She looks down at her hands, color rising in her cheeks. “That’s very kind, thank you.”
“You are!” I say. “You’re a doctor! And a professor! At a university!”
“It really is bloody impressive, Fel,” Monty adds.
“And a pirate!” I say. “You’re like an adventure-novel heroine! I wish I could introduce you to my fiancée. She’d go mad over you.”
“Is she interested in medicine or piracy?” Felicity asks.
“Neither in particular,” I say. “But she’s very interested in women who cast off societal expectations and work for change despite the men who endeavor to stand in their way.”
“Well then, I think she and I would get on very well.”
Her mouth twitches, that Montague dimple creasing her cheek. “If we ever get back to London, we’ll all have to go out for a drink and I’ll chat with your fiancée, and you and Percy can keep Monty from the card tables. It’s a two-man operation.”
Monty snorts. “One of you between me and the cards, the other between me and the bar.”
“Is there a reason you don’t drink spirits?” I ask him.
Making him laugh had emboldened me, but then Felicity glances up suddenly, her face drawn, and I worry I’ve poked a raw wound. Monty ruffles his hair, a gesture I’ve come to recognize as a nervous habit, but says calmly, “I’m not good at moderation.”
“Oh God, me neither,” I say before I can stop myself, then add, “Not spirits though, I didn’t mean it’s the same, sorry.” He raises an eyebrow, and I swallow, then correct myself. “Not sorry, I’m not sorry; I misspoke.” Though saying I’m not sorry sounds so aggressive I almost apologize for that, until I catch Monty’s approving nod. “What I meant is that I’m no good at limiting myself either.”
Can one grow addicted to worry? At what point does it stop being a way to protect yourself from potential calamity and instead become a crutch to avoid stretching atrophied muscles? I almost ask Felicity if she knows, but then Monty says, “When I was your age, I drank more than I should. More than anyone should. Drank too much and, largely as a result of that, also shagged everyone within reach and lost a lot of money on cards and horses and never slept and made some truly horrifying sartorial choices.”
“Why?”
“Because I used to think lavender was a good color for me, Lord knows why.” He gives me a half smile, then amends, “Because I was in a lot of pain and I was afraid if I tried to do anything other than smother it, it would kill me.”
“Do you mean that literally?” I ask.
“Well.” He knits his fingers and presses his closed hands over his heart. “Not literally kill me—I mean, it might have, my liver wasn’t going to last much longer. But not . . .” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, then blows out a short breath. “When I was sixteen, I took a load of arsenic. Well, not a load,” he amends. “Turns out it was only enough to kill a hefty gopher. It did make me well ill, though.”
“God, Monty,” Felicity says quietly, and I realize this is new information for us both. “When was that?”
“Let’s see. I’d just been thrown out of Eton and Father had blacked both my eyes after he caught me with that Quaker girl from Glasgow and I was drinking so much and it was never enough. Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he says, and Felicity and I both rearrange our faces, though I’m not sure how one is meant to look when a story like this is shared. He mashes the heel of his hand into his cheek, like he’s trying to scrub away a stain. “I didn’t like who I was, so I thought no one else could possibly like me either. Even Percy—who I was, mind you, bloody obsessed with. He could have told me the sky was green and pigeons shat bubbles and I would have believed it. But him telling me I was worthy of life and love—that was the thing I couldn’t make myself believe. And I just wanted to be done with it all.” He presses his hands over his eyes, massaging his lids with the pads of his fingers. “Let’s talk about something else. I didn’t mean to tell you that.”
“Does Percy know?” I ask.
“Not about that time specifically, no.” He ducks his head, chin to his chest. Felicity reaches out to touch his knee, but he swats her away. “No, don’t pity me. I refuse your pity.”
“I’m trying to comfort you!” she protests.
“By patting my knee?”
“Maybe!”
“Oh, Fel, you’re still so bad at this.” She throws up her hands in exasperation, and he smiles fondly at her before turning to me. “It’s never gone away. Some days it’s so hard to believe anyone wants to be around me, I can’t get out of bed. It’s so goddamn frustrating to feel as though no matter what you do or how charmed your life is, you’ll never be able to shake the shadow. Sometimes the only way I feel I can define myself is by the darkness. I understand what it’s like to feel you’ll never see the sun again. But you can learn to see in the dark. Or, if not, you trust that night doesn’t last forever. Believe me, if I can manage it, anyone can.” He swipes a thumb under his nose, then gives me a watery smile. “There are light-soaked days ahead. I promise.”
I bite back the urge to say that, if that’s the impression he’s got of me, he’s grossly misread my character. There is no way that, out of the two of us, I possess the stronger will. The stronger anything. There’s no test of might in which I won’t be found wanting. What if my eyes never adjust, or it only gets darker and darker until the night eats me alive like a swarm of flies, or everyone finds a way to turn their face to the sun but me?
“Someone told me once,” Monty continues, “there is life after you survive.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means the feeling that you’re not so much living your life as just trying to push through it won’t last forever. Someday you’ll be able to breathe.” He stares over the rail at the banks of the river, where a lush vineyard climbs the slope in military-straight lines. “I don’t know what your mind tells you, and I know that no matter what I say you likely won’t believe it—can’t believe it—but I still want you to hear it.” He reaches out and takes my hands, my palms together and his on either side of them. His forehead is nearly touching mine. “You are so young, and you are so brilliant, and you are so good, Adrian. You’re so much more of everything than you think you are.”
I stare down at our cupped hands. My eyes are welling, and I blink furiously, trying to keep the tears at bay, but one slips down my cheek and falls onto Monty’s thumb.
“Oh no, don’t cry!” Monty wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me against his chest in a fierce, one-armed hug. “That was meant to shore you up! It’s a good thing!”
“I’d comfort you as well,” Felicity says, “but I’ve been told I’m rubbish at it.”
I laugh wetly. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, but the tears go on leaking out of me like I’m a stiff tap. “It’s fine,” I say, words in total contradiction with my blubbering. “It’s fine. You didn’t say anything wrong.”