Star's Crossing

35: A Coward and a Selfish Man

There was little fanfare with Teddy's arrival, despite it being on Mare's arm. Lilith, who must have heard the news, had retired with a headache and declared she would abstain from the picnic. Upon hearing this Mare made for the house, but Alison caught her arm.

"Don't fret, Mare. She's not cross with you." Alison's eyes were bright and determined, the set of her mouth resigned.

Mare considered feigning ignorance, but in light of their surroundings, the beautiful honest wood and the retreat of Thatcher House, she carefully detached her mind from the morals of society. She confided in Alison as a friend, not a neighbor or her future husband's cousin. It felt like returning home and finding a fire lit before your arrival.

"I've troubled her again, Alison. Your cousin's come to deliver a letter from Camden."

"It is not so untoward," Alison said firmly, holding Mare's hand. "Lilith is at peace here. Perhaps his arrival has disturbed that. We are all familiar with the sensation."

Mare as much as the next girl. They were free here, and it was all beautiful delusion. It was best not to return to reality prematurely, even at the cost of one's civil reputation. Anyway, Teddy was not the kind of man to complain of his lady retiring without greeting, and certainly not the kind to report such trespasses to his father or Lilith's.

The thought was sad, but warming. Though Lilith did not love him, Theodore Bridge was indeed a good man. He would make a very fine husband.

"Thank you, Alison." Mare clasped her friend's hand. "You've been good to Lilith while I have not."

Alison smiled, though it wavered slightly, and her eyes glittered. "Come, friend. Let us eat and be merry."

The dining was pleasant, though Mare wished she could silence the world around her and pick Teddy's brain now he knew the letters in the paper were penned by her hand and that his cousin was her future husband. He had claimed ambivalence on the beach, but as she ate her cucumber sandwiches and sipped her tea, she felt his eyes upon her.

Each time she lifted her own, he held them, steadfast, curious. Perhaps he was skeptical. But he'd sensed the letters were hers, and how many times had he alluded to this talent, speaking of Shakespeare and passion?

Who, then, did he doubt?

Camden?

Mare caressed the envelope in her lap, fingertips against the wax seal. It was a sensation familiar and likewise alien now. Once Mare had received these letters with as much regularity as the sun rising in the east. Once a week she would hurry down to the schoolhouse, where Miss Cressida waited patiently, letter upon her desk. Often she'd prepare tea while Mare sat in the empty classroom and read.

The memory felt like a dream. It'd been more than a month since Mare had received his most recent letter, a note, more, informing Mare he'd see her tomorrow. Tomorrow.

When she remembered the note, lost to the rain that fateful day, it was not Camden she pictured in her mind. Indeed, it was no one at all. Even knowing his identity, Mare could not reconcile the two people, the two lives, the two worlds. It was as though she'd worn her mask too long, and it was no different now than her own flesh.

Meredith and Alison spoke of the weather, of her father and business, of Star's Crossing in summer and the long procession of courting rituals. Mare hardly heard a word. Now she'd eaten and drank and assured all that nothing was amiss, she could not draw her mind from the letter. His words, once sanctum and rescue, bid her eyes again, a siren call falling on desperate ears.