This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

For so long, he’d simply believed he had sunk so low in society that he did not dare to lift his face. Oh, yes, he’d dishonored himself. But he couldn’t find honor by seeking forgiveness. He could not wait for Lavinia or anyone else to absolve him of his sins.

If William ever hoped to have some measure of honor, he had to be an honorable man.

The solicitor must have seen his hesitation.

“Think,” he said, “on the revenge you could take on the man who destroyed your father.”

He’d dwelled on that dark thought for a decade. But how could he expect forgiveness for his own sins, if he could not grant absolution to the man who’d wronged him?

He would have to give up any chance at those five thousand pounds. That meant he would give up any chance at having Lavinia—but then, when Lavinia had told him to hope, she hadn’t meant that he should hope for her.

She’d wanted him to hope for himself.

“No,” he said. It felt good in every way to know that he could choose to be honorable, even knowing the cost.

Confusion lit the solicitor’s face. “No? What could you possibly mean by no?”

“No, I won’t embellish the truth past recognition. No, I won’t tell lies. No, I won’t seek revenge to keep you in Chancery fees. I’m not that kind of man.” He had been, once, but he was no longer.

“Who will ever know that you lied?”

William shrugged. “Me?”

“You?” The solicitor laughed in scorn. “Well, trust in yourself, then. You’ll not deliver yourself from poverty.”

William stood. He’d thought his soul had depreciated until it was worth less than nothing. Strange he’d not realized: it always had precisely the value he chose to give it.

As he left, the man called out after him. “I hope you take great pleasure in yourself. Likely it’s all you’ll ever have.”

The words no longer sounded like the curse they once would have been.

ON CHRISTMAS EVE MORNING, Lavinia shared the responsibility of running the shop with her brother. The two of them, even in that small downstairs room, should not have made the room feel so close. Yes, there were nearly fifteen hundred volumes packed into a tiny space. The shelves stretched head height and above. But Lavinia had never found the two tiny rooms confining before, not even with a surfeit of customers. But today the books seemed to tower over her, choking her with memories.

She would look up from her desk and remember the first time she’d seen William, standing so ill at ease in front of her, asking for a subscription. She would place a volume back on the shelf and remember the sight of him in that very spot, searching for a title. He would run his finger carefully down a leather binding. In those days, she’d envied the books. But now, he’d touched her with greater reverence.

He’d not been able to hide the meaning of those gestures. Over and over, he’d told her he loved her. He loved her, and so he made her wretchedly watered-down tea. He loved her and he longed to touch her, but instead he warned her she’d have no butter with her bread. He loved her.

And yet she’d brought him hopelessness rather than happiness. Together, they’d managed to share a fine portion of guilt. She might gladly have suffered deprivation for him, but he was not the kind of man who could watch the woman he loved be deprived.

Over at the small table near the door, Lavinia watched as James entered a book loan in the ledger. He slipped two pennies in the cash box and then wrapped a book and waved farewell to Mr. Bellow. As he recorded the transaction, he avoided her gaze. She came up to the table anyway, approaching it from the front, as if she were a customer instead of a fellow laborer. Still, he winced.

“I did it exactly as you instructed,” he whispered. “Did I do it wrong? Oh God, I did it so completely backward you can tell it’s wrong without even reading what I’ve entered.” He put his head in his hands.

“You’re doing very well.” She resisted the urge to turn the book upside down to check. “Perfect, even.” No, she was not going to even glance down. “You’re doing so well, in fact, that I am going upstairs to rest.”

He lifted his face. His eyes shone in pleasure. “I’ll take care of everything.” Then he paused. “But perhaps an hour or two before we close up the shop, would you be willing to take over again? There is one thing I should like to take care of this evening.”

She patted her brother’s hand. “Of course,” she said with a smile.

She headed upstairs. She would not have minded deprivation for herself. But William…If her gloves had holes, William’s hands would freeze in sympathy. If she ate brown, unbuttered bread, the bitter taste would linger on his palate.

She’d given him hopelessness. She’d made him miserable. If she truly loved him, perhaps she needed to let him go.

CHAPTER SIX