Secrets of a Spinster (31 page)

W
hat in the world had he been thinking?

It had seemed like a good idea, paying penance for his many sins where Mary was concerned. He had been abominable to her, and he ought to have to work to get back into her good graces. She would never have insisted on it herself, which was why he had suggested it. He thought she would be pleased to see that he was taking the mending of their friendship so seriously.

How bad could it be, he had thought. Groveling, heavy lifting, spending more money than he was comfortable with, he was prepared for all of that. She suggested he be her escort for the rest of the season. He could definitely do that. He had begged her to stay in London a bit longer, and he had been relieved beyond measure when she agreed. She had suggested he help her pack up the house in preparation for their removal. He was pleased to be able to help her. He had even envisioned moments of them laughing over old drawings and letters from him to her that had been long forgotten, perhaps even the box of costumes they had used during their many plays as children.

Documenting books for her to consider taking in the library by himself was not something he had expected.

He had already been at it for two hours and he was rather wishing the cord for the curtains had been a bit longer so he might more easily hang himself. He had made a proper list for her, he thought, and had even gone so far as to pile the books he was certain she would take in one corner. But not seeing her for two hours, knowing they were in the same place, not knowing what she was doing, made for a wandering mind and an overactive imagination.

She could be working with the kitchen staff on remaining menus or which members of the staff would be coming with them. She would be sitting at the table, poring over options and discussing merits of each. That unruly strand of hair would fall into her eyes, and she would push it behind her ear without even thinking about it.

He smiled. He loved when she did that. He wanted to do it himself.

She could be going through her wardrobe, wondering which gowns she should take and which she could do without. She would never take them all, she was far too sensible and practical. But she would have to try each on to see how they flattered her, which was most comfortable, which she could walk about the countryside in. He had his favorites of her dresses, but she was so self-conscious that he would never tell her. He would just smile and nod and tell her to choose the ones she liked best.

And enjoy the view.

She could always have come in here and helped him with his task. He wouldn’t have gotten half of the things done he needed to if she had. He would have watched her move, watched her think, possibly caught her biting her lip in indecision. She may have met his eyes once or twice, and he would have let her see him looking. She might have blushed and continued her work, or she might have looked straight back at him. Daring him to do exactly what he wanted to do. He could have snuck up behind her and nuzzled the nape of her long, graceful neck. He could have bracketed her between his arms and the shelf. Would she have laughed as if it were a joke? Or would she have felt the simmering heat that he had come to accept as his eternal reaction to her? As if it had actually happened, he felt that same jolt of intense heat somewhere behind his navel.

He took a deep breath and released it quickly, shaking his head. He would get nowhere imagining things that weren’t happening and may never. It would take time for him to convince her that he was in love with her, not for the changes that she had undergone, but for who she was and who she had always been. He was aware of it now, and that, at least, would never change.

He reached for another book he thought she would enjoy and tucked it into his arm. He reached up to straighten a fallen book when his hand felt something different. A strange, almost leather like texture; soft and worn, but bound like a book. He felt for the edge and pulled it down.

It was small, no larger than an average sized book, though a good deal thinner. He thumbed it open, and grinned at the handwriting. It was one of Mary’s diaries, and from the date in the corner, from when she was sixteen. She had been an irregular author, going through spurts of time when she was dedicated, and then there would be months of famine. He had seen her scribbling away in one of these every now and then, but it had been years since he’d even thought about it.

Mary would laugh madly when she saw these.

He reached up to see if there were more of them on the shelf with this one. A wild grin crossed his face when he felt not one, but several more. He shifted the books in front of them out of the way, and then pulled all of the journals down. There were seven in all, now in his grasp, and who knew how many more there might have been lurking around the house.

A page fluttered to the ground, having fallen out of the oldest and most worn journal of the lot, whose pages all seemed loose. He adjusted his grip and turned that one so that no more pages were in danger of becoming lost. That done, he reached down to pick up the page and put it back where it had come from.

The date in the corner put it right around Mary’s thirteenth birthday.

Her penmanship had improved a good deal since then, but he could see how carefully each word was written. The only perfection she had cared about back in those days was her penmanship, and he had teased her endlessly for it.

His name caught his eye as he perused the page and he grinned. He remembered specifically asking her once upon a time if he had ever made it into one of her journals. Young Mary had turned up her nose at him and insisted that only important people made it into the diary of a young lady.

He looked more closely, wondering what he had possibly done to warrant an entry.

Geoffrey came today with his family. I thought I might expire on the spot! His smile makes me feel warm and tingly, like I have been wrapped in a warm blanket and set before the hottest fire. I love him so much, but…

He stopped, his eyes transfixed by that one word.

Love.

She loved him.

Well, thirteen-year-old Mary loved him. The description of her feelings was a little juvenile, but at thirteen, he would not have done much better.

He read on.

I love him so much, but he will never see me as anything more than a friend. My love for him will forever be in vain. I shall become one of those pathetic women one reads about in novels that pines for her lost love, only mine shall never come to me. I shall let him tease me and tug at my hair and call me Goose for as long as he likes. So long as he is near me at all, my heart will want nothing else.

He stared at the page, his heart thudding against his chest with such force that he was light headed. He couldn’t believe it. At one time, Mary had been in love with him. She had pined for him. His smile had made her feel something. He smiled now as he thought of it.

Mary at thirteen had been much the same as Mary now, only less graceful, less coordinated, and less witty. She had been a slender reed of a thing, but she was always amusing and had always made him feel as though he was someone special, which was a rare thing for a fourth son.

Now he understood why.

Had she ever tried to tell him? Had there been signs that he had missed? It wasn’t possible, he would have known if she were really in love with him, wouldn’t he? She must have kept that secret from him. With good reason, he was sure, for at thirteen he only thought of riding horses and joining the Army. He would never have taken her seriously, and it would have been difficult to be friends with a girl who let it be known that she was in love with him. Or would it have been different? He had always liked Mary, but had he ever thought of her beyond that?

She loved him.

She once had loved him.

When had that ceased?

Or had it ceased?

He looked down at the diaries in his hand, chewing his lip. No gentleman would intentionally venture into the secret diaries of a young woman. It was an invasion of privacy and could be perceived as disrespectful and disloyal. He could ruin everything he was trying to build by such a betrayal. Mary would be mortified by the knowledge that he had read what her younger self had written about him, particularly when such devout feelings were expressed.

Perhaps it was just the one page. Perhaps she had been in love with him for the span of a week. He remembered when his sister had been a young girl, and she had been in love with a new young man every other day, it seemed. If Mary were the same way, it would only be natural for her to think herself in love with him. He was the only young man she had any semi-regular interaction with outside of her brothers. He was the obvious choice. He supposed he should be grateful she had not mentioned his brothers.

He frowned and looked down at the diary from which the particular page had fallen. Perhaps she had gone through all of the Harris brothers at some point. That would take some of the weight away, and if that had been the case, she would be much more apt to laugh about the discovery than if it had been just him alone.

It would be best to check. He would need to know how to approach her about this and the proper context would be required if he didn’t want to make an absolute fool of himself, not to mention what it could do to her.

He set the other diaries down on the nearest table and opened the oldest one. He found the place where the fallen page belonged, and then flipped to a few pages after that. Two months later.  That should be plenty of time. He checked the door to make sure it was clear, and then read.

I went on a walk today and thought about Geoffrey. Of course I did, that is what one does when they are in love.

Geoff swallowed, and flipped a few more pages. Six months after her first entry.

The sky was a brilliant blue today. It looked like precisely the same shade that is in Geoffrey’s eyes. I love his eyes. They are beautiful. I hope that our children will have his eyes.

His mouth gaped open as he finished. She imagined herself having children with him?

His stomach fluttered at the thought.

Geoff set the diary down and sank into the chair nearest him, rubbing his face repeatedly. This was a lot to take in. His best friend, the woman he loved, had spent at least six months at thirteen being so in love with him that she thought about him on walks and imagined herself having his children and comparing his smile to blankets and his eyes to the sky.

Six months at that age felt like an eternity.

He looked at the table, where the other diaries were neatly stacked.

He shouldn’t even consider it. Why, this diary was written fourteen years ago, more time had passed since she had written the entry than the age she had been when she wrote it. It was incomprehensible that she would have felt this way forever, let alone if she would feel that way now. Her emotions were sure to have changed from year to year. Nothing should be taken seriously at thirteen.

The other diaries would prove that.

He ran his hands through his hair, staring at the floor. He was a gentleman. He would not peruse the private writings of a young woman for his own amusement or to fulfill his apparent need to have his own feelings reciprocated. He was delighted beyond words that one version of Mary had been in love with him. It meant there may be some thread of hope for him after all. That knowledge alone should have satisfied him.

He glanced at the diaries once more.

He would not read any more.

He would not.

He gnawed at his lip, for a moment, then groaned and pulled the entire stack into his lap.

He would need a diary at least one year after the one he had just read. He looked through a few, and finally found one from the summer she was fifteen. Fifteen was significantly more mature than thirteen. With a nod of satisfaction, he opened it up.

I found my diary from when I was thirteen as I was going through my trunk. What a laugh! I cannot believe that I was in love with Geoffrey Harris! Oh, he would positively expire with laughter if he knew! I will not tell him, of course, it would be mortifying to admit to such silly feelings. To be in love with my best friend? Ha!

Oddly, Geoff felt a significant twinge of disappointment at her words. He snorted as he closed the diary and set it aside. He was disappointed that her fifteen-year-old self had only thought of him as her best friend? Wasn’t that what he wanted to be? Knowing that she had been in love with him once meant it might be possible for her to love him again, but there was no reason why being her best friend would not also give him an advantage.

It would be enough.

He nodded and sighed, sitting back.

She had loved him, she had not loved him.

She could love him again.

His brow furrowed. If she could love him again… perhaps she had…

He glanced down at the diaries and before he could stop himself with thoughts of what he should or shouldn’t do, he was opening the rest of them to find the most recent one.