"No," he admitted. "I would not."
"Then you understand why some things must remain unsaid."
He did understand. That was precisely the problem.
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken things pressing down upon them both. A bird sang somewhere in the branches above, its melody bright and oblivious to the tension below. The morning sun had climbed higher, burning off the last of the mist, and the park was beginning to stir with other riders, other walkers and the ordinary business of the day intruding upon their private interlude.
"May I ask you something else?" Martin said at last.
"You may."
"Do you believe that some truths are better left unspoken? Even if the speaking of them might bring about a... a desirable outcome?"
Vanessa considered the question carefully. "I believe," she said slowly, "that truth is a double-edged sword. It can heal, but it can also wound. And sometimes the wound is not worth the healing."
"And if the healing might be worth the wound? If the truth, painful as it might be, could lead to something... better?"
"Then I suppose one must weigh the risks." She turned to look at him fully, her green eyes searching his face. "Why do you ask? Is there some truth you are contemplating to reveal?"
Yes,he thought.I am contemplating telling you that I read your letters. That I know what you feel for me. That I feel it too, and have felt it for six years, and the knowledge that you share my affliction has made it impossible to maintain the careful distance I have cultivated for so long.
"Perhaps," he said. "I have not yet decided."
"Then I shall offer you this advice, for what it is worth." She paused, her expression growing serious. "If you speak your truth and are rejected, you will have lost nothing but a hope thatwas perhaps false to begin with. But if you remain silent, you will never know what might have been. And that, I believe is a heavier burden to carry than any rejection."
The words struck him with unexpected force. Was that what she believed? That the pain of not knowing was worse than the pain of being refused?
He thought of her letters, of the years she had spent hoping and doubting and never daring to speak. She had chosen silence, and it had brought her nothing but suffering.
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps silence was the heavier burden after all.
***
The carriage arrived within the half hour, as promised.
Martin saw it approaching along the path and felt a curious mix of relief and disappointment. Relief, because the tension between them had grown nearly unbearable, and he did not trust himself to maintain his composure much longer. Disappointment, because once the carriage bore her away, this strange interlude would be over, and he would be left alone with his thoughts and his guilt and the letters that waited in his desk.
He helped Vanessa to her feet, supporting her weight as she limped toward the vehicle. Her groom hovered nearby, clearly uncertain how to assist without overstepping, and Martin found himself reluctant to cede his position. This was his task. He had been the one to help her. He was not ready to hand her off to someone else.
The possessiveness of the thought startled him.
"I can manage from here," Vanessa said as they reached the carriage door. Her voice was carefully controlled, betraying nothing of whatever she might be feeling.
"Nonsense. Your ankle is injured. Please allow me to assist you inside."
She hesitated, her eyes searching his face for something he could not identify. Then she nodded. "Very well."
He handed her up into the carriage, his palm pressed against hers, his other hand steadying her elbow. She was light in his grasp, lighter than he had expected and he found himself lifting her more than guiding her, taking more of her weight than was strictly necessary.
The contact was brief,entirely proper and yet it sent a jolt of awareness through him that he felt in his very bones. Her fingers curled around his for just a moment longer than required, and when she released him, he felt the absence.
"Thank you," she said once she was settled against the squabs. Her injured ankle was propped on the opposite seat, her skirts arranged carefully around it. "For everything. The rescue, the examination, the... conversation."
"It was my pleasure."
"Was it?" She tilted her head, studying him with those sharp green eyes. "You seemed rather tormented throughout."
"Did I? I thought I was being admirably composed."
