This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

“Because I’ll go to the devil before Lavinia kisses a scoundrel worse than me.”

James stopped and cocked his head. In that instant William saw in the boy’s posture something of Lavinia—a chance similarity, perhaps, in the way his eyes seemed to penetrate through William’s skin. William felt suddenly translucent, as if all of his foolish wants, his wistful longing for Lavinia, were laid out in neat rows for this boy’s examination. He didn’t want to see those feelings himself. He surely didn’t want this child sitting in judgment over affections that could never be.

William shook his head. “No.”

Her brother had not said a word, but still William felt he must deny what had gone unspoken. “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t care for her, you idiot, so you’d better start.”

James could not have accrued any substance to his frame in these few minutes. Still, when he lifted his chin, he looked taller. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “I will.”

LAVINIA HEARD HER BROTHER’S FOOTSTEPS fall heavily on the stairs that led to their living quarters. James had seen her embracing a strange man. Half an hour ago he’d followed William outside. Now he was coming back, and she didn’t have answers for any of the questions he might put to her. She didn’t want to defend her virtue tonight. Instead she stared at the account books in front of her. Industriousness would ward off any hard questions.

She forced herself to concentrate on the numbers in front of her. Five plus six plus thirteen made four-and-twenty….

The door squeaked behind James, and then closed.

Four-and-twenty plus twelve plus seventeen was fifty-three.

He crossed the room and stood behind her. She could hear the quiet rush of a resigned exhalation. Still, Lavinia pretended she couldn’t hear him. Yes, that was it. She was so engrossed in the books that she didn’t even notice he was breathing down her neck.

Fifty-three and fifteen made sixty-eight.

“Vinny,” James said quietly. “I don’t think you should always be the one to slave away over these books. Isn’t it about time I began to take over?”

No accusations. It would have been easier if she’d been able to lie to him. Lavinia carefully laid her pen down and turned to her brother. His eyes were large, not with accusation, but with the weight of responsibility. She’d wanted to save him from that.

“Oh, James.” Lavinia arranged the lapels of his damp coat into some semblance of order. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“I’m not being sweet. It’s necessary. I need to be able to manage without you.”

Why? I can do it better.

She caught the words before they came out of her mouth. How many times had James offered to help, in his awkward way? How many times had she refused him? She couldn’t even count.

“After all,” he continued, his voice slow, “you might marry.”

“I’m not getting married.” Her denial came too fast; her light tone sounded too forced. He’d seen her with William. And even though he hadn’t actually caught them kissing, they’d been clasping hands in easy intimacy. How was she supposed to explain to her younger brother she had engaged in such conduct with a man she was not marrying? Best to talk of something else.

But before she could offer up even the most ham-handed change of subject, James let out a slow breath. “Still. Should I not help?”

What had William said about them? Oh God. Had he told James the embarrassing details? Lavinia’s hand shook, ever so slightly, where it rested on her brother’s coat. “You’re right. Maybe I can assign you some task—something small.”

He frowned and folded his arms. “I should have thought you would be happy to step down.”

Step down? Step down! That would ruin everything. Her brother had no notion how to argue with creditors for a favorable repayment schedule; he’d not learned how to account precisely for the location of every volume in the library. If she left the shop to him, he’d lose a ha’penny here, a ha’penny there, until the flow of cash dried up. The library would falter and then fail. Everything she’d worked for would fall to pieces.

James didn’t seem aware he’d just proposed complete disaster. He continued on, as if he were a reasonable person. “I think I should be able to handle the work very well. I am almost sixteen years of age.”

“James.” In her ears, her voice sounded flat and emotionless. “I can’t step down. There are too many things to remember.”

“So you can tell me what to do at first.”

“I can’t tell you everything! Would you think to save pennies each day, so we might have a Christmas celebration? Would you think to bargain with the apothecary, giving him priority on the new volumes in exchange for a discount on medicines?”

She could see his fine plans crumbling, his desire to do more faltering. He drew his brows down. “Would it be so awful, then, if I made a mistake or two? I just want to do my part.”

Lavinia shut the account book in front of her. “If it weren’t for your mistakes,” she said, her voice shaking, “we’d be having a real celebration on Christmas, just like Mother gave us. It would be as if she were not gone. Now we’re having nothing. Why do you suppose I’m staring at the accounts, if not to conjure up the coins you lost?”

His face flushed with embarrassment and anger. “I said I was sorry already. What more do you want from me? You’re not my mother. Stop acting as if you are.”

“That’s not fair. I’m just trying to make you happy.” She wasn’t sure when her voice had started to rise, when she had begun to clench her hands.

Her brother shook his head. “You’re doing a bang-up job of that, then. So far, all you’ve managed to do is make me miserable.” He stomped away. He couldn’t get far; the flat was simply too small. He paused on the edge of his chamber, and then turned. “I despise you,” he said. A second later the door to his chamber slammed. The walls rattled.

Lavinia curled her arms around herself. He didn’t hate her. He wasn’t miserable. He was just…momentarily upset?

“One day,” she said softly, “you will understand how idyllic your childhood has been. You have nothing to worry about. That’s what I’ve saved you from.”

She clenched her hands around the account book, the leather binding biting into her palms. Then she opened the book carefully and found the spot where she’d left off adding columns.

Fifty-three and fifteen made sixty-six….

EVERY TIME LAVINIA AWOKE THAT NIGHT, tossing and turning in her narrow bed, she remembered her words to William. You thought you had forced me, and thus you dishonored yourself. She could call to mind the precise curl of his mouth as he’d realized what he’d done, the exact shape of his hands as he grasped the dimensions of his dishonor.

She had wanted to lessen his hurt, but she’d made it worse.

All you have managed to do is make me miserable. Not William’s words, but they seemed to apply all the same.

No, no, no. Lavinia stood and walked to her window. Thick, choking fog filled her vision. It was past midnight, and thus it was now Christmas Eve. But it was not yet near morning. The night fog was so thick it would swallow an entire troupe of players juggling torches. It could easily hide one nineteen-year-old woman who didn’t want to be seen. She would make William feel better. She had to.

Silently she opened her bedroom door. She crept out into the main room and removed her cloak from its peg. She found her boots with her toe, and then bent to pick them up. Slowly she crept down the not-quite-creaking stairs, and across the lending library. And then she was outside, the fog enshrouding her in its cold embrace.

Lavinia lifted her chin, put on her boots and walked. In the few nights before Christmas, a musicians’ company sent men on the streets to play through the darkness of night. There were no players anywhere near her house, of course, but in these quiet hours before dawn, the haunting sound of twin recorders came to her in tiny snatches. The sound wafted through the fog like fairy music. She’d catch a bar, but be

fore the melody resolved itself into a recognizable tune, it slipped away, melting into the fog like the shadow of a Christmas that had not yet come.

As she walked through the engulfing mist, those enchanted notes grew fainter and fainter. By the time she reached Norwich Court, they had disappeared altogether.

When she arrived at his home, she realized she had no key to unlock his door. Surely, his chamber was too distant for him to hear her knock.

A little thing like impossibility had never stopped Lavinia.

She was systematically testing the windows when the creak of a door opening sounded behind her.