“I do. I do want you there.” She pulled out a handkerchief and blotted her face. She looked down to those hazel eyes. Those were the eyes she knew so well—the ones that weren’t all jesting, all the time.
Her mind spun backward in time, remembering when those eyes would ignite with happiness when they’d write invisible-ink paper notes to each other. Oh, they had been no ordinary invisible inks, with the kinds of messages easily released with a wash of red cabbage water or a lightbulb. Theirs had been a far more refined technique. The words had been scribed with quills dipped in salt water—even tears would have worked—then developed with a wash of silver nitrate pilfered from the cook’s bottle of stomach medicine. Together, they’d bring the paper into the morning sunlight and watch the words darken to black, to truth.
Secret puzzle for Allene, one note had read.
It isn’t red,
It isn’t blue,
It has one oxygen,
And hydrogen—two.
Love, Jasper
It was everything. In his eyes, and what they shared—this love of secrets, of chemicals, of each other. Perhaps the words meant something.
Love, Jasper
It was just childish innocence. They’d been only twelve then.
And all the while, Birdie would be mending one of Allene’s dresses in the corner of the parlor, cautioning them to be careful. And they would spring on her, tugging on her stockings in a good tease and gazing at her fondly, as if she were their own personal wax doll.
Allene would keep the messages but always feared their discovery. They only ever lasted a day before she burnt them in a wisp of hearth smoke. They were for her and only her.
Jasper still crouched at her feet, worry altering the handsome lines of his face as he watched the memories play across her features.
“Good God, Jasper.” She sighed. “I wish it were you I was going to marry.”
Jasper froze, as did Allene. She couldn’t believe she had spoken the words aloud. His face drained of color, before pinking up quickly.
“Allene,” he began, “you know I would marry you in a minute.”
Oh God. That tone, that face! Was he pitying her? It was worse than kindness. “Don’t make fun of me.” She turned her face and tried to stand.
Jasper captured her wrists in his hands. “I’m not making fun.”
He pulled gently, bringing her closer. She could have twisted her arms and released herself, but she didn’t. She could smell his heat rising from around his shirt collar. Warm and alluring. She imagined weaving a blanket out of it and sliding beneath it after a long, warm bath.
“Do you really want to marry me?” Jasper whispered. “Or are you just trying not to marry someone else?” His eyes went from teasing to something harder, more flintlike. As if he were sizing up her net worth, wondering if she was worth the task of marriage.
“Forget I said anything,” Allene whispered.
Jasper let go of one of her hands to lift her chin. “Do you mean that? Let me at least give you a wedding gift, one way or another.”
Before Allene could say a word, he leaned in and kissed her. It was firm and strong and ever so different from the night of the engagement party. His hand at her chin spread to clasp her jawline, snake around the back of her neck, preventing escape. His lips moved over hers, tongue slipping expertly between her lips, which parted in surrender. Jasper’s other arm released her other wrist and spread over her bodice, just under her right breast.
He deepened the kiss, sending rings of pressure and electricity to everywhere that was forbidden, to the place that only her hands had probed in secret shame in bed or in the bath. When he released her, her jellied legs couldn’t hold her up. She sat down weakly on his bed.
Jasper turned around quickly, blotting his lips. Allene covered her face.
“We shouldn’t have . . . done that,” Allene said.
“I think you’re right.” Jasper forced a laugh and turned around. “I guess you won’t be marrying me after all, eh?”
“I suppose not.” She didn’t even know what she was saying, she was so discombobulated. She took a makeup compact out of her purse and powdered the flush off her face. “Anyway, could you imagine?” She said the words more to herself than to Jasper. “You’d be able to pay for tuition and go to medical school. Even better, you wouldn’t have to work. And you might get a draft exemption, because we’d be married and I’d be dependent on you.”
Jasper was quiet at this. She’d expected a tart comeback—something about pride and pulling up bootstraps and such. But instead, he seemed to take in everything she’d said, turning it over, examining the worth of each phrase. Allene didn’t like how he regarded her—like a jeweler with a loupe, searching for flaws and weighing carats carefully. Without blinking, he said, “I appreciate the offer. But I don’t think the terms are to my liking.”
She snapped her compact closed. “The terms? Or me?” She looked around. “So you’d rather go on living here.”
Jasper shrugged. “This place? The Taj Mahal? Why wouldn’t I?”
The tension between them broke as they laughed, and laughed hard, but Jasper soon sobered.
“Anyway, my uncle needs me. Used to be the other way around, but . . .” He raked his fingers through his hair, making it almost stand on end. “I don’t know how he’s going to survive if I end up in the army. Besides,” he said, tucking his hand into his pocket, “if you married me, I’d never know if it was because you didn’t want to marry Andrew. And you’d never know if it was because I needed money.”
They weren’t the words she wanted to hear. She could sense Jasper watching her, and it felt like a heavy heat was bearing down on her.
“I really ought to go,” she said finally.
“Dawlish waiting for you, huh?”
“Actually, I took the train.”
He raised his eyebrows appraisingly. “I can call you a cab. Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Jasper went to the front door, and when he’d left, she touched her lips. They were still softened from the kiss and ever so slightly swollen. But her throat was searingly dry, as if all the fluid in her body had poured out of her eyes. She walked back to the kitchen, blinking at the glassware apparatus perched crookedly on the table. Erlenmeyer flasks, funnels, condensers, and tubes tangled together with small burners. Over the stovetop, another crude contraption was larger with metal drums and tubes that ended in a container over the icebox.
A bottle labeled “Apricot Brandy” cozied up against larger bottles of wine, whiskey, and gin on the countertop. The brandy, only a quarter full, was stoppered with a cork. A single empty glass sat nearby, as if anticipating her presence. She uncorked the squat brown bottle and sniffed it. The odor of apricot was fainter than she expected. Surely Jasper’s uncle wouldn’t miss a sip, and her throat was still so terribly dry. So she poured a small amount of the brown liquid.
She brought the glass to her lips, resting it against her bottom lip—cool and comforting. As she tipped the glass, a shadow flickered on the edge of her vision.