I pulled away from him. “Why would you even try?”
He swallowed and looked down at our hands. He took mine in his, and I clung to him. “I’m not free to marry you.” His words were painful to hear, and I knew they were even more painful to say.
“Because I’m not good enough?” I whispered.
“Nay.” He touched my face, his voice filled with disbelief. “’Tis I who am not worthy. I do not deserve your love, nor your faith in me. You asked me last summer if I’m spying, and the answer is aye, for the Sons of Liberty. I am part of a network up and down the coast, collecting information and passing it along between the colonies as I work for my father. I know things—things I wish I didn’t know.”
His voice was hoarse with emotion, and I placed my hand on his cheek to let him know I understood. I truly did.
He finally met my gaze again. “You don’t know how many times I have prayed to God, asking Him to spare me from this mission, yet I know I was born for such a time as this. I long for freedom, to live a life of my own choosing. But I cannot deny my destiny.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t marry me,” I said, trying to convince him as I was trying to convince myself. “I would not hinder your—”
“Nay.” He shook his head. “You would never be a hindrance. But there is a war coming. This thing has taken on a life of its own. I will be asked to risk everything I hold dear, a sacrifice I am willing to make, but I cannot ask you to sacrifice along with me.” He turned his head and kissed the inside of my palm, pressing his lips there for several moments before he said, “I love you too much to risk making you a widow.”
“I would rather know one day as your wife than none at all.” I longed to tell him that the fighting would not begin until spring and we would have several months together before he was called to go. “And even if we go to war, we would pray God’s protection upon you. We would hope and trust that He would bring you back to me.”
Even as I said the words, I wondered if they were true. Would Henry survive the war? More now than ever, I wanted to look inside the book in the library at Cumberland Hall. Yet what would I gain in knowing his fate? Would it change my love for him or my desire to be his wife?
“Oh, Libby,” he said, groaning as he pulled me close again. “How I long to make you my wife.” He kissed me again, this time with more passion than before.
I met his kiss with my own aching desire, drawing him close, taking from him whatever he was able to give me.
We were breathless when we pulled apart.
He ran his thumb over my cheek again, a sad smile on his lips. “This is why I left, because I knew it would break our hearts to speak so plainly. But I could not deny it any longer, and when I saw you dancing with that officer last night”—his jaw tightened—“I have never been so jealous.”
I smiled. “I didn’t like seeing you with Lady Catherine either.”
“She is nothing to me, Libby.” He frowned. “But my convictions are strong, and I do not think it wise to marry before we know what will happen. ’Twas pure selfishness of me to declare myself when I couldn’t offer you everything.”
I closed my eyes as I bit the inside of my mouth. Ididknow what would happen. Would he truly make me wait a decade? “And what if there is a war?” I asked, unable to hide the frustration in my voice. “What if it takes years and years to win? Will you make me wait for you?”
He didn’t respond right away, though he removed his hand from my face. There was something he wasn’t telling me. I could see it in his eyes. “I will not make you wait for long,” he finally said. “But, please, let us wait for a bit longer, until I can be certain.”
“Certain of what?”
“That ’tis wise to marry.”
I looked deep into his eyes. “I will wait as long as it takes.”
His smile returned as he kissed me again. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Knowing that Henry loved me was enough. For now.
20
WHITBY, NORTH YORKSHIRE, ENGLAND
JANUARY 23, 1915
It had been five weeks since the raid on Whitby, Hartlepool, and Scarborough.Remember Scarboroughwas now a common phrase in England. Posters featuring the motto had been hung all over the country to recruit soldiers. The raid marked the first time a British soldier had died on English soil in over two hundred years—and the first civilian casualties of the Great War, as it was called. It had impacted us deeply but was not limited to our region. All of England suffered with us.
Reggie had left Cumberland Hall on New Year’s Day, and I was not sad to see him go. I had spent Christmas week in bed, nursing an illness that was more emotional than physical. He’d only spoken to me twice before he left and had not written to me since returning to London. I suspected he regretted his actions that night in the library, and that alcohol had played a part again—but it did not excuse his behavior, nor ease my trauma.
The last of our patients had left Cumberland Hall the week before. Slowly, we had restored order to the manor, though I missed the commotion.
A bright blue sky domed over us as Edith and I rode in the automobile to Whitby. Williams drove along the coast until we came to the small town on the seashore. It was cold, but there was beauty in the starkness of the moors and the cliffs. And when I saw the jaunty red roofs climbing the hillside, it made me smile.
“We will first assist in the soup kitchen,” I told Edith, “and then I have some shopping to do.”
