“The only way one knows,” Cass continued, wrapping a cravat around his fist as if preparing to box, “that Miss Smith is equally sweet on our Mr. Cavendish is that when absolutely no one is looking, or when she thinks they’re not, she looks at him as if her gaze alone could strip him bare.”
Jackson shot a glance at Cass. “She does?”
Cass nodded, steepled his fingers beneath his chin.
“A conundrum,” Bax said. “You cannot solve the problem if you do not know what it is. Whatever ails her, it must be untenable if it keeps her from acting on her feelings for you.”
“Perhaps she needs to understand what she would miss if she did not have you always nearby. I say”—Cass stretched halfway out of his chair, reaching for a basket near the door—“you give her exactly what she says she wants.” His fingers caught the edge of the basket, and he pulled it right up against his chair and dumped the contents of his lap inside, then finished off his brandy. “If she says she doesn’t want you, even if you know she does, then don’t chase her. I thought when I told Ada to go off into the world without me that I might never see her again. Here I am, seeing her every night in my very own bed.”
“Hm.” Bax tapped his long fingers on his knee. “Not a terrible idea.”
Jackson shook his head. “We work together. It’s almost impossible to avoid one another. And if I’m around her, I tease, I look, I—”
“Youlong,” Cass said.
“That too.”
“Then take a holiday.” Bax swirled his brandy in the cup then sipped. “You must have interests outside of your uncle’s that can take you in a different direction for a time. It sounds like you’ve been at the same course of action for ages without the desired result. Try something new, and if that does not work, try something else.”
“A scientific process. Of course.”
Cass stood. “The two of you could bore paint drying on the wall. I’m going to find Ada. And disarrange her a bit. If she’ll let me.” He waved and disappeared.
Bax grinned, shaking his head at the empty doorway, at his now long-gone brother. The two of them had been something of ill-willed enemies for ages, and if Jackson believed the stories, Cass had once tried to… abscond… with Bax’s fiancée. Jackson couldn’t imagine the good-natured rogue doing anything so nefarious, especially not to the brother he seemed to love dearly. In a competitive sort of way, of course. If he’d been a man adrift, Cass had found his way back home.
Home.
Jackson had one of those. Not that he often thought of it. Yet, in ways, he felt adrift, too. A new location every few months, a new project, digging into other peoples’ pasts, his own life—the type of life that creates trunks of memories for others to discover centuries for now—forever so far in front of him, he could not see it.
Home. Seastorm Manor.
Jackson leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. “It’s worth a try, Bax. The whole… distance experiment.”
It would help him clear his head, perhaps help him inch closer to that future he— Did he want it? Or did he like how things were now? The constant travel, always near Gwendolyn but neverwithher. He needed to figure that out too. Seastorm would be the right distraction. His father’s unfinished research was there, purposefully ignored, though Jackson knew his father wouldn’t have wanted it that way.
Bax finished off his brandy. “Sounds like you have a bevy of questions to answer, my friend. I suggest you write them all down. I have faith you will answer each one.”
Jackson sighed, pushed to his feet, and downed the brandy in one swallow. He placed the glass on a nearby table and saluted his friend before leaving.
It was not a long walk between Bax’s terrace home and the Cavendish townhome, and the day shone inexplicably lovely considering the dour state of his soul. There should be less sunshine and more rain. A sole clap of thunder perhaps. At the very least, the clouds should hang low and gray, not float gay and fluffy on a blue field of sport.
But he wouldn’t give up. Not yet. Giving up was a nail in the coffin of his already coughing heart. His trip to Brighton was no retreat. It was a regrouping. He’d clear his head, form a plan, fulfil his duties as his father’s son, and if he were lucky, make progress with Gwendolyn too. Would she miss him when he left?
A question without an answer even as he sauntered through the door of the Cavendish terrace.
Cranston, the Cavendish butler appeared like a wraith in a side door. “May I take your coat, sir?”
“No. Thank you, Cranston. Is my uncle home?” They’d not discussed their next destination in much too long.
“No, sir, but he should return around noon.”
Jackson pulled his pocket watch out and flicked it open. His father’s watch, shined as always to a golden sheen with a small dent near the top right. It read five to eleven.
The butler disappeared as smoothly as he’d appeared, and Jackson snapped the watch shut but did not replace it safe in his pocket. Dented but trustworthy, the timepiece ticked the memory of Jackson’s father into being. A good man, intelligent and caring, a man for whom family was all.
Jackson wanted what his father had held—family, comfort, a home, love.
All of it with Gwendolyn. Who would not have him.
