Would that she would confide in him. He would give her a shoulder to cry on, if she would allow it. But he had a feeling that she did not confide in anyone, even those closest to her. No one else, even her sister, seemed aware of her troubled mind.
He helped her over a low branch, stomping down a patch of thigh-high grass as they trudged through the shadowed confines of the garden. She moved through the tangle, certainty guiding her feet. Yet still there was no sign of her greenhouse. “Mayhap it’s fallen down,” he ventured.
“No,” she replied, her gaze focused ahead. “It will be there. I’m sure of it.”
The words had barely left her lips before a glint in the trees caught his eye. And then it was there, an oasis in a jungle.
The wrought iron was rusted, the glass grimy. Yet it was beautiful for all that. The fanciful metalwork, as delicate as it was, stood strong in the afternoon sun, the great glass dome with all its panes of glass seeming intact.
She exhaled beside him, her grip on his arm tightening. When she looked up at him, her eyes were glowing.
“I told you it would still be here.”
He grinned. “Yes, you did. I’ll never doubt you again.”
She smiled. It was a small thing, but it made his heart soar that he could bring it about.
“Let’s go in, shall we?” he asked.
In answer, she moved forward, tugging on his arm. He went willingly, aware of a desire to go wherever she might lead him.
Where the air within the house was stale with disuse, the air within the greenhouse teemed with life. It was rich and warm, filling his lungs with a humid heat. He breathed in deeply, stopping just inside the doors to stare.
Whatever had been planted within had thrived. It had grown wild, yes, but in a glorious kind of way, a celebration of life instead of a slave to its destruction. Twining vines had attached themselves to the iron, creating a glorious living dome, letting filtered sun in. Small trees spread their branches like yawning children just waking. Flowers bloomed in a riot of vibrant color amid the greenery. The ground beneath their feet was thick with years of dead leaves, covering whatever path might have been laid, creating a rich base for it all to spring from.
Clara dropped his arm, moving forward as if in a trance. She peeled off a glove, letting her slender fingers trail over the glossy dark leaves of the closest plant. He watched her, unable to look away from the straight line of her back, the ungiving angle of her chin. He thought he saw a muscle tic in her jaw, and that small tell made his heart ache. He should leave and give her some privacy.
Yet he couldn’t. He wanted to be here should she need him. Not that Clara appeared to have ever needed anyone before. But he couldn’t shake the thought that she was close to breaking.
Just then her hand came up to her cheek, wiping hastily.
Damn her pride. He couldn’t stand there and not at least try to help her.
In several long strides he was at her side, his hand on her arm, pulling her about until she was in his arms.
“Quincy—” she tried, planting her hands on his chest. He didn’t fail to notice that she didn’t push him away.
He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, her soft curls tickling his nose. “For once, just let someone giveyoucomfort.”
She gave a startled laugh, which transformed into a sob. It was quickly stifled, and she pressed her face into his chest, her shoulders tight beneath his hands.
“Clara,” he whispered, “you can let go, you know.”
She shook her head, her hair rasping against his cravat. “I can’t.”
The words were broken, as if dredged up from some deep place within her. “You can,” he replied, his hands rubbing over her back. “Clara, you don’t have to be strong all the time.”
She shuddered beneath his touch, and he sensed the urge in her to let go. But stubborn thing that she was, she held on tight to her control. He imagined her face was scrunched up in determined concentration.
He sighed into her hair. “Though I can’t understand why, this place seems to bring you pain. I shouldn’t have asked you to come.”
She stayed quiet. Then, her voice so small he hardly heard it, “Some of the sweetest memories of my mother are here, and it’s dear to me because of it. And when I was at a very low point in my life I rediscovered this place and—”
Her hastily cut-off confession only brought about more questions: She’d returned later in life? What low point? But he sensed that she would retreat for good should he press her. Instead he stayed quiet, his hands moving in gentle circles over her back.
The shaking in her grew. Was his touch bringing her distress? He was about to step back when her shoulders dropped, a long sigh escaping her. And he felt her tears soaking his shirt.
She cried as if years of pent-up grief were being released, an undulating wave that appeared to have no end. He remained silent, giving what comfort he could. Finally, after what seemed an age, the faint shaking stilled. She sniffled loudly.