Jane’s breath hitched again.
George swallowed. “And during the terror…” He swallowed again. “My uncle made it out alive. They did not. He returned to England a shattered man. An injured one, too. They gave him laudanum for his physical wounds, as well as for the wounds no one could see. He quickly became reliant upon the drug. He still lives, but barely. He’s not even a shadow of his old self. Completely changed. His master is opium.”
Jane lifted from the bench and sank to the ground before him. She laid her head on his lap. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. His words had burrowed into her heart just as he’d burrowed beneath the hedge to get to her. She’d heard rumors, whispers about the ills of opium addiction. It could change a person, save them but tear them apart.
“I'm so sorry,” she said.
He stroked her hair, running his fingertips across her scalp from forehead to nape, following the curve of her ear, letting his thumb caress its delicate shell. “I have long kept my distance from marital opportunities. My uncle’s position in my household makes it difficult for me to keep myself safe, let alone a wife. But he is my responsibility, and I will not send him to some rotting asylum.”
“Of course not.”
“Recently, Martha and I procured the services of a doctor who claims to be able to help those afflicted by the potent draw of opium.”
She lifted her head, looked at him with hope in her eyes. “Is he making progress?”
George nodded, capable of no more than that simple gesture.
She folded his hands between her own like a silent prayer. “I am so glad.”
“And if he continues to improve, Jane, I will finally be able to wed. You and I—”
“Hells.” Jane shot to her feet.
He half lifted from the bench and reached for her.
She jumped away. “No. You stay there.” She held her hand out, palm flat, as if it could keep him contained. Ha!
“You are my friend, and I grieve for you, but I cannot do what you hint at.”
“Marriage? Because that is what I speak of, not hint at. I stood outside this damned maze and listened to your bell of a voice calling those other men to you, and all I could think wasnot them.Me, Jane. I’m the only one you should call to you. Ha! You already have called me, and like a man seduced by a siren’s song, I’ve come to you. I have but the slimmest thread of hope that my uncle will recover, but it’s enough for me to envision an actual future. You stand at the center of it just as you do this maze. Will you truly throw me away?”
Her heart pounded in her ears, and her tears turned to diamonds in the cold once more. She shook her head as she turned and fled from the maze. Left and right, a tangle of turns, the entrance, a short sprint for the house, then warmth and a solid door between her and George.
Jane ran through the manor, shedding shawls behind her as if they were covered in ants. Her skin felt like a million of the things crawled across it. She felt itchy and confused and wanted to march back to the garden, back to George, and ask him a billion and five questions.
Or kiss him soundly.
Both?
No. Neither.
What she wanted, what she really wanted, was to fall in love with him. It seemed so easy. But so impossible at the same time.
* * *
George threaded his way slowly back through the maze, letting himself get lost in its twists and turns. He felt turned around in every way possible, lost. A single letter. A note of hope from Martha, and he was ready to fling himself at Lady Jane Crenshaw, ready to run head first into emotions he’d held back for, oh, years likely.
He must slow down. He must think. Be cautious.
The maze’s exit opened before him, but still he shook with indecision.
And the sight that spread before him as he wandered toward the house did not help. He stopped and stared at the space between two windows where he’d touched Jane’s every curve. He did not have to close his eyes to relive those memories of moments ago. The visions were more than memories. They were seared into his skin, his bones, become a part of himself. He raked a trembling hand through his hair. What was he to do?
If he followed her, he’d have her, and if he took her to his bed, she’d have to marry him. As much as he’d love that, it was the stuff of nightmares, too. She’d be marrying into a family responsible for a half-mad opium eater who didn’t even know his own name sometimes, who sometimes woke the household in the wee morning hours with shrieks of terror over nightmares he could not wake from. If she married someone like Newburton or Dour, she’d be safe.
Marry her. Keep her safe. The battle between the two impulses was like the damned lion and unicorn, locked in constant war. Did that make his fear the unicorn?
But he had to let go of those fears. Uncle Neville improved. A miracle. Hope did not flutter in George’s chest. It barreled him over like a lion and roared into his ear. If Neville’s improvement proved permanent, George could marry. And if it did not, if he slumped back once more into an opium shadow of a life, then… perhaps a long engagement was the answer. A long engagement would allow him to secure Jane’s hand and keep her at a distance at the same time. Either way, Jane would be his. It was simply a matter of time.
