of love, but then Jeremy and I are not young and foolish or in love for the first time. I dare say we’ll get on quite well. I know we shall.” She walked away from him. The chickens had been let out and a few of the hens scattered as she and Crispin approached the back gate. “Besides,” she said when he was next to her again. “He’s no objection to me, not even at my advanced age.”
His face emptied of emotion. “Marry me instead.”
“You don’t want that.”
She knew from experience that Crispin, when angry, turned quiet. His gaze was quite capable of freezing one to death with a glance. No doubt he’d learned that from his father. He went silent long enough to tie her stomach in knots. She waited him out and won that contest, for he spoke in a low, tight, voice. “Have you more to say about how I think or feel?”
“You’ll always resent me for what happened, for the choice I made. You were steadfast, and I was not.”
“I don’t blame you. Not for what my father did to you. To us.”
“You haven’t forgiven me.”
“You willfully misunderstand.” He touched her arm, and she flinched. “It’s not I who hasn’t forgiven. It’s you.”
Her mouth gaped. “I do not blame you. Not for your father, that’s hardly your fault, and not for anything else.”
“You can’t forgive yourself.”
She drew in a stuttering breath. “What sort of person would I be if I did?”
“The woman I used to love.”
“I’m not that woman. Don’t you see? There’s no repairing what happened. I’m broken. Nothing will ever fix that.”
Chapter Twelve
The following day
N ORTHWORD LEANED FORWARD on the chair he’d brought next to Magnus’s and breathed in the scent of the beer that filled his mug. They were in Magnus’s office, sitting on chairs drawn up to the fireplace. It was just after one, and the remains of their luncheon were on the table by the door. That arse-kissing toady Jeremy Stewart had driven his mother, Eleanor, and Portia to Aubry Sock for tea. They weren’t expected back for another three hours at least. That left him and Magnus with the house to themselves. They were taking full advantage.
He reached behind him and flipped open the box of cigars on the table. He gave Magnus cigars whenever they saw each other. Northword fished out two and handed one over before he hefted his mug. “Good friends and happy marriages.” He did not intend for his toast to extend to Portia and that prick Jeremy Stewart, so when Magnus raised his glass he narrowed the scope of his words. “To you and Eleanor.”
While the April sky might be blue, it was bloody cold outside. The nearest window was open a crack to let out the smoke. The office where they sat was on the small side of cozy, with shelves jammed with books, a desk with stacks of pamphlets, papers, a two-day-old Times, and a Bible. A trunk with broken trim sat underneath the window. An oak highboy painted red took up half the wall across from the fireplace. The table behind them, close enough for them to use it, was covered with paper. Magnus’s doing, that riot of thick, odd-sized sheets of paper.
Charcoal and gum rubber littered the surface, and Crispin had flicked away a pencil that rolled underneath the cigar box. Several of the pages were sketches of the view from various windows of the house or of everyday items: a cup, an apple, a Bible seen from the page edges. Some were of furniture, a view of a window, and more recently, the church in Aubry Sock where Magnus, naturally, had spent a great deal of time before he had the living in West Aubry. There were a few sketches of him and several of the men and women who lived near Up Aubry. He had a knack for taking a likeness.
Magnus lifted his mug, recently filled from the contents of the earthenware jug he’d brought back from Up Aubry earlier in the day. The tavern there was half the size of this room and comfortably held the entire male population of the village, counting the
His face emptied of emotion. “Marry me instead.”
“You don’t want that.”
She knew from experience that Crispin, when angry, turned quiet. His gaze was quite capable of freezing one to death with a glance. No doubt he’d learned that from his father. He went silent long enough to tie her stomach in knots. She waited him out and won that contest, for he spoke in a low, tight, voice. “Have you more to say about how I think or feel?”
“You’ll always resent me for what happened, for the choice I made. You were steadfast, and I was not.”
“I don’t blame you. Not for what my father did to you. To us.”
“You haven’t forgiven me.”
“You willfully misunderstand.” He touched her arm, and she flinched. “It’s not I who hasn’t forgiven. It’s you.”
Her mouth gaped. “I do not blame you. Not for your father, that’s hardly your fault, and not for anything else.”
“You can’t forgive yourself.”
She drew in a stuttering breath. “What sort of person would I be if I did?”
“The woman I used to love.”
“I’m not that woman. Don’t you see? There’s no repairing what happened. I’m broken. Nothing will ever fix that.”
Chapter Twelve
The following day
N ORTHWORD LEANED FORWARD on the chair he’d brought next to Magnus’s and breathed in the scent of the beer that filled his mug. They were in Magnus’s office, sitting on chairs drawn up to the fireplace. It was just after one, and the remains of their luncheon were on the table by the door. That arse-kissing toady Jeremy Stewart had driven his mother, Eleanor, and Portia to Aubry Sock for tea. They weren’t expected back for another three hours at least. That left him and Magnus with the house to themselves. They were taking full advantage.
He reached behind him and flipped open the box of cigars on the table. He gave Magnus cigars whenever they saw each other. Northword fished out two and handed one over before he hefted his mug. “Good friends and happy marriages.” He did not intend for his toast to extend to Portia and that prick Jeremy Stewart, so when Magnus raised his glass he narrowed the scope of his words. “To you and Eleanor.”
While the April sky might be blue, it was bloody cold outside. The nearest window was open a crack to let out the smoke. The office where they sat was on the small side of cozy, with shelves jammed with books, a desk with stacks of pamphlets, papers, a two-day-old Times, and a Bible. A trunk with broken trim sat underneath the window. An oak highboy painted red took up half the wall across from the fireplace. The table behind them, close enough for them to use it, was covered with paper. Magnus’s doing, that riot of thick, odd-sized sheets of paper.
Charcoal and gum rubber littered the surface, and Crispin had flicked away a pencil that rolled underneath the cigar box. Several of the pages were sketches of the view from various windows of the house or of everyday items: a cup, an apple, a Bible seen from the page edges. Some were of furniture, a view of a window, and more recently, the church in Aubry Sock where Magnus, naturally, had spent a great deal of time before he had the living in West Aubry. There were a few sketches of him and several of the men and women who lived near Up Aubry. He had a knack for taking a likeness.
Magnus lifted his mug, recently filled from the contents of the earthenware jug he’d brought back from Up Aubry earlier in the day. The tavern there was half the size of this room and comfortably held the entire male population of the village, counting the
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