Eliza shook her head. Whatever she was about to say next was left unsaid, as the door opened and Peter entered.
“Is everything all right?” He had tried to stay away, but had found it impossible to be away from her for too long.
He needed to see for himself that Jemima was really all right, and not considering aiding Hugo in any way. Which, given the guilty look on her face, was something she clearly was. He hadn’t missed the knowing look that passed between the women as he entered.
He had the distinct feeling the next few moments were going to be difficult, and wasn’t surprised when Eliza quickly made her excuses and left them alone.
“Tell me you aren’t contemplating helping Hugo,” Peter demanded, perching on the edge of the chaise beside her chair, and resting his elbows on his knees in a seemingly casual pose. Staring down at his hands, he knew from her silence that she was considering something he wasn’t going to like and clearly expected an argument from him.
Jemima stood and knelt on the floor directly before him, taking his hands in hers for several long moments before raising her gaze to his.
“Please don’t think that I am considering this lightly, because I am not. If someone came in now and said Scraggan was dead and posed no further threat, nobody would be happier than me. But they won’t, and now another woman, someone I consider a dear, dear friend, is at serious risk because of her connection to me. I cannot in all conscience just sit back and do nothing to help.”
“So give Hugo her name and let him go and help her,” Peter argued, clasping Jemima’s thin fingers in his warm palms and holding them tightly.
“My friend is very shy, and somewhat eccentric. There is simply no possibility she will trust Hugo, whatever he tells her. She is different to most people,” Jemima added cautiously, wondering just how much she should tell Peter without risking his censure. “Lovely, but different.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Peter muttered, not liking the way the conversation was going. His gaze met and held hers. “Please tell me that you are -” He stared in horror at Jemima for several moments before dropping her hands and lunging to his feet. “Good God, you are!”
He didn’t know what angered him more; the fact that Jemima was prepared to put herself in danger to help her friend, or the fact that she clearly expected him to stand back and let her go.
He stalked over to the window and stared out over the immaculate lawn, unable to even look at her. After several minutes he was aware that she had moved to stand beside him, but refused to tear his gaze away from the turrets of the old Norman church nestled in the trees bordering the lawns.
“You were supposed to have been buried today in that church,” he nodded out of the window, his voice as neutral as he could make it. He had to work hard not to turn around, grab her shoulders and shake her to within an inch of her life.
Jemima stood shoulder to shoulder with him, and studied the old stonework of the building peeking out through the woods.
“I’m sorry for ever getting you involved in all of this, Peter,” Jemima began, choosing her words carefully. “If I had known back in Devon just how bad things would get, I would never have asked for your help. At least then you would have been able to get on with your life, instead of having it stolen by Scraggan just as effectively as he has stolen mine.”
“It’s too late now though, isn’t it? I am involved, up to my ears, and there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it,” Peter snapped, for a brief moment wishing he wasn’t madly in love with her.
“The past few months have changed me considerably,” Jemima began, not certain if he would ever understand. “I am not sure I am even the same person you met down in Devon.”
“You haven’t changed that much,” Peter argued, knowing in his heart that she had changed a bit. There was wisdom in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. A deep, all knowing wisdom that only came from life’s experiences, both good and bad, and was usually acquired with age.
“While Scraggan is still out there, I cannot settle. I won’t rest and allow myself to be caught out by him again. I cannot be lulled into a false sense of security thinking he is down in Padstow and busy with other things. It doesn’t matter how good the Star Elite are, or how much confidence this Hugo person has in them, Scraggan is dangerous and has many connections. There is a serious risk that someone will get word to him that I am still alive, and he could return to finish the job, especially
when he learns that Rogan has failed to murder Eliza and is now behind bars. He could return for answers. I cannot just sit here and wait.”
“But you won’t be sitting here: if we marry, you will be sitting in Oxfordshire, at Willowbrook Hall with me and I won’t let anyone get to you.”
Jemima reluctantly met his gaze, sadness lurking in the depths of her eyes. “I cannot consider a future until the past is laid to rest.”
Peter cursed and shook his head. “What if you are laid to rest? What then? Have you stopped to consider the devastation losing you would cause other people?”
He knew he was shouting, but was driven by a desperation that was driving him mad. He fought the urge to put his hands on her shoulders and shake her.
The image of Peter’s distress in those final moments in Mr Simpson’s office came flooding back, and she knew exactly how much distress she would cause him; had already caused him.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot enter into marriage to you not really knowing what I want. I have spent so much of the past few months living on edge, always looking over my shoulder, trying to blank out the horrible things going on around me, that I don’t know who I am anymore.” She longed to tell him she loved him, but couldn’t speak the words: they would place a further obligation on him.
If ignorance of her affection meant he was prepared to stand back and let her leave and, in doing so, get on with his own life, then so be it. However hard leaving him was going to be, she owed it to him to give him the opportunity to be free of her and her problems.
She knew he didn’t understand when he remained silent, and continued to stare moodily out of the window.
“Look at things a different way,” Jemima reasoned. “I have not been raised to be a lady. Neither Eliza nor I has ever had any formal schooling. We were taught to read and write on our father’s knee, and as soon as I was able to sit at the desk and see over the top of it, I was expected to help my father with his paperwork. Which I was happy to do,” she hastened to reassure him when Peter looked askance at her. “It gave me something to do. Eliza was always the more domesticated one and was happy to run the house, while I helped Father with his books and things. When we left Padstow, I knew things weren’t going to be easy and I was right. For the past few months I have worked from dawn to dusk, and the work has been long and tiring. But I have woken in the morning knowing what I was going to be doing that day. I have never had the luxury of waking up in the morning and having nothing more taxing to deal with than deciding whether I want to read or sew.”
Jemima scowled out over the lawns, considering just how boring a life like that must be. She realised then why so many aristocratic women looked so bored! They probably were. “Although I do not know what I want, I do know that I would not be happy living a life like that. I would be bored stupid within a month.” She turned to him, a frown still on her face. “But, on the other hand, I don’t know what I do want to do.”