“Don’t see the point! How can you want me if you don’t even bother to think about what marriage to me would entail?” Her hands were shaking. “How can you say you love me and want to marry me, when you haven’t even considered what that would mean?”
“At least I’ve said it,” he snapped. “You haven’t said what you mean at all, and I wish that you would. It’s not that you think it will prove too difficult for me. You think it will be too difficult for you.”
“My life is going to be difficult no matter who I marry.” She raised her chin. “That’s why I need to find someone who takes it seriously.”
He leaned down to her. “There. Now you’re saying what you mean. Finally. If you want a man who takes things seriously, you don’t want me.”
She opened her mouth to deny it…and then shut it. Her heart was breaking. She did want him. She wanted his laughter, his terrible jokes about mathematics. She wanted him handing her the key to the spire and telling her to go up alone. She wanted his practiced hands on her, coaxing her, seducing her, while he murmured in her ear. She wanted everything about him except…him.
“You don’t make me forget myself.” She shut her eyes. “But you make me forget who I have to be. You don’t need an anvil, Stephen. You are the anvil. And you’re right; I can’t marry you.”
His lips thinned. He looked at her, his eyes wild and fierce. And then he turned his head away and shrugged. “So be it. I’m an amusing fellow with no hidden depths. There’s always some reason why I’m not suitable. I won’t fret over it.” He straightened, casting her a look. “I never do.”
“Stephen…”
He shook his head. “Tell me if you change your mind, Rose. I won’t alter mine. I may be frivolous—but I’m not faithless, and I’m not fickle.”
“Stephen.”
She didn’t know what to say beyond that. She reached out and took his hand in hers. She couldn’t bring herself to say words, didn’t know what she could say even so. She just squeezed his fingers, not wanting to let go. Not being able to hold on.
“Be careful, Rose,” he said with a nod of his head. And then he was drawing his hand away.
His thumb brushed hers briefly—but it was as temporary a warmth as his presence in her life. He smiled at her. “If you see me about,” he said, “do talk Sweetly to me.” And on that, he touched his hat and left.
ROSE SHUT THE DOOR behind her. Her hands were shaking; she felt sick to her stomach. But she had done it. She’d cut ties with Stephen Shaughnessy—and she’d survived it. She looked about the entry and frowned.
The house was dark. The sun had not yet set, but it was close enough to evening that a few lights ought to have been on. There were no lights in the front room, the dining room, the back pantry.
She frowned and tentatively called out. “Patricia?”
A door opened upstairs. A few moments later, Mrs. Josephs put her head over the railing.
“Your sister is not feeling so well, Miss Sweetly.”
Rose frowned. “Has she seen the doctor?”
“Not since last night,” the older woman said. “She says it’s just more of that false labor again. She doesn’t want to bother him.”
Rose felt a pit of foreboding open in her stomach. “Didn’t he say that false labor pains are supposed to stop? How can she be sure that it’s false labor, and not something else?”
Mrs. Josephs shook her head. “I’ve never been blessed with a child, Miss. Really, I don’t know a thing about it.”
Rose shook her head and then carefully ascended the stairs. Her sister’s room was dark, but Patricia was not in bed. She was walking a figure eight pattern on the carpet.
“Rose.” Patricia looked up as her door opened. “You’re back. Don’t worry about me; I’ll feel well soon enough. In fact, I don’t feel so badly now.” She managed a creditable smile.
“Should you lie down?”
“I feel better walking.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing really,” Patricia said. “Just more of those false labor pains, that’s all. And they’re not coming particularly swiftly—they’re still only twenty-three minutes apart.”
Rose felt cold fingers clutch her heart. “You’re still having labor pains? They’ve gone on all day? They’re coming closer together?”
“False labor pains.” But Patricia sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. “It’s too early for real labor. I…sent over another note to Doctor Chillingsworth at noon, and he replied that I had nothing to worry about from my description, that the only thing I needed to do was calm myself.”
“I do not like Doctor Chillingsworth,” Rose said passionately.