silent for a moment. “Delia…is there something about your life you wish to tell me?”
She gaped at him. A fraught silence descended upon them. He saw the struggle on her face. For a moment, he thought she was going to tell him something that might change everything. But then, her face closed over.
