Page 20 of If I Loved You
“I see,” he said, though it helped to define this Caralyn not at all. “That would make it even more difficult to identify this person. I don’t even think any of the staff here now would have been here then.”
“More than forty years ago,” she said. “But listen to this.” She moved her hands over the papers on the floor, sifting through the letters until she found what she was looking for and read to him. “I saw you last eve at Winthrops’ less than fascinating dinner. You knew I watched you. My darling, you couldn’t not have known. Surely your neck tingled with awareness. Surely your breath caught with wonder. Our hearts speak, even when we do not. But why, oh why, do you persist and resist? You said it yourself: the heart wants what the heart wants. Yet, you allow yourself not the chance to explore this. And still, your kiss lingers in my memory and, indeed, my own broken heart.”
Zach thought it sounded like a lot of drivel, and immediately thought he understood the entire circumstance: a lady allowed herself to be kissed by besotted man, then regretted the decision, and could not rid herself of the man’s attention. How very... tedious. Save for the fascination instilled within Miss Ainsley at such heartfelt nonsense. He chose not to rain on her charming, lovesick parade and refrained from offering his own opinion on the matter.
She plucked another letter from the haphazard pile, and read, “’Tis mercy, ‘tis shame, ‘tis joy and unbearable grief, to havethat moment—‘twas only a moment I now see—to share love, and give love, and be loved. And then you were gone.” She looked up at Zach again, heaved a breathy and tortured sigh. “Oh, poor Mr. Fiske. And this part—” she consulted the paper again. “I had a dream and it was you.” Her hand fluttered over her heart.
Zach grinned, convinced more than not of the swain’s unrequited love, wondering indeed if the uncompromising Miss Caralyn only thought the correspondence tiresome and overdone.
On the other hand, he considered Miss Ainsley’s very keen reaction, and alleged with a lazy grin and no small amount of amused charity, “You are a romantic, Miss Ainsley.” It was so unnatural to him. Women of his acquaintance wasted precious little time on such fancy. Love was only a lucky by-product of a solid union, not at all the sole reason for being. He couldn’t say he was aware of or acquainted with any couple who was truly in love. Several friends might have initially lusted after their arranged wives, some might have genuine affection even, but no man, and rarely a woman in today’s day and age squandered their dreams on so nebulous a notion. Certainly not with such tortuous ardor as the glib Mr. Fiske.
Miss Ainsley did not take exception to his accusation, only grinned and admitted, “I daresay you’d be hard-pressed to find a woman who might read these words, and not wish them to have been penned by her own object of affection.” Her tone hinted at practicality, as if she only stated fact, and was not imbued what any sense of drama and gave no hint if this be her wish as well. She added, with a shrug of her slim shoulders, “Whether or not she might admit to this would be an entirely different matter altogether.”
“You have a very tender heart, Miss Ainsley.”Despite your constant stubbornness in regard to all things having to do with me. He was filled with a sudden desire to know so much about her. He recognized the wonder of this, as he could not ever recall another person in whose presence he had been, which had found him craving...more. More knowledge, more time, more of her.
He shook himself, chastising himself internally. Good Lord, but ol’ Mr. Fiske’s covetous words must have left an impression indeed. Yet, he found himself asking of her, “Have you dreams of receiving words such as these from your beloved, Miss Ainsley?”
He’d employed a cautious tone, to give no indication of his own thoughts, but felt some censure had crept in there anyway, as evidenced by her evasive reply of, “Dreams are not for everyone.”
Her entire manner changed then. With a suddenly tightened jaw, she began to gather up the many letters, putting them in some sort of order, as she did not simply collect them haphazardly, but consulted each paper and inserted it into the stack in her hands with some care, and at different places. “I am sorry for having snooped, for having made a mess.”
Zach felt like a heel. “Miss Ainsley.”
“And how shameful of me, to not have even inquired of your ride or—”
“Miss Ainsley.”
“Or, my heavens, where is Bethany? How silly and irresponsible of me, to have forgotten—oh, but is she with Mrs. Conklin?”
Firmly now, “Miss Ainsley.” And he reached forward and stilled her fretful hands with the touch of his own. “Bethany is napping.”
She looked up and nodded, her cheeks now a becoming shade of pink. She moved not at all now so that Zach retrieved the last few letters near his own legs and neatened them before handing them to her.
“Thank you.”
“Have you no dreams, Miss Ainsley?” The want of this answer seemed to override everything else, including her sudden embarrassment, and his desire to kick himself for having caused it. At her blank stare, he clarified, “When you were a child, surely you must have dreamed of...something?”
“I didn’t have any dreams,” she supposed in a small voice. “Dreams of what?”
“Dreams of what you hoped your life to be.”
A small grin, one without humor, curved her beautiful lips. “Perhaps you are not aware, my lord, that people from the lower classes don’t really have accessible dreams. I had no dreams, my lord. I just imagined I’d get taller and older and hoped the Smythes lived forever so that I might always have the roof and the work.”
“That reeks of a lack of imagination,” he said, a frown hovering, “of which I’m somehow convinced you are not wanting.”
She only shrugged, her lips rolled inward, as if to prevent herself from speaking.
Zach chewed on this, determining that she surely must be omitting something. No young girl, possessing the heart she obviously did, spent all her youth on such practical matters, giving no quarter to more personal desires.
When he only stared at her, seeking truth in the depths of her blue eyes, she allowed her own brows to crunch as she asked, “What did you dream of as a child? Did you dream to become a member of parliament?
“No, I thought for sure I was going to be a beekeeper when I grew up.”
“A beekeeper?” She laughed, despite herself. “Like bumblebees?”
He shook his head. “Like honey bees.” He offered a disarming grin. “When I was very young, my tutor, Mr. Fellows, had an ardent interest in beekeeping, and was allowed to do so right here, at Benedict House. We bred and cared for our own bees, made our own honey, it was all very exciting and...worthy, it seemed.” He tapped his hand against his thigh, pursed his lips with some fond remembrance, and said, “My parents were indulgent, and truthfully, I cannot recall that they ever tried to dissuade me.”
“So...what happened to the dream?”
