Jane lifted a hand to her brow and rubbed it, battling confusion. “You do not love Sharpy. I mean Lord Sharpton.”
“Not a bit.”
“And you do not love my father.”
Christiana’s eyes softened. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m notin lovewith him, but… I know when to be grateful. He saved me in my darkest hour. I do not know how to behave often, and it annoys him no end, but”—she winked—“I try to make up for it.”
Jane ignored that. “Have you ever loved anyone?”
Christiana tipped her head to the side and pushed out her bottom lip. “No, well, perhaps once.” Her voice softened. “He was a poor man, and it did not end well.” She shook her head, a furrow appearing between her dark brows. “But it did end well. Here I am, a countess, after all. Why are we speaking of love at this early hour? Marriage has nothing to do with it. Besides, love is a damnable emotion. Terrifying if you ask me. I’ll not get entangled with it. Love hurts.” She rubbed her chest as if she felt an actual pang there. “I do not love your father, but I’m safe with him.”
Jane froze as she processed Christiana’s words. So familiar. A common refrain within Jane’s own head.Hells. Jane was stepping into her stepmother’s shoes, marrying Newburton as Christiana had married Jane’s father, avoiding messier emotions all because they scared her.
She did not want to become Christiana.
“So,” Christiana said, “shall we tell Sharpy together? I’d love to see the look on his face when he finds out he’s won your dowry.”
“No. No, Christiana, no.” Had she said it enough? She could provide a few more instances of the word and at a higher volume if necessary.
Christiana’s bottom lip pouted out again. “No fun. Just like that Newburton.”
Jane growled and turned to leave the stables. But why should she run off? She spun back around and pointed at her stepmother. “You!”
“Me?” A hand fluttered to Christiana’s chest. Her eyelashes fluttered too.
But what did she have to say to her stepmother? Nothing that would help. Feeling like a top, she marched out of the stables and to the house.
“Where are you going?” Christiana called after her. “It’s snowing!”
Jane stopped, looked up. White flakes fell like ash from the sky and hissed against her warm skin. So it was. But she could not feel the cold.
She marched all the way up to and into the house and did not stop until she came to her private sitting room. She sat in the window seat that looked out onto the long drive. If she hid in her room all day and sat right here until tomorrow morning, she’d be able to see George’s coach prepared for a journey and George himself enter it and roll away from her. Good. A stout metaphor for her loss. George, poet that he was, would approve. She studied the low, white sky spitting flakes. It hid the sun, wherever that star sat in regard to the East or West.
A line of poetry rose to her, fragmented, broken.I am carried westward when my soul bends toward the east.Donne?Hells. Yes, Donne.Or something close to it. The perfect words for how she felt. She traveled one direction while her soul bent ever George-ward.
And the snow fell faster, pelting the window.
Jane’s heart stuttered in her chest. Her heart had hurt much since her mother’s death, and she wanted peace. Yet pain seemed unavoidable. Jane did not want to suffer. And loving seemed the likeliest route toward suffering.
And yetnotloving George seemed impossibly hard and horrible, lonely and, yes, painful. It seemed like suffering.
Christiana avoided love, but still she hurt. A hint of pain had flickered on her face, deep and wide, for an instant. So even avoiding love could not save you. And was she adaringwoman? If Christiana had loved a poor man once, she’d turned from that love. That seemed like cowardice, not daring.
Jane did not want to be like that. Not at all. Not a bit. She would never run from her love of Lillian or Tabitha or her family. Why, then, did she run from love of a different sort, the sort she could not stop herself from feeling for George? He was her friend, too. He mattered to her, too. Perhaps more than all the rest.
George was right, if he could face his fears and invite her to meet his uncle, she should be able to face her fears as well.
Jane did not need anyone to dare her. She only had to dare herself.
Chapter 18
George read through Martha’s letter once more, then tossed it on the bedroom desk. He needed to read it, and often, for courage.
But what was the point? Jane would not have him. This morning all had seemed on track. Sir Peter had proved invaluable, the lovely pig that he was. He’d not laughed that much in a long time. He felt like a new man. Better yet, their interlude in the stables. And Martha’s letter gave him new life, too, a new purpose. As long as he read it every hour.
But it did no good when Jane ran from him. She wanted what he did but was terrified to take it. And how did one convince a woman that love was worth the risk?
Especially when he was scared, too.
