Chapter Sixteen
Ophelia stared atJulian’s hands. His thumbs now rubbed gently over her knuckles, but the lump in her throat made it impossible to talk. She felt beyond surprised. This was so far past any expectation she’d had of him, and it made her realize that she had gravely misjudged him.
He cared about her. He had used the word “love,” even. This wasn’t some passing fancy, or him taking advantage of her naïvete. Did she love him in return? How would a person know such a thing?
There was a tiny voice in her mind, one she’d never heard before, that squeaked,You already love him.
But listening to voices was for the abjectly insane, and not a very practical person like herself. She realized that she was beginning to tremble.
Worse, Julian noticed. “Are you not feeling well?”
Her first impulse was to snap,I feel fine!But she didn’t. Far from it—she felt hot and cold all over at the same time. Her mind was whirling like a too-fast carousel. “I’d like to go back, please.”
“Of course,” he said, and this time when he offered his arm, she took it.
Was it because she felt ill? No, she didn’t feel that ill. But perhaps it was that he melted her. That all she wanted was to fall into him, weep about how much she missed him, how lonely it had been planning this trip without him. But experience had taught her to be wary, so she kept herself apart as much as she could.
Leaning on him as she was meant she could smell him, and remember how achingly perfect everything had felt with him. From laughing in the drawing room in London, to the group dinners and his hotel room in Paris. Being with him felt right. Sort of like being home. Was that love? She’d have to think on it.
They walked on in silence, Ophelia’s head unspooling thread after thread of possibilities behind them. Once they returned to the inn, Ophelia expected to be descended upon by Justine or someone. But even the front desk was vacant. Julian reached over the desk to retrieve her key, and escorted her upstairs.
At her door, she turned to him, wondering if he would request a kiss or explicit forgiveness. To her surprise, he requested nothing.
“Do you need me to fetch someone to help you?” he asked. “Or perhaps I can have some tea sent up?”
She looked into his pitch-black eyes and saw the warmth there, human and open and willing. It was so different than how he had seemed those months ago in Paris.
“I think I’m fine.”
He unlocked her door and handed her the key, opening it so she could step through. “If you aren’t too poorly, I would like to bring you something before you retire for the night. It’s in my room, if you’ll allow me to fetch it.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll wait.”
He gave her this crooked half-smile that made her heart flip over. As if she needed reminding that he was attractive. He’d developed a white streak of hair in one eyebrow that she liked. It made him seem unusual, or perhaps a bit mysterious. She stripped off her hat, gloves, and overcoat, then poured herself some water from the dressing table ewer to steady herself.
She needed to be honest. She had forgiven him for not telling her about this woman back in Paris. He was correct, that she’d asked the question out of a desire to connect, but if he had been truthful in that moment, who was to say that she wouldn’t have gotten jealous? Perhaps she would have. But then it would have been her decision. Her choice. And she could even forgive him for leaving so abruptly. She’d been so mad at him that next morning.
The knock on her door came quickly, and when she answered it, his hair was a bit askew, as if he’d taken the stairs three at a time. He was even a bit out of breath.
“Here you are.” Julian handed her a white box tied with string and a blue book. The RGS journal, embossed with gold. She opened the book and its spine creaked, the binding tight and unused.
There, in the index, the reprint of her article, with her last name next to it, and an italicized apology for printing it under the wrong name. The lump in her throat appeared. There it was. Her life’s work. Tears welled in her eyes and she had to look up so they didn’t fall and damage the table of contents. She let out an embarrassed huff. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“I know how much it meant to you.” Julian looked down. “I had been careless with your feelings. I didn’t understand. But I’d like to think I do, now.”
Ophelia smiled and looked down at the box. “And these?” She fumbled with the string.
“Those,” Julian said, swaying with an emotion she couldn’t place. Mischievousness? Embarrassment? “Those are a gift from my new friend Markus, who helped me when I tried to walk through the night from Zurich to Zermatt.”
Ophelia gasped. “It’s much too far to walk!”
Julian nodded. “As I found out when I encountered Markus, who works at—” He waited for her to finish untying the string and opened the box, revealing beautiful square chocolates. “Markus works at a chocolate factory. In Hörgen.”
“They smell divine.” Indeed, her mouth was watering.
“You should have been at the factory,” Julian said.
“May I?” Ophelia felt like she was committing some kind of trespass by eating one. As if each confection held secrets, and biting into one would let the whole world know the truth.
