Page 85 of Dalliances & Devotion (The Truitts 2)

Which was fine, just fine.

“Besides, I’m getting over him. I really am.” She managed to state the entire lie out loud without crying. Which was quite a feat. “There’s no reason for us to discuss the matter anymore. I just have to learn to be happy without him—for good. And I will be. I’ve enjoyed teaching and my last column was adored by most people.”

A relief since it was a rather long rant regarding demanding the fashion you want, the fashion that makes you happy, and not settling, and not permitting anyone to tell you it’s impractical or old-fashioned or silly or unimportant or frivolous. There was a lot in it about boldness and fuchsia, a color she’d taken to wearing daily in the weeks afterwards.

True, there was some criticism, but she was getting better at ignoring i

t. She turned to her relatives and heaved a sigh. And the pain would go away. Eventually. “Really, you don’t have to worry.”

“Amalia.” Isaac’s voice was soft, too soft, too pitying for her rather gallant elder cousin.

“You don’t.” She swallowed. She’d survive. “I will be fine. I would be miserable sneaking around with him forever. I’m too loud for that. And he will be better and happier without me. It’s best this way.”

“Do you really think so?” Her mother shifted in her seat, swirls of fabric sweeping the floor. “Because that’s not what I heard. Is it what you heard, Isaac?”

“No, it’s not.” Isaac slid next to Amalia and gave her a shove with his elbow. “Lydia is his boss, after all. And, unlike your mother, I do listen to her. Sometimes. Anyway, she tells a very different story. Her story involves a man who is excited about his new job and his studies, but hasn’t managed to stop talking about a woman, a particular woman, who saved his life. Multiple times. He likes to moan about how he wishes he could figure out a way to thank her and let her know how much he misses her or how much he wishes he could find a way to talk to her, or more, listen to her.”

“Yes.” Her mother nodded, her long earrings glinting in the gaslight as they danced against her high lace collar. “I heard a rather similar story, from both Thad and your father, who went to check on the young man. He apologized a bunch of times. To both of them. He went on and on about jumping to conclusions and not always listening to people, or waiting for a full explanation, or allowing them even to finish an entire thought, and how that could be a mistake, a rather large one. He also had some thoughts about how his own fear robbed him of quite a few people.”

Her heart began to speed. The organ flopped against her rib cage with hope. Foolish, ridiculous hope.

Her mother pulled out today’s paper. “It also turns out you’re not the only one who can write.”

“What?” she asked.

“Just read it.” Her mother swished her skirts a little. “Though next time, dear, if your editor is going to print letters from the general public, tell me in advance so I can write something. I have a few things I’d like the world to hear as well.” She winked, before linking arms with Isaac and strolling out of the room, leaving Amalia to stare down at the typeface.

Chapter Thirty

In response to our esteemed beauty expert’s last column, I have a few thoughts. First, it was excellently written: intelligent, cogent, and concise. Second, I’d like to add a few points: I most certainly agree that a person should have the freedom to be who and what makes them happy, after all, isn’t that what America, our great country, is supposed to be about?

Further, I believe that a person brave enough to make what they want known deserves a partner who will listen and accept them. They deserve someone who will not denigrate their desires out of their own fear and ignorance. They deserve a person who will be equally brave and work to find happiness for the both of them.

I made the mistake of failing to do that and lost someone very dear. I could only see potential pitfalls instead of what we could be together, what we could have together, if we stopped being afraid. They may not have made their wishes known directly, but I should’ve paid better attention, read between the lines.

I wish I could do it all over again because I believe we actually want the same things. I was too afraid, too blinded by my own feelings of inadequacy to understand how precious what we had was, how it had the potential to be so much more, if I could’ve moved out of my own way.

Thank you so much, Madame A, for your column. Hopefully, your readers will heed your advice and demand what they deserve. And hopefully, you’ll find someone with whom you can do the same.

David had never shivered so hard in his life. Not even in the middle of the forest, running from the Russian army. And here he was, shaking worse than a flag in a storm as she read the letter, read his letter that he and Thad strong-armed her editor into printing.

Droplets plinked against the newsprint. Now that wouldn’t do. He raced through the doorway and knelt before her, placing his hands in her lap.

“Oh god, Amalia, please don’t cry.” He gentled the paper away from her and laid it on the floor so he could stare up at her. And beg. Because he really needed to do a great deal of begging. And groveling. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to make you cry.”

“What did you mean for it to do?” She crossed her arms and scooted a bit away from him. Not a good sign. Her expression was so cold and stern, she could probably make men surrender with one glance. Her parents may claim she was the female version of her father, but her terrifying mother was certainly in there too—in the most breathtaking way possible.

“I meant for it to get your attention.” And now his voice was shaking. This was not off to the most auspicious start. Still, he had to keep going, had to brave it out, for both their sakes.

“Why?” An audible grit of the teeth. Oy. Not promising. Not that he deserved for her to make it easy.

David counted to three in his head, summoning all his courage so he could stare her straight in the eye. “Because I want to apologize, but don’t quite know how to begin.” He glanced up at her. No tears, only cold, hard blinks.

“‘I’m sorry’ usually works. I’ve said it enough times to you.” And she didn’t even smile. No wonder her classroom was always under control. Behind all the pink and the ruffles and powder, there truly was steel. And oy, if that didn’t give him inappropriate thoughts that he’d need to get rid of, posthaste.

Because now wasn’t about that. Now was about making sure she knew how much she meant to him, and promising to make sure she’d never doubt that ever again.

“I know.” He clasped his hands together. “And I am sorry.”

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