Page 101 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
She dragged in a breath—forced air deeper into her lungs. Then, exhaling, she lowered her arms and turned to the door, to her day.
Life went on.
She accepted that she’d had to let him leave, that she had to wait for him to reach understanding and acceptance on his own…but for the first time in her life, she no longer had faith that through following the Lady’s dictates all would eventually be well—not in this case. Not for her and him.
He’d taken that faith from her when he’d ridden away, and she didn’t think she would ever get it back.
* * *
Thomas hadn’t even reached Ayr before the feeling that he’d made a horrendous mistake engulfed him. He felt it like a weight crushing his chest, making it harder and harder to breathe with every mile that fell behind him.
He refused to acknowledge the nonsensical feeling, gritted his teeth against the sensation, and rode doggedly on.
* * *
In the cool of the evening four days later, he pulled the door of his lodgings shut behind him, settled his hat on his head, gripped the head of his cane—once again more fashionable accessory than required support—and set off to walk the short distance to his uncle and aunt’s house in Stirling Street. His aunt was holding a soirée and had, as usual, insisted he attend; she’d dropped in at the office to make sure he’d received her invitation, and with patient reasonableness had pointed out that he couldn’t hope to marry well if he didn’t properly pay attention to the available young ladies.
He couldn’t argue that. Indeed, he now saw the sense in making up his mind sooner rather than later. The sooner he chose the young lady he would make his wife, the sooner Lucilla and her enduring temptation—that relentless tug on his soul—would fade.
Pausing at the corner to let a carriage pass, he flexed his left leg. He’d called on his doctor the day before and had had the stitches removed; Henderson had spent most of the session waxing lyrical over Lucilla’s exquisite stitchery and the apparently marvelous efficacy of the salve she’d used. He’d shut his ears; he’d just wanted the stitches out and gone, the last physical reminder of Lucilla and his time in the country eradicated.
Would that he could wipe his mental slate clean as easily.
With night slowly falling and deepening the dusk, the residential streets lay largely quiet. The rattle of carriage wheels came from here and there as ladies traveled to their engagements, the strengthening glow of the gaslights setting the brass and silver on harnesses and carriage bodies gleaming. A brisk shower earlier had washed the air clean and slicked the pavements and streets, making them appear darker than they were, yet glistening where the light played in the tiny puddles between the stones. Like him, a few gentlemen had grasped the opportunity afforded by a nearby social event to stretch their legs, but otherwise, this section of the city was sliding into its customary evening repose.
A repose that invited introspection; although the last thing he wished to dwell on was his recent past, as he turned up Candlerigg Street and continued strolling, he couldn’t—simply couldn’t—stop his mind from reviewing and reliving the past few days.
After riding—fleeing—from Lucilla and the Vale, he’d reached Glasgow by late morning. He’d blamed the continuing heaviness in his chest on the sulfur-laden atmosphere of the city—the wind had been absent, and the smog had been hanging heavily, after all.
So very different from the crystal-clear air of the Vale.
He’d thrust the comparison aside and had ridden Phantom to the stables where the gray was quartered, then had limped to his lodgings carrying his bag and trying to ignore the renewed throbbing in his calf. He’dhadto leave the Vale—had had to leave immediately without risking seeing Lucilla again—and at least he’d reached there and was safe in Glasgow, once again focused on following his own path.
With that justification firmly fixed in his mind, he’d walked into his lodgings only to realize it was Sunday. So he hadn’t been able to immediately lose himself in work. He had a key to the office; he could have gone in, but the offices would have been cold and empty—no distraction. He’d debated calling on his uncle and aunt to let them know he’d returned, but given the hour, that would have meant sitting down to luncheon and having to describe his time at Carrick Manor and the Vale… He hadn’t been up to that—not even up to evading the questions.
He’d gone to a nearby tavern for a pint and some food, then had settled to spend the rest of the day and evening in his lodgings. His rooms were by any standards well-appointed and comfortable, bordering on luxurious, yet the walls had suddenly seemed too close, the rooms too dark, and an unexpected coldness had sunk to his marrow.
Writing to Manachan that he was now back in Glasgow had been his only occupation, and even that, involving as it did an acknowledgment that he hadn’t succeeded in resolving whatever it was that was afflicting his clan, had scraped at several raw places inside.
He’d told himself that all would be well as soon as he settled back into his position as principal partner of Carrick Enterprises and immersed himself in his usual routine.
Despite the tiredness brought on by the long ride, he’d slept poorly.
He’d risen early and, with his goal of reclaiming his true life in the forefront of his mind, had gone into the offices. He’d needed to re-establish his norm, find his previous anchor, and feel his world steady beneath his feet.
He’d walked through the door with its gilded logo. Mrs. Manning and Dobson had already been at their morning tasks; both had greeted him warmly, and he’d responded as usual and waited for a sense of coming home to embrace him.
But it hadn’t.
Suppressing his disquiet, he’d walked down the corridor to his office. He’d gone in, shut the door, walked to his desk, and sat behind it. He’d looked at the files and documents waiting there and had felt…nothing.
Just a horrible gaping emptiness where he’d expected eagerness and some semblance of relief.
Shaken, he’d stared at the files and letters, unable to accept that he couldn’t summon any degree of enthusiasm for what previously had so effortlessly commanded his attention. For what previously had been the cynosure of his existence, the focal point of his life.
Reliving the moment, he drew in a tight breath and, head rising, cane swinging, paced slowly on. He wished he could haul his mind from its newfound obsession—from reliving the recent days and all the shortcomings that he was determined to excuse and put behind him—yet his recollections rolled relentlessly on, refusing to let him bury them as he so desperately wanted to do.
That first morning back, he’d been forced to face a realization he still refused to accept as anything like a final truth—a momentary truth, a passing state perhaps, but no more than that. He wouldn’tletit be more than that. He’d spent a decade and more crafting a life for himself there, in his office as the principal partner of Carrick Enterprises, and now he was supposed to believe that it no longer meant anything? That he might, all along, have been misguided in pursuing that path?
