Her father’s voice thundered alongside her every footstep, pushing her forwards when her chest began to ache, and her legs began to weaken. She loved him. Shelovedhim. That was why she needed to see him again, why they needed … tofix this. She needed to tell him that she had been wrong. That she should never have involved Mr Briggs. She needed to hear him say that he’d been wrong, too. For all that he’d done with Lillian, because this could not be the only solution, could it? He on one side of the world, and her on the other?
She’d tried the boarding house first – but the clerk had told her that he hadn’t seen ‘Mr O’Brien’ in days. Which left only one other place to try.
She rounded the corner to the teashop, her heart sinking as she saw the darkened windows, the drawn curtains.Somehow night had crept in above her, the streetlamps painting the pavement in flickering puddles of gold.
‘Mr Jane?’
She pounded on the door, ignoring the curious looks from passers-by.
‘Mr Jane! Damien!’
A light appeared suddenly from within, a tiny flame that flickered and then swelled, growing brighter and brighter as it neared, and Ava felt her heart stutter in her chest.
They would find a way to set all of this aright, she wassurethey could. The light was drawing closer now, and she could hear the footsteps that accompanied it, and her breath caught in her throat.
In the moment it took him to slide back the bolt and open the door, her mind had already painted an image of what would await her. Damien, his dark hair mussed, his silver spectacles sliding down his nose. He’d say her name in that low, rumbling voice of his, and then he would pull her inside, his arms encircling her waist, and he would kiss her, and—
‘Oh, Miss Adams. I – uh … if you’re here for Damien, you’re too late.’
She blinked.
Mr Jane.
It was Mr Jane in the doorway. Not Damien, and his words were sliding and senseless, because shecouldn’tbe too late. Damienhadto be here, and the shock of it, the dismay of it must have been stitched upon her face, for the next thing he said was: ‘He’s gone.’
‘Gone?’ Her voice cracked, as though the word had deflated the last of the air in her lungs.
‘To Boston.’ Mr Jane gave her a small, sad smile. ‘His boat left this afternoon. Walked him to the docks myself.’
She turned back towards the darkened street. ‘Too late …’ she murmured, as though the words did not makesense. For theydidn’tmake sense. This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. This wasn’t how this was all supposed to end.
‘Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea?’ Mr Jane asked. ‘Set you to rights. You look out of breath.’
’I’m …’ Ava swallowed, blinking, for the world had become blurred. ‘No thank you.’
‘I’ve some fresh ginger?’ Mr Jane said. ‘If you’re feeling nauseated?’
‘I’m not nauseated,’ said Ava, stepping back from the doorstep, and the warm light spilling from it. ‘I’m just …’
Too late.
He’s gone.
‘Thank you,’ said Damien, his voice quiet once Mr Jane stepped back into the shop.
‘Don’t thank me, you’re lucky she didn’t accept my offer of tea’ Mr Jane said, eyes lifting to his. ‘Don’t thank me for lying to that poor woman.’
‘It wasn’t a lie,’ Damien said, his heart a hollow thrum in his chest. ‘It was kindness, for I am as good as gone. And better she believes that now, than later.’
Chapter Sixty
According to the flapping leaflets down at the docks, it would take Damien just ten days to reach Boston.
Ten days.
It sounded an impossibly short amount of time for one’s life to unravel, but ten days was apparently all it took for him to be so far from Ava, so sufficiently distant, that none of what had passed between them would matter anymore. All those moments would be nothing but memories, and though they might burn hot and fierce for a while, what would happen after that? What would happen when ten days had become two years, and she was still here, in Liverpool, and he there?
Ava huffed a breath through her teeth, reaching to rub away the wetness from her cheeks as she stepped through the black door on Houghton Street.
