“Sometimes thatisthe loving thing.” He casts a glance at the broken vase.
She places a hand on his chest. He flinches—touch has become so rare. “What is it costing you in here? More so, what do you imagine it’s costing her?” She tips her head. “What good do you suppose it’s doing?”
White edges his vision, and sweat cools his skin. “It’s not that simple.” Panic flits over him. He cannot say why. He wanted her to understand, to see his point and lay off him, but instead she’s pushing harder, poking into raw wounds.
“Let me tell you.” She touches his face as a mother would, but her expression is stern. “Grousing about this way is self-indulgent, William. Prove to me it isn’t.”
He smears his sleeve across his moist forehead.
“Your sadness isn’t the issue. You’re entitled to that, by all that is holy. You’ve been throughwar.It’s what you’re choosing to do with your brokenness that’s costing you—and her—everything.”
He needs to run, and his muscles are twitching.
But her gaze is relentless. She will not let him evade her. “The truth is hard with sharp edges on it. But sometimes only a cut will truly heal.” She moves closer to him on the bench. As his heart pounds, he squelches the urge to move away. “Shedeserves better from you, Will. Give of yourself. Allow her to know you. Give her the chance to embrace you as you are now.”
How had Lieutenant Carmichael said it?She won’t have me.
Doesn’t she see that? Does he have to say the wretched words aloud? To tell her of Peter, his lost son, and the spent funds and all his impetuous, wrongheaded decisions?
The world narrows. A tight space without an exit. He’s shaking, shaking. “Don’t speak of what you cannot understand.” He doesn’twishto tell her the whole story. He cannot.
“You’ve been focused on simply surviving for plenty long. It’s time to get on with living. What happened is past and—”
“Iwon’tsimply move on from it. I cannot!” He jerks away, and then there’s a crash—he’s knocked something over. He cannot see what, as he sees only white. Images assault him. Men flying in the night. Wood splintering. Fire and terror and everything humanity can do to each other. “Moving pastsomething like that would beinhuman!”
He blinks. Clears his vision. It’s her vase he’s broken. The large, lovely blue vase she uses for water. She should be angry with him, just like Florence should have been.
Why is she staring at him? He’s a bull and the world is a china shop. He grabs the wrapped painting, glances toward the open side gate, and takes off running.
Chapter 43
Thatevening,evenaftera long train ride and climb down Clodgy Point, William’s insides still churn. He stares at the portrait—still wrapped in brown paper—propped on his mantel at Dunn Cottage again. His mind fills in the image he knows is beneath. What right did she have? What could she possibly understand about memories? She has none. She’s completely unshackled.
For two weeks, William tosses coins onto the place on his shelf where the now-broken jar was. Useless rubbish.
He saves brutally in the weeks that follow, spending almost nothing, but after a fortnight, when he lays his hand on the mound of coins, it is dishearteningly small. It is far from sufficient and always will be.
Another glance at the painting, still wrapped.
Love requires sacrifice. That’s what she was saying. How can he possibly repay everything he stole from Helen? Loving her sacrificially means denying himself, and what he wants most. Which isher.
She deserves better from you, Will. Give of yourself.
Merryn’s words echo about his skull and he grabs his head to stop the chaos. No. She’s wrong about this—he made Helen miserable before he left. Why would he bring that back upon her head? What sort of gift would that be? A purely and completely selfish one.
By the following week he’s resolved to sacrifice something different for Helen—his dignity. Tucking the painting once again beneath his arm, dropping little Persephone in his satchel, he sets off at a run for the train station, hiking up his hip to keep it almost level with the other. It aches a bit less when he boards and takes his seat.
At the lovely rose-covered cottage that afternoon, his knock is answered almost immediately, but it’s her this time. She’s wearing an apron and her hair is mussed from what looks to be a day of baking, but she welcomes him in. That’s when he recalls Samuel’s words that she’s been hiding from the world. Stepping into her home, being welcomed in, feels sacred. He follows her to the kitchen where a younger man sits, ankle over knee. She indicates him with a wave of her delicate hand. “Will, this is my Cecil. And Cec, meet William Thatcher.”
“Right, then.” The jolly fellow with floppy hair gives William’s hand a firm shake. “Very fine. Nice to meet you, Will.” The man’s ears protrude from his thick hair, giving him a rather enchanted, elfin appearance.
She kisses his cheek. “Give us a moment, will you, lad?”
With a mock salute, he nabs a pinch of bread dough and slips out to the garden.
The door slams behind him, and Merryn continues kneading.
“I’m s-s-sor—”
