Rose buried her head in her sister’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll never leave you to worry like that again. I promise.”
“I know.”
After a long while, Patricia’s hands squeezed her shoulders—not hard, but long—five seconds, then ten. Rose turned and looked at her. Her sister’s breath came ragged; her jaw squared. Eventually, though, Patricia relaxed and glanced at the clock. “Forty-seven minutes,” she said calmly. “They were forty-seven minutes apart.”
“You had another contraction?” Rose sat up even straighter. “We should go get—”
Patricia shook her head. “False contractions, remember? Doctor Chillingsworth was just here.”
“But—”
“Even if they are real,” Patricia said, “which I doubt—they’re still forty-seven minutes apart. They’ll have to come much faster before it’s time. We can fetch him then.”
Chapter Seven
ROSE HAD EXPECTED TO SEE Mr. Shaughnessy on her walk into the observatory the next morning, but she did not encounter him. She wondered all day if he might come by, asking for another lesson—an excuse, of course, but she’d not have expected him to balk at inventing an excuse to see her—but every time the door opened, it was not him.
She was beginning to think that her worst fears had been right—that all he’d ever intended was a seduction, that he’d never wanted anything more—when she encountered him on her way home. She saw him, his scarf flapping in the wind, his hands in his pockets. He paced along the pavement, his face solemn. She did not know what to say to him.
He caught sight of her and gave a little shake of his head—not denial; by the tension that seemed to leave him, it rather looked like relief.
He came up to her. “Rose.” His voice was low. “Before you send me on my way, let me be as clear as I can be. I love you. I have loved you for months, and I don’t wish to do without you. I want to marry you. I want to buy you telescopes. I want you to have my babies. I want you, Rose. You and only you.”
Oh, how it hurt to hear those words. She had suspected they must be true, even if part of her hadn’t been able to make herself believe it.
“I love you,” he said. “I didn’t say it directly last night, and I ought to have. I love you. Marry me.”
“Listen to you.” She gave him a sad smile. “Have you given any thought at all to what this would mean? Given your reputation, it will be a terrible scandal if—when—you marry. Everyone will assume the worst of me.”
“At first. It will blow over, though,” he said confidently.
“Stephen. Think. Have you considered what it would mean for us to have children together?”
His eyes softened. “At length.”
“No, you beast. I don’t mean the begetting of them. Have you thought about what it would mean to have black, Irish, Catholic children?”
He blinked, slowly, and frowned. He really hadn’t thought about it.
“You told me the awkward, difficult bit will only be the beginning,” she said. “But it won’t be. It’ll be difficult in the middle, over and over. It’ll be difficult at the end. It will never stop being difficult, and the only reason you don’t know that is that you haven’t considered the possibility. At some point, Stephen, you’ll realize this is not a joking matter.”
He spread his hands. “Maybe. But I’m not a worrier, Rose. It’s not in my nature to fret about the future. Things happen as they do.”
“Yes, and four years in, you’ll realize what you’ve landed yourself in. You’ll discover that it’s not all kisses and telescopes. I give you credit for good intentions, Mr. Shaughnessy—but I don’t think you’re serious.”
He spread his hands. “I’m not grave and sober, Rose. But I am serious about you. I know who I am and how I feel—and I’m not going to walk away from you simply because things may prove difficult. I don’t worry about the future not because I’m blind to it, but because I don’t see the point.”
“Don’t see the point! How can you want me if you don’t even bother to think about what marriage to me would entail?” Her hands were shaking. “How can you say you love me and want to marry me, when you haven’t even considered what that would mean?”
“At least I’ve said it,” he snapped. “You haven’t said what you mean at all, and I wish that you would. It’s not that you think it will prove too difficult for me. You think it will be too difficult for you.”
“My life is going to be difficult no matter who I marry.” She raised her chin. “That’s why I need to find someone who takes it seriously.”
He leaned down to her. “There. Now you’re saying what you mean. Finally. If you want a man who takes things seriously, you don’t want me.”
She opened her mouth to deny it…and then shut it. Her heart was breaking. She did want him. She wanted his laughter, his terrible jokes about mathematics. She wanted him handing her the key to the spire and telling her to go up alone. She wanted his practiced hands on her, coaxing her, seducing her, while he murmured in her ear. She wanted everything about him except…him.
“You don’t make me forget myself.” She shut her eyes. “But you make me forget who I have to be. You don’t need an anvil, Stephen. You are the anvil. And you’re right; I can’t marry you.”
His lips thinned. He looked at her, his eyes wild and fierce. And then he turned his head away and shrugged. “So be it. I’m an amusing fellow with no hidden depths. There’s always some reason why I’m not suitable. I won’t fret over it.” He straightened, casting her a look. “I never do.”
“Stephen…”
He shook his head. “Tell me if you change your mind, Rose. I won’t alter mine. I may be frivolous—but I’m not faithless, and I’m not fickle.”
“Stephen.”
She didn’t know what to say beyond that. She reached out and took his hand in hers. She couldn’t bring herself to say words, didn’t know what she could say even so. She just squeezed his fingers, not wanting to let go. Not being able to hold on.
“Be careful, Rose,” he said with a nod of his head. And then he was drawing his hand away.
His thumb brushed hers briefly—but it was as temporary a warmth as his presence in her life. He smiled at her. “If you see me about,” he said, “do talk Sweetly to me.” And on that, he touched his hat and left.