The four older children burst out of the back parlor and onto the patio, running past us straight into the gardens, making for the vast lavender fields below. They were jostling, arguing, and laughing, and my chest twisted.
“Actually, I think every part is my favorite,” I said, and my words weren’t joking or light-hearted. They were heavy with longing. I wanted this—this, with the happy screams and the constant noise around the dinner table, and the way Thomas and Charlotte looked at each other like there was no other person they wanted more in the world. The way they gathered together by the fire on chilly nights, the way Thomas and Charlotte always woke up with piles of children in bed, no matter where all the children were put the night before.
I wanted a family. I’d wanted one for some time. And fuck, if that wasn’t unsettling. Because people in my circle didn’t want families. They wanted freedom and money and infinite amounts of leisure time bled free of responsibility. I used to want those things too.
I’d been corrupted. Corrupted so thoroughly that I was in danger of becoming a good person. But I also wasn’t an idiot. I knew I’d never have what Thomas and Charlotte had; there was no way I was capable of that kind of selfless, pure love. I’d proved that to myself—and everybody else—eight months ago.
But maybe, just maybe, fate was giving me a chance at something else.
Thomas was watching me as I thought, his thick eyebrows pulled together. “You know, it’s time you thought about starting a family of your own.”
I gave him a weak smile. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’m serious, Silas. You slept your way through England, and then you slept your way through half the Continent, and now you’ve slept your way through le Midi. And you don’t look any happier for it, at least not since you came here. Surely you can find a nice English girl that will make you content?”
“You know me,” I said, getting ready to leave, “one English girl alone would never keep me satisfied.”
But an Irish one might.
The thought came out of nowhere, unbidden and unwelcome, and I banished it immediately. If there’s one thing I’ve tried to carve into my soul these last eight months, it’s that:
I.
Was.
Not.
In love.
With Molly O’Flaherty.
It took a couple of days to get to London, a couple of dusty, windy days with the July sun burning into my skin as the Channel ferry took me back to the sceptered isle. I reread Julian’s letter as I boarded the Dover-London train, skipping past all the usual letter-writing pleasantries to the only part I could think about.
…As for Molly, well, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the word is that her company’s board has finally unveiled their plan for making her heel to their whims, something they’ve been trying to maneuver for years. They’ve declared that they will leave the company and sell their shares to
the next-largest competitor if she does not marry within six months. Moreover, they want this man to be someone they personally approve of.
Naturally, this has sent every wealthy and connected dolt to London in order to woo both the company board and her. One can only imagine how furious and lonely this has made Molly…
I stopped reading, folded the letter back up, and leaned back in my seat, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Molly was in trouble. And not just any kind of trouble, but the kind where she was being forced to marry. Even though I didn’t love her, not one bit, not at all, the thought of her standing in a church with any man other than me dug a knife into my chest. It was easier leaving her last year, if any part of it could be called easy, when I’d imagined she would remain unattached and alone forever. That if I couldn’t have her, then at least no other man would either.
So this mass audition of potential husbands was, in the words of Edward Rochester, a blow.
A very strong blow. To my naked heart. With a blunt instrument.
Which was, of course, how any friend would feel about any other friend being caught in a web of misfortune. It didn’t mean anything special that I suddenly couldn’t think about anyone other than Molly. It didn’t mean anything special that I hadn’t been able to sleep the night I had read Julian’s letter, that I had tossed and turned in my bed, tormented by the memory of sky-blue eyes glittering with pain.
I should go to London, I’d realized that night, staring at my brother’s French ceiling. I should use this chance. To help her and to help myself with one single, golden opportunity.
And maybe, in the process, set things right between us. The only problem with that being that I had been the one to set things so very, very wrong in the first place.
Molly and I had known each other for years—almost a decade—and we’d kissed and fucked and frolicked like mad across Europe and back into England…no different than anyone else in our group. But then Julian had gone and fallen in love, and something had changed for all of us. I couldn’t describe it properly, not even to myself. I just knew that it was some sort of malaise, some kind of apathy, where what used to be fun and playful had suddenly grown dull. Was there a limit to how many beautiful women a man could fuck before he got bored? Five years ago, I would have said never. But now, after seeing the fierce, magnetic love between Ivy and Jules—someone who I never thought would fall in love again—I didn’t know anymore. Because whatever they had was palpably vibrant and intoxicating, and no amount of strings-free fucking would come close to that.
Molly had seemed to sense it too, or maybe I was projecting, but after the first time we’d met Ivy and seen the tense string of connection between her and Julian, Molly had started to withdraw. Into her business, into herself, and I only saw her a handful of times last summer, usually in passing and always in groups of people. Broken-hearted, people said. She’d always secretly loved Julian. It’s no surprise she wants to avoid our crowd.
But I wasn’t sure. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would have said that she had been pulling away from me.
