“We were at odds.” A slight smile softened his features. He stood with his hands at his sides. The light from the candle and the fire played across the handsome features of his face, his shoulders. “But you are not the only one who resisted, Gemma. Not the only one who was angry. I didn’t believe women were to be trusted. You’ve proved me wrong. Slipped past my guard. I’ve come to know you as one of the most generous, intelligent of souls. More important, I trust you. You were the only one I knew I could turn to with Kate and her baby. I believed you would come, and you did.”
“I also attacked you in the coach.”
Her words hung in the air a moment before he tilted his head and laughed.
She was entranced. She’d never heard Ned laugh. The sound of it was better than music . . . until he sobered.
“We are standing almost naked in your kitchen. There is a bed in the other room.”
She placed her hand against his hard jaw. “Are you willing to jilt Clarissa Taylor?”
His manner changed. He tensed. “I love you.”
“Will you jilt Clarissa?” Gemma repeated.
A bleakness came to his eye. “It would ruin her.”
“I know.”
“She doesn’t love me. She barely knows me and that is more my fault than hers.”
Gemma nodded, her throat tightening. He was right because once Clarissa knew the full measure of this man, she couldn’t help but love him as much as Gemma did. And that hurt.
He looked away and released his breath slowly. “We can’t do this, can we?” He indicated the clothes on the floor at their feet, the room, their love.
“I can’t hurt her that way. Neither can you.” And then, to her horror, the dam broke inside her. A sob escaped and she would have collapsed save for his arms coming around her.
He carried her to a chair at the table and sat. He held her in his lap as if she was precious to him. She placed her head in the crook of his neck and let the tears come until she was spent.
For a long time they were quiet. She never wanted to forget the scent of him or the feel of his arms around her.
Or the way he looked so earnest when he said he loved her.
A rooster crowed in the distance, too early for it to be dawn. Athena appeared from where she hid and observed them solemnly before padding off into the darkness of the taproom and beyond.
“You must go,” she whispered. She traced the profile of his face with one finger. He caught her finger with his lips and then pressed his face into her palm.
“Gemma,” he said, her name a benediction—and then she rose to stand aside.
He came to his feet, as well.
A last kiss was tempting . . . They both turned away. He picked up his jacket from the floor, buttoned what she had undone, and left.
Gemma watched him go, and then realized she’d been wrong—her tears had not been spent. She collapsed to the floor and let them come.
Ned began to feel as if he was living two lives.
One was as that of the doctor promised to a lovely, congenial woman whom he had no desire to kiss.
The other was as a man who had lost his best friend, his chance for happiness, and often, his equilibrium. What sort of world brought Gemma into his life when he could not have her?
His wedding day was fast approaching. He still called on Clarissa for fifteen minutes every Friday for the short time they had left. He sat with her and her guardians during Sunday services. He struggled to keep his gaze from drifting to wherever Gemma was sitting, especially when the banns were announced.
Any planning for the Frost lecture he turned over to Royce . . . because it would be too difficult for Ned to share this project closest to his heart with the woman who owned The Garland and not make a fool of himself. He gave instructions and his faithful man carried them out, offering Ned a report almost every evening. Ned discovered his dream had lost its luster.
However, to his surprise, many of the village women were interested in the topic of the heavens and the stars and were excited to attend. Because their wives were interested, more married men were committed to attend than last year. And that was without the lure of all the ale they could drink and rook pie.
Gemma had also opened her tea garden. From all accounts the gardens themselves were a mere shadow to what they would become by summer. People didn’t mind. The Garland presented itself as a cozy hub for the community, especially once the tinker found the duckpins Gemma wanted. Immediately, the Logical Men’s Society returned to the tavern.
Oh, Ned didn’t go at all and neither did Mars very often. However, as the spring days grew longer, the lads, the same ones who had plotted an attack on Gemma and filled her rooms with chickens, became her strongest supporters. They now spent hours in the evenings bowling. Ned even heard they were good-natured when Gemma informed them that they’d had a wee too much to drink and needed to go home.
Their mothers were very happy.
Occasionally, Ned would come face-to-face with Gemma where he had to speak to her. He’d turn a corner in the village and she would be there—so many chance meetings. And while each and every time he wanted to gather her into his arms, they acted cordial, distantly polite . . . and no one, Clarissa or the matrons, seemed the wiser to his true emotions swirling beneath the veneer. One thing Ned had learned in his growing up was how to pretend all was fine.
Of course, in truth, most in the village were more interested in the plans for the upcoming Cotillion, the annual dance that was the social event of Maidenshop. The matrons organized it and they were a flurry of activity with plans and meetings.
No one gave a care about star-crossed lovers.
Or that Ned’s newly discovered heart was broken, and might never be repaired.
Chapter Nineteen
It was late afternoon, the day of the Cotillion Dance.
The whole village was wrapped in excitement for the event and while there had been bustling earlier in the day, the street had become deserted as women and men took to their homes to prepare for the evening.
Gemma was not going. She couldn’t. It was hard enough seeing Ned when it came to patients or passing him on the street. She didn’t know if her fragile heart could weather watching him at an event where he would be expected to dance with his intended or where she’d hear congratulations and all the good wishes a couple received up until the wedding.
Her decision was not a popular one. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d been stopped on the street and asked if she was going. One of the Dawson lads—she still couldn’t tell them apart—had been hinting broadly he hoped to see her at the dance. That he wouldn’t mind “escorting her out onto the floor.” He said this as if he was bestowing a great favor.
Jonathon Fitzsimmons had also shyly said that he looked forward to seeing her at the dance. She knew he was sweet on her, something his mother wanted to encourage.
The one who was the most persistent was Mrs. Warbler. “You are an attractive woman. You should remarry,” had become her persistent refrain. “There will be men from far and wide at the Cotillion. You won’t believe what an important event it is.”
“I’m certain I won’t,” Gemma always murmured and tried to change the subject; no small task with her neighbor.
It had taken a good amount of time and all Gemma’s effort to tamp down her disappointment at losing Ned. Work was a salve. She threw herself into her tasks because they helped keep thoughts of Ned at bay.