Page 102 of Bane Bloom

“For someone who has read me disturbingly well since the first moment of my arrival, you can be incredibly thick.”

“Mmm.” He looked out over the glade.

I tried to hold on to my exasperation, but a knot was forming in my throat. I felt a great sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. “Do you still want me, Thomas? Or has your curiosity, so far as it concerns me, been satisfied?”

His head swiveled, and he eyed me with surprise. “I’ll never stop wanting you, lass.”

A hot shiver ran through me. “That’s a start,” I breathed.

“It has never been a question of wanting you. But I also want you to be happy. I want you to be safe.”

My chest loosening—warming—I raised my hand to his face. “I’ve never felt happier, or safer, than when I’m with you.”

“You would tie yourself to me, even knowing what I am. Knowing what might happen were we to have children.”

“Maybe we won’t have children. Or maybe we will.” I leaned closer to him. “Maybe they’ll gallop along the shoreline with their father under the full moon. Life is short, Thomas. I don’t wish to run from it. I don’t wish to run from things that I love.”

His eyes searched mine, and I felt him seeing into my heart, as he always did. “Nay,” he agreed.

But then he let out a quiet sigh, and I dropped my hand.

“It’s thorny, lass, as you well know. How could it be accomplished?”

My heart lifted. “I have given some thought to that. I would leave Pine Cottage and lodge with Annie until my return to London can be arranged. I would remain in London for some weeks, preparing Papa.” I frowned. “Perhaps a month; he may take some convincing. Papa may wish to remain in London until he can no longer support himself. At that point, he could . . .”

“Join us here,” said Thomas, and my heart sang.

“Yes, if acceptable to the new curator of Pine Cottage glasshouse.” One of his eyebrows lifted. “It will give us time to do things properly. I can work on my books, and you can begin going to Sunday services—whether people like it or not. And also spend more time in the village if you can, at least with the Fosses and other people who are civil to you. On my return, I’ll lodge with Annie if she’ll have me, and we can declare our intentions to the parson. It will all take some time, but with luck it will allow us, and Papa, to avoid being friendless outcasts here.”

“So you would marry me, lass?”

I scowled halfheartedly. “Well, I’ve hardly done all this planning for my own amusement. But it’s hard to say, as I haven’t been asked, have I?”

Thomas reached out, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close. He kissed my forehead and my cheek and my neck, then murmured in my ear, “You have my heart. My body and soul. You have tethered me to this world, and made it possible for me to truly live. Will you marry me, Catherine Gray?”

Whole

London’s Chelsea neighborhood—One week later

For several days, a ripple of shock ran through our little domicile on Cheyne Walk. Papa was not in the habit of shouting, but he did exclaim. More than once. Nancy could be heard beseeching a higher power for strength as she went about her duties (only imagine if I’d told her my intended was a kelpie!). Hattie expanded her repertoire and throughout that period refused to squawk anything but her new favorite phrase: Have you gone mad, bug?

I let myself drift on the storm surge, trusting it would soon ebb, and I began to plan and prepare preliminary sketches for my new book. Papa would relent. He would have to, because there was no possibility that I would. And I knew that deep down, all he wanted was for me to be happy.

One evening after dinner, when some of the initial shock had seemed to be giving way to a bewildered sort of acceptance, Papa waited until Nancy had retreated into the kitchen and said, “All I ask, Cricket, is that you make certain to think this through. You’ve never lived anywhere but London. Your life will change completely. Be sure it’s what you truly desire. Because should you later change your mind . . .”

Tears pooled in Papa’s hazel eyes, and he looked down at his brandy glass.

My breath hitched, and I covered his paint-stained hand with mine. With the other hand, I reached into my pocket, where I’d tucked a small pouch stuffed with rosemary, lavender, and rose petals. I’d told Thomas that I intended to speak to Papa about Mama, and on the morning I left Buttermere, he’d given it to me, murmuring into my ear, “Find what is lost, remember what is forgotten, come back to me, love.”

“Papa,” I said gently, squeezing the pouch, “I learned a great deal about myself in the solitude of Pine Cottage. I know now that I’ve never gotten over what Mama did. I tried to forget her. To pretend she wasn’t important. And it left me stuck in some ways, living half a life. It left me broken and afraid. Since that realization, I’ve been slowly putting myself together.”

His gaze lifted, and a tear slipped down his cheek. “I thought it best if I never spoke of her,” he said in a voice that shook. “I thought it would be easier if you could forget her.”

I squeezed his hand. “I know, Papa. I know you never meant to hurt me. And I don’t blame you. But I’m old enough now to hear the truth. The whole truth.”

He nodded, and another tear slipped down. My heart broke, and I resisted a strong impulse to let it go for his sake. But I had been taking care of Papa for a very long time, and I needed him now.

“Caroline,” he began, “your mama, she was astonishing.” As he said her name, I realized he’d only said it once before, the day he told me she’d left us, and I had since scrubbed it from my mind. “She had more talent than I, and both of us knew it. She was full of life, bright as flame, and beautiful as the morning.”