Rare and Precious Things (The Blackstone Affair 4)

I cried silent tears as he told me of his experience, unable to say anything, unsure of what to do except hold onto him and be whatever he needed me to be.

“But I failed Mike. I tried—I tried so fucking hard, Brynne, not to flinch away, but I couldn’t help it—”

He stopped talking. The silence grew deafening above the steady pounding of his heart against my cheek, now drenched by my hot tears…for him, for his friend, for the helpless guilt he carried over things beyond his control.

“I love you, and I always will.” There was nothing else to say to him.

He breathed in my hair at my temple and seemed to relax somewhat. After a time of quiet he asked me a question. It was painfully difficult for him to get the words out. I could hear the fear as he struggled to force the words past his lips. “Do you think there’s a place, or a person somewhere that may help me?”

“Yes, Ethan, I know there is.”

CHAPTER 12

23rd November

Somerset

MY office was the best room in all of Stonewell Court. I was convinced of it. Rich oak panels on the walls framed the most magnificent window view of the ocean. It reminded me of All Along the Watchtower, Hendrix's cover of Dylan's song. What princess kept her view here? How many servants did she have? I surely felt like a princess in this house.

The Bay of Bristol stretched out before me, and on a clear day you could see all the way to the coast of Wales at the other end of the bay. Somerset had stunning country in every direction. I’d discovered that the inland landscape had commercial lavender fields. Miles and miles of purple flowers scenting the air, and so beautiful, your mind could barely accept what your eyes were seeing. I loved coming here for the long weekends, and I knew it was good for Ethan, too. He thrived in the peace

of the place.

When Ethan and I had searched through all the rooms of the house figuring what we would use them for, I’d known the instant we’d come into this one, that I wanted it. And the amazing thing was the impressive desk already in the room, confirming that others had thought of this room as excellent workplace long before me.

The desk was the second best part, after the view. A massive, English-oak, carved beast, but perfectly balanced with artful carvings that softened its bulk, making it perfectly designed in my eyes. I liked to imagine myself sitting in front of this splendid window view of the sea and working on my projects for the university, or just as a place to take a phone call, or surf the net.

Sheer perfection.

I sipped my pomegranate tea and indulged in the deep flashing blue of the ocean under the sky right out my window. I could sit here for hours I realized, but that wouldn’t help me get anything accomplished—and I had plenty of stuff to do. I think I was moving into pregnancy “nesting” mode a little early. Ethan teased me about my nesting when he read about it in the What to Expect When You’re Expecting he kept on his bedside table, and studied religiously. And my husband was not a pleasure reader like me. He read world and sports news, and trade publications, but not fiction. He read to learn and inform. I thought it was adorable the way he followed the website and read the book so he would know what my body was up to and what was coming. Ethan was so good at preparation and planning, and pretty much everything, but especially at taking care of me.

I sighed after another moment of daydreaming, knowing I had tasks that needed attention. Not my favorite, that’s for sure. But then, I doubt wrangling computer cords is anyone’s favorite. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled under the desk to see if there was a hole drilled in the back for a power cord to feed through. Somebody must have used it in the modern era I rationalized. But maybe not. I wondered if Robbie could help me. I braced my hand on the concave inner corner and pushed, backing myself out from under my desk, when I heard a mechanical click, and then the dusty slide of wood.

JOURNALS. Three of them stacked on the top of the desk. Leather-bound, gilded, and tied with a silk cord, the pages of which, shared the private thoughts of a young woman who’d lived a long time ago, in this very house.

When I’d untied the cord stiffened with age, and opened the first book, I was captivated from the first page. To the point I forgot about everything else and got lost in her words…

7th May, 1837

I visited J. today. I shared my news with him. More than anything I would wish to have his understanding of my regret, but I know that it is out of the realm of possibilities until such a time as I meet my maker. Then I may know his feelings on the matter…

…What shall be the price of Guilt? Just five letters in a word that buries me with its weight.

…My bitter regret that now must always be born in an endless silence that has broken the hearts of all those I ever loved.

…Today I also gave my agreement to marry a man who says he wants nothing more than to care for me and to allow him to cherish me.

…So I will go to live at Stonewell Court and make my life with him, but I am very afraid of what awaits me. How will I ever rise to the standard of what is expected?

…Darius Rourke doesn’t yet understand that I do not deserve to be cherished by any man. I am torn, but alas, I am unable to deny his wishes for me, just as I was unable to deny my beloved Jonathan…

M G

Marianne George, who later became Rourke, upon her marriage to a Mr. Darius Rourke, in the summer of 1837.

The hair on the back of my neck tingled as I looked up from the journal, and out at the picturesque view. The coincidence was unbelievable.

My book of Keats, the first edition of poems, given to me by Ethan on the night he proposed, had belonged to this same Marianne as well. How could I ever forget, For my Marianne. Always your Darius. June 1837, in the elegant ink scrawl of an earlier era, as an inscription? A lover’s gift. I cherished what Darius had written to Marianne. So simple, yet so very pure in the sense of how he saw her. He loved her, and yet, for whatever the reasons, Marianne had felt unworthy of his love. Guilt weighed down on her. As it does for me. As it does for Ethan.