Page 128 of Winterset
I felt the truth of his words, how much he loved me, how willing he was to give up everything so that we could be together. But ... “I cannot ask you to sacrifice so much to be with me.”
“Youaren’tasking me. I amtellingyou; I will not live in that house another day without you. I choose you, Kate. Above all else. Since the day I watched the carriage carry you away, I have been in agony,” he said. “Sending you away was the hardest thing I have ever done, and I do not wish to be separated from you again. Run away with me tonight, and let’s start a new life together.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to live in hiding, to always have to be looking over your shoulder.”
“I don’t know what that feels like,” he said. “But I do know what it feels like to be separated from you. I know how it feels to wonder where you are and to worry about whether you are safe, and I cannot endure it another day. Please don’t ask me to.”
“Where would we live?” I asked. I could not imagine how a life together was possible.
“Wherever you like. Paris perhaps? The whole city is a work of art. You would love it there. Imagine it: walking on the cobbled stone streets along the River Seine, exploring art museums and gilded palaces and flowering gardens.”
Over the last two years, I had tried so hardnotto imagine life outside the safety of Winterset, but as we stood there in the library, I could see it so vividly: sitting in an expansive garden and painting Oliver’s portrait. Icould feel the soft breeze in my hair, the sun on my cheeks. “It is a lovely dream,” I said.
“It does not have to be a dream. It can be our plan. If we left right now, we could board a boat, and the captain could marry us before we docked. We could be walking in Paris together as man and wife by tomorrow night.” Oliver lowered onto one knee. “Marry me, Kate.”
I looked into his eyes and saw his determination. He wasn’t offering his love in passing. This was his life, his heart, laid bare before me. How could I deny him, deny myself, the chance to finally be happy? I couldn’t. I must cast my fear of Markham aside and have faith in my future with Oliver.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I will marry you!”
Oliver rose, taking me into his embrace. He looked at me for a long moment, the sheer relief of knowing our future would be together clear in his eyes, and then he kissed me.
It was not as hurried nor as timid as our first kisses. His lips pressed against mine with passion—a promise of what was to come, of the life we would share.
His arms tightened around me, and I clung to him just as fiercely. I felt so safe and loved when he held me like this. Warmth built between us, and he deepened the kiss.
My stomach fluttered with a rush of feelings. Love and longing, hope and happiness.
And when we finally parted, breathless and smiling, I knew I’d made the right decision in agreeing to marry him. Our life might not be what either of us had expected, but at least we would enjoy it together.
“Have your maid pack your belongings,” Oliver said, his voice soft. “I will speak with my brother and ask him to help us make the arrangements to sell Winterset. I will have the carriage brought to the drive. And then we will away.”
“Are we really doing this?” I whispered.
“Yes, love. We really are.”
Oliver
The last time I’d stoodin this study, it had belonged to Father. Not much had changed. The only difference I noticed was that a painting of Hannah now hung on the wall instead of Mother’s.
“It’s strange for me too.” Damon closed the door and sat, not in the chair behind the desk but in the one beside me.
His choice made me feel slightly off-center. I’d imagined that he would take the place of Father. But he hadn’t. He’d chosen, as he’d said in his letters, to be my brother. First and forever? The possibility felt real.
“You have no idea how long I have hoped to sit here with you and have a conversation,” he said.
“I do, actually. You laid out your feelings in painstaking detail in your letters. You quite lack brevity, brother.”
I’d hoped to tease away the tension, but Damon’s gaze remained steady, intent. “You read my letters?” he said, his voice quiet.
“Not until this week, after Kate left,” I admitted.
He smiled slightly, but it was sad.
I looked down at my hands, ashamed. “I wish I would have read them a long time ago,” I said. “But it was probably better that I didn’t. You would not have liked what I would have written before now.”
Damon rubbed his forehead. “Anything would have been better than your deafening silence.”
I shook my head. “I’ve been immature and full of self-pity and spite for a long time, Damon. I hated you for two years.”
