Page 33 of Impossible
“She’s the sister who died?”
Ada clasped her hands together as sweat prickled her neck. “Yes. It was my fault,” she whispered. “Our mother was already sick, and as the eldest daughter—I was fifteen—I had to take care of everyone. I took her with me to fetch my mother’s medicine. There was a kitten, not that I saw it. Clara squealed that she saw one.” Ada’s limbs began to tremble, and she became very cold. She hadn’t told this story in a long time. “I told her to keep up, that we needed to get home. But she ran after the kitten into the street. There was a coach.” The next words clogged her throat, and she couldn’t speak.
His warmth was against her, his thigh pressed to hers as he put his hand over hers. “The children at the farm,” he said softly. “You were upset when they ran toward the cart. I thought there was something the matter. I should have said something.”
Ada swallowed, then coughed slightly to clear her throat. “Why would you? You aren’t meddlesome like I am.” She let out a hollow laugh.
“You aren’t always meddlesome. You’re helpful. Anyway, I should at least have acknowledged another person’s distress. You do it with me.” He hesitated, his thumb stroking her hand. “Why?”
She shrugged. “I can’t seem to help myself. I suppose it’s my curiosity, but I just…I care.”
“Why would you care about me?”
“I care about everyone.” Especially those in pain, which he most definitely was.
“I’m so sorry about your sister,” he said. “You blame yourself for that?”
“I do. So did my mother. She died a few months later. I don’t think she ever forgave me. She didn’t tell me so, anyway.”
His hand tightened around hers. “You shouldn’t have to carry that.”
“I’ve learned not to—most of the time.” She shook her shoulders out. “It wasn’t easy. You asked me why I’m happy. Because I choose to be. It’s better than the alternative. My brother drove me out after our mother died, insisting my sister Agatha, who was just a year younger than I, could do everything I was doing, only better—meaning she wouldn’t get our other younger sister killed.”
“That’s awful,” he whispered. “Your sisters didn’t defend you?”
“No.” How that had hurt too. “They went along with our brother. My youngest sister was devastated. She blamed me more than the others did, and that was quite a great deal.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I spent a long time alone, sad and blaming myself.” She’d barely existed, begging for food and eventually selling the only thing she could to survive. But just once. “I let myself fall to the lowest level of despair and then I said,no more.”
“What did you do?” He sounded enthralled, as if his next breath depended on her answer.
She turned her head to look at him and could just make out the tension in his face. “I knew in that moment, after I’d done the unthinkable of selling my body to simply exist, that I wanted to live. I left Plymouth and went to Cornwall, where I started over. I worked my way to becoming a governess. After a few years, I decided I didn’t want to do that anymore and I came to London. Every day, I choose to be happy, tolive.”
Had she said too much? She’d only ever shared that with one other person—her dear friend Evie, who’d brought her to London and introduced her to Lucien. “I’m not trying to persuade you to do anything. I’m truly just answering your question.”
“You’re incredibly brave.” There was awe in his voice, and it made her uncomfortable.
“I don’t know if that’s true. I was afraid of what I’d become, of where I was going, where I would end up.”
“Leaving that and choosing the light over the dark, that’s bravery. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
She rotated her hand so she could clasp his and allowed herself to smile. “Thank you.”
“Thankyoufor sharing your story.”
“I don’t usually do that.” She let out an uneven laugh. “I know you think I talk too much, but that’s not something I tell people.” Yet she’d told him rather easily. What’s more, she felt good about doing so. Indeed, she felt a lightness, as if he’d somehow taken a piece of her burden. “Guilt is a terrible thing. It will eat at you until there’s nothing left.”
He let go of her hand, and she immediately knew she’d gone a trifle too far. The wall was back up.
He stood. “What were you doing on this side of the house anyway?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, also rising. She smoothed the wrinkles from her dressing gown. “I was walking along the gallery when I heard you call out.” She wasn’t going to describe what she’d actually heard. He didn’t need to know what he’d sounded like—a horribly wounded animal.
“I hope I didn’t frighten you.” His gaze met hers briefly.
“No.” Perhaps for a moment, but she wouldn’t tell him that either. He didn’t need even a speck more guilt.
