“She knew there was only one reason I’d send Andrews to Canterbury.” Jonathan looked slightly abashed. “You may think me overbold...”
“Why?” Claire blinked at him. “What’s in Canterbury?”
“The archbishop.” When she remained unenlightened, he added: “The Archbishop of Canterbury grants special marriage licenses.”
“Oh!” Claire was startled into a giggle. “That is bold. Were you so certain of succeeding with me?”
“Not in the least. But I felt certain that if I did succeed, we ought to be married at once.”
She peered at him shrewdly. “Before your mother could hear tell of the engagement?”
He colored. “Perhaps I did still fear her intrusion. But I don’t anymore. And for that, I’ve got you to thank.”
“Me?” Claire scoffed. “I didn’t do a thing! You banished her all on your own—and did a marvelous job of it, too.”
“But it’s you who persuaded me to do so. You were right that I couldn’t be free of her without confronting her first.”
“Was I? I’m not sure it’s made any difference.” Claire gave a rueful sigh. “I rather think you were right: she didn’t listen to a word you said.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Still, it’s made a difference to me. All the dread and suspense of future encounters has gone, for now I know exactly how such meetings will go: either she’ll abide by the terms on offer, and it will be pleasant; or she won’t, and we’ll walk away. She’ll have no greater power to vex us than any other disagreeable neighbor—and far less than she would have held as a ghost.”
Remembering penning that word in her diary, Claire sucked in a breath. “A…g-ghost, did you say?”
With a sheepish look, he released her hand. “Indeed, I did. To own the truth…”
When he produced a familiar book from his satchel, she felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. “Where did you find that?”
“Fallen in the upstairs corridor.”
“Horsefeathers! And you…you read it?”
He nodded. “Are you angry?”
“I…no—yes—I don’t know. I’m mortified. I never meant anybody to read it, let alone—” She gulped. “The things I wrote about you were not very kind.”
“Yet not unjust.” The wicked half-smile made another appearance. “I rather enjoyed the vivid nickname?—”
“Don’t say it!” Claire was torn between dissolving in laughter and diving behind the sofa. “Please! It’s all Elizabeth’s fault, you know.”
“I do know. And I cannot blame her one bit. If a man behaves like a Ratbag?—”
“I said don’t say it!” Claire cuffed him on the shoulder.
“Forgive me.” He raised his hands in laughing surrender. “Shall we discuss instead the even more intriguing description of what you dreamt last night?”
Oh, God. Claire froze in shock. She’d forgotten all about the dream, for she’d still been half asleep whilst recording it. What must he think of her? What could she say?
Far too embarrassed to respond directly, she settled on a blanket retraction. “You mustn’t take any of what’s written in there seriously. It’s not a proper diary, you see, only a…a receptacle for nonsense. When I wrote those things I was overwrought and overtired. I was hardly in my right mind. I didn’t know my own heart.”
He sobered. “I think you did know your heart, or at least, your pen did, for it was evident in every word on the page. Your heart’s nobility and generosity, its eagerness to give love—if only the object of that love could offer the smallest proof of his worthiness.” He took her hands. “I cannot but take your writing seriously, for it showed me how wrong I was to doubt you for even a moment. It brought me from dejection to hope.” His eyes implored her. “Still, I know I shouldn’t have read your private words. Can you forgive me? I’ve already worked out a way to even the score.”
“Oh?”
She was mystified to see him reach once more into the satchel, producing a sheaf of letters tied with string. “I settled it with Noah when he came to fetch me.”
“What’s Noah got to do with anything?”
Jonathan pressed the bundle into her hands. “This is our correspondence of the past year—Noah’s letters to me, and mine to him. He gave me permission to share them with you. And I think it’s important that you read them.”
