“What?” she asked, blinking madly.
“Was it your fault? Was it in any way your doing?” he pressed, his words slow.
“No.”
“Exactly,” he said with feeling, being careful to keep his voice quiet now. “I did what I wished to do. So how could that possibly be your fault? That night, this pursuer of yours did what he wanted. You see how that was not your fault either?”
Her lips parted. There appeared to be a lightening of her shoulders as she breathed in. The smallest of smiles appeared on her lips though it faded fast.
“You see?” he asked, desperate for her to agree.
“But…” Then her expression soured again. “Even if you’re right, and it was not my fault, people still were hurt because of me. My parents will always be ashamed and hurt by what happened. That is something I can’t undo, is it?”
Horrified, Allan released her hand. All the excitement he had felt at that touch withered away too.
“So, you intend to still suffer their censure? Even though you are blameless?”
“I’m not blameless. I’m still responsible for them being hurt.” She dropped her chin down. “They were right to speak to me as they did.”
“I never want to hear anyone speaking of you in such a belittling way. Least of all you! I do not understand you.” He shook his head and walked away. Allan knew he had to get away at once, or he feared saying something that he would regret in his anger.
“What? Where are you going? Allan?” she called to him.
He stepped into the corridor where he saw the gift he had purchased for her. Just the sight of it made him even angrier than before.
He grabbed hold of it and returned it to the room, not quite giving it straight to her but placing it heavily down on the table between them.
“For you,” he said darkly. “For correspondence.”
“Allan. You are giving me a gift? Why?”
“Because you may think you are not worthy of respect, but I do.” Allan threw the words over his shoulder as he marched from the room.
* * *
Even the scents of the roses could do little to distract Allan. He’d been sitting in the garden for what felt like hours. Mrs. Long had brought him tea, for which he had thanked her, but other than that, he sat alone, staring at the myriad of roses around him and thinking of all that Frederica had said.
She thinks so little of herself.
He regretted the way he had handed her the gift. He’d intended for that to be a nice moment between them and not the act of frustration it had ended up being, but he couldn’t turn back the hands of his pocket watch and do it all again.
A memory kept buzzing in the back of his mind. It was a conversation he’d had long ago about Dorothy in which they were discussing Frederica. It was one of the times he’d asked Dorothy if she knew where Frederica was hiding. Dorothy had denied it though the lie was obvious. When Allan asked if pretending not to know was helping anyone, Dorothy’s reply was tart.
“I’m helping Frederica. Trust me, Allan. Little good could come from her parents finding her now.”
He was tempted to agree with Dorothy all of a sudden, wondering if the fact Frederica thought so little of herself was all down to her parents.
A soft sound nearby drew his attention, and he looked up. Across the rose garden, standing between white roses, was Frederica. She hadn’t noticed him and was carrying a basket in her hands as she cut fresh flowers. She had to be preparing the stems for a vase, for she kept holding them together, examining how they would complement one another before placing them into the basket.
Move, you foolish man.
Allan urged himself to his feet. He walked up behind her to watch what she was doing.
“The roses in the bed to your left have the finer scent.”
“Oh, dear God.” She whipped around in alarm, dropping her basket.
Allan reached out and barely grabbed the basket in time to stop all the stems dropping to the floor.
