“Oh,” Adrian said, suddenly. “That reminds me. I brought you a treat? It’s a celebration for a successful day. Here.” He reached down and found the paper bag at his feet, opening it up. “I hope you like lemon tarts. They were all that was left at the bakery.”
She froze in place, her eyes fixing on the little pastries. Her hands flew behind her back.
“Oh.” He felt a strange sense of disappointment. When he’d stopped in front of the bakery, he’d thought of her smile earlier when he’d bought her a meat pie. She’d had little enough reason to smile lately; that was the only reason he had wanted to see her face light up. Not because he’d enjoy looking.
Nothing like that at all.
“Oh,” he repeated sadly. “You don’t like lemon tarts.”
“No.” She shook her head. “It’s not that. I love lemon tarts. Or at least, I used to do so.”
“Then you should have them both.”
She actually sat on her hands and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“Of course you can. Don’t worry about me. I never want for lemon tarts.”
That smile he had hoped for did not materialize. Instead, she looked even more perturbed.
“It’s not that. Or—it’s not just that.” She swallowed. “I said earlier I lost my family. Actually…” She stopped again, then glanced at the open door behind them. She dropped her voice even further. “Actually, I left them.”
He waited for her to continue.
“I was twelve. My uncle was wealthy; my father had just…” She paused, her lips pursing as if she were searching for the right word. “Died,” she settled on. “My family was in shambles. We were utterly ruined. My uncle offered to take me in. My sister told me not to go, but he told me I would have gowns and lemon tarts. So I gave in.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
She looked down. “I gave up everyone who cared about me for lemon tarts. Fat lot of good that did me.”
“Well.” Adrian wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. “But…you still like lemon tarts, don’t you?”
Her eyes dropped to the floor. “I tried to eat one again when I was fourteen and staying with Mrs. Heilford? Back then, she had only just started asking me to do little tasks around the house. It was a special treat and I put it in my mouth, and…”
“And?”
“And I couldn’t taste anything,” she whispered. “It reminded me too much of things I couldn’t have any longer. It might have been sawdust, for all I knew. It has seemed like a waste to try one ever since.”
“Well.” Adrian held out the tarts to her. “Time to try again, don’t you think?”
She stared at the pastry. “What if I don’t taste it?”
“Then you’ll try again.” He moved his hand even closer.
“What do I do?”
“Touch it,” he said. “There’s no rush. If your mind goes blank, just fill it with details. Remind yourself what it feels like first.”
She reached out a tentative finger, running it over the golden-brown ridges of the crust. “It looks smooth,” she said quietly. “But it’s rough. It feels…crisp? Can something feel crisp?”
“Break off a piece.”
She snapped off a small section. Little crumbs scattered on the sack where he held the pastry.
She raised it to her lips, then stopped.
“Smell it first.”
She inhaled. “Oh, it smells so sweet. And lemony.”
“Does the crust smell different?”
She turned the piece in her fingers. “Buttery,” she said, “with a hint of salt.”
“Go ahead. Taste it.”
Her lips parted, pink and inviting, and he was transfixed by the sight of her tongue darting out. She bit off a dainty piece and closed her lips. Her eyes shut.
“Oh.” Just one syllable, somewhere between pleasure and pain. “Ohhh.” She chewed slowly. “I can taste it. It’s—oh, so good. The lemon is so tart, and yet so perfectly sweet. And the crust? It’s rich and buttery and salty all at once. I can taste it again.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “I can’t believe it. Adrian, it’s back. I can taste again.”
And there was that smile he’d seen before—brilliant, sparkling, and so utterly beautiful that he felt as if he’d been knocked back a pace.
Oh. No. He had known that he liked her. He had known he thought she was pretty. He hadn’t realized that he liked her. Bad idea. Very bad idea.
“Of course it’s back,” he heard himself say. “You deserve lemon tarts—all the lemon tarts that exist in the world.”
Her eyes shone. “No, no, that’s too many lemon tarts. I will be smothered.”
His throat felt hoarse. “You deserve lemon tarts in reasonable quantities, then.” And because he needed to remind himself, he added: “You deserve someone who chooses you, someone who wants you for who you are. Someone who doesn’t let you slip away.”
She just looked at him, her eyes shining, and oh, this was not a good idea. Why had he thought making her smile was a good idea?
“I promise you,” Adrian said. “We’ll get you everything after the lemon tarts, too. It will all be yours—just as soon as we can end this thing that entangles us.”
Chapter Twelve
“I had thought that you might be able to be of assistance.” Camilla tried her best to look at the church groundskeeper with a friendly smile. The morning sun was bright, and she had been full of hope all day since she woke. The sun was golden, and it had driven off the morning mist entirely. During the drive out, green leaves had rustled on the trees. “I had heard that there were resources available for women who were in need of help, and I…well. You may have heard…” She trailed off invitingly and gave him another hopeful smile. There was still dew on the grass, and she could feel it, cool and comfortable, against her ankles.
After the lemon tarts last night and the drive this morning, she’d thought she would never be unhappy again. But Mr. Graves was peering over her head as if she didn’t exist. His eyes focused on a point far away from her.
A disappointment, to be sure. Well. It just went to show—not everyone would be as kind as Adrian. She’d never expected more. She had just hoped for it.
“Ayep.” Still he didn’t look at her. “I heard what you did. We all did.” His nose twitched, as if he smelled something bad—and it was her.
“Are such resources available?” She was proud of herself for asking without a hint of a quaver in her voice.
“No.” He didn’t look at her. “Why would there be?”
“I just thought, I had thought…” She trailed off, trying to figure out how to ask about charity without using the words Mrs. Martin gave money for a charity gift and I want to know if it was used properly.
“What?” Mr. Graves sounded scornful. “You thought that you didn’t deserve what you got?”
That started a slow, nervous fluttering in her stomach. She didn’t want to think, didn’t want to get distracted. As long as she didn’t think of it…
“Could you—I don’t know, have you asked? Is there not some sort of fund set up for women in need, that one could inquire after?”
“Not a chance. I have specific orders from the rector himself to make sure the likes of you move on swiftly. Don’t want you being a burden on the parish, we don’t.”
“But.” She swallowed. “Are those recent orders? Might something not have changed?”
For the first time, he looked at her. She almost wished he hadn’t. “He told me himself. In person. This morning.”
She couldn’t back down. In this circumstance, her very helplessness made her a weapon that could be used. Camilla balled her hands and returned his gaze. “Is there perhaps some evidence that he told you that? Did he say so in writing? Or is there a circular on the matter?”
She realized her mistake when his eyes flared in anger. Oh. He thought she was accusing him of deception.
He took a step toward her. “Be gon
e!”
He was taller than her by a foot. It took all her strength not to turn tail and dash away. “I didn’t mean to imply you were lying. Just—it would give me some comfort to know…? If there were some official pronouncement on the matter?”
“I’m not a perambulating stack of documents,” he said, and this time he did reach for his shovel. “Get off. Nobody wants you. Nobody wants you here at all.”
No doubt he meant nothing by it; men reached for shovels all the time. He was a groundskeeper; shovels were a tool of his business. But for a moment, Camilla stood in frozen horror, her lungs aching inside her.
“Get out of here.” He actually raised the shovel.