“There is, isn’t there? Rules you’ve made for yourself: Things I Shan’t Do, or How I Shall Keep to the Way of Righteousness.”
It was so foreign to her, this carefree way of behaving. “Is nothing sacred to you? Or of enough value that you would practice restraint?”
“Certainly there are things that are important to me. But making myself feel bad over kissing a willing woman isn’t one of them. Passion is part of life, Lily. Or can’t you admit that?”
That word made her uncomfortable. Passion . How could he speak it? It was so embarrassing. It was unruly, it was earthy, it spoke of the way she’d let herself go when she was sixteen and writing in this stupid journal pressed to her chest. “Stop using that word.”
“Why? Is passion too much for you? How about passion for books? Is that allowed? Diana has a passion for gardens. I’ll wager you have one for yarn.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“Well, you felt strongly enough about your shawls to come to Mayfield and ask for help. They’re important to you because you make them, with a lot of care and, I’m willing to bet, a passion to get them just so.”
“I…” Her voice was dry, a speechless wisp. He’d stolen her words with his twisting talk of passion, with the way he was framing her as a woman she didn’t recognize, and the way he was making free with her secret shawl work. “It’s not the same.”
He laughed. “It’s not, and yet, it is. It’s about letting yourself go, isn’t it? Giving in. Investing yourself entirely.”
He was right, she did have a passion, but it wasn’t for yarn, however much she enjoyed making those shawls—it was a passion to do something of worth. But how could she admit that to him, a man who might laugh at her dreams? Yet suddenly, she felt so goaded that the words came spilling out of her.
“Do you want to know what I care about? I care about the children of Highcross, the ones whose families can’t afford shoes and horses and tutors and even food sometimes. How can I care about my own pleasure when people are lacking so much?”
He sucked his teeth, quietly watching her for long moments. She couldn’t believe what she’d just said, how bald it sounded—and yet it was also true.
“You’re using the money you make from the shawls for somebody else, aren’t you?”
She crossed her arms. How had she come to be admitting her most deeply held cares and beliefs, and to such a shallow man? But suddenly she was so tired of the secretiveness, especially over something that she knew was good.
“I’ve been selling the shawls I make to earn money to establish a school for the village girls,” she said defiantly. “For girls who would otherwise know nothing of life but caring for other people, doing their sewing and cooking and cleaning. There, are you going to laugh? Will you expose me for being in trade?”
“Of course not,” he said quietly. “There is nothing I would mock in what you are doing. It is very good.”
Something turned over inside her at the kind, serious way he received her words. A yearning something that made her want to embrace him.
“I would only suggest,” he continued, “that amid all the charity you feel for others, you develop some for yourself.”
She frowned. “What are you talking about? I have a rich life, everything I need.”
He lifted a hand and brushed it against her cheek. “Thou dost protest too much. You are wise about many things, Lily, but in some ways you are very, very young.” And he walked past her and quietly through the doorway, leaving her—calm, reasonable Lily—wanting to scream.
What did he know about wisdom, a man who wasted his money on follies and rode horses drunk and read her private journal with no remorse and laughed too much?
She jerked the journal out of her bodice and sat down on her bed, her lips still burning from kissing him and her whole being overcome with fractiousness. She was furiously aware that her
It was so foreign to her, this carefree way of behaving. “Is nothing sacred to you? Or of enough value that you would practice restraint?”
“Certainly there are things that are important to me. But making myself feel bad over kissing a willing woman isn’t one of them. Passion is part of life, Lily. Or can’t you admit that?”
That word made her uncomfortable. Passion . How could he speak it? It was so embarrassing. It was unruly, it was earthy, it spoke of the way she’d let herself go when she was sixteen and writing in this stupid journal pressed to her chest. “Stop using that word.”
“Why? Is passion too much for you? How about passion for books? Is that allowed? Diana has a passion for gardens. I’ll wager you have one for yarn.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“Well, you felt strongly enough about your shawls to come to Mayfield and ask for help. They’re important to you because you make them, with a lot of care and, I’m willing to bet, a passion to get them just so.”
“I…” Her voice was dry, a speechless wisp. He’d stolen her words with his twisting talk of passion, with the way he was framing her as a woman she didn’t recognize, and the way he was making free with her secret shawl work. “It’s not the same.”
He laughed. “It’s not, and yet, it is. It’s about letting yourself go, isn’t it? Giving in. Investing yourself entirely.”
He was right, she did have a passion, but it wasn’t for yarn, however much she enjoyed making those shawls—it was a passion to do something of worth. But how could she admit that to him, a man who might laugh at her dreams? Yet suddenly, she felt so goaded that the words came spilling out of her.
“Do you want to know what I care about? I care about the children of Highcross, the ones whose families can’t afford shoes and horses and tutors and even food sometimes. How can I care about my own pleasure when people are lacking so much?”
He sucked his teeth, quietly watching her for long moments. She couldn’t believe what she’d just said, how bald it sounded—and yet it was also true.
“You’re using the money you make from the shawls for somebody else, aren’t you?”
She crossed her arms. How had she come to be admitting her most deeply held cares and beliefs, and to such a shallow man? But suddenly she was so tired of the secretiveness, especially over something that she knew was good.
“I’ve been selling the shawls I make to earn money to establish a school for the village girls,” she said defiantly. “For girls who would otherwise know nothing of life but caring for other people, doing their sewing and cooking and cleaning. There, are you going to laugh? Will you expose me for being in trade?”
“Of course not,” he said quietly. “There is nothing I would mock in what you are doing. It is very good.”
Something turned over inside her at the kind, serious way he received her words. A yearning something that made her want to embrace him.
“I would only suggest,” he continued, “that amid all the charity you feel for others, you develop some for yourself.”
She frowned. “What are you talking about? I have a rich life, everything I need.”
He lifted a hand and brushed it against her cheek. “Thou dost protest too much. You are wise about many things, Lily, but in some ways you are very, very young.” And he walked past her and quietly through the doorway, leaving her—calm, reasonable Lily—wanting to scream.
What did he know about wisdom, a man who wasted his money on follies and rode horses drunk and read her private journal with no remorse and laughed too much?
She jerked the journal out of her bodice and sat down on her bed, her lips still burning from kissing him and her whole being overcome with fractiousness. She was furiously aware that her
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