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I hesitate, wishing that I’d let him go first. “Yes,” I say faintly. “Of course. Friends.”
He gives me an encouraging nod. His posture may be relaxed, but his gaze is as intense as ever and I have to look away lest I lose my nerve.
“John,” I say slowly, unused to speaking out loud what has come to feel like my secret, special word. “I’m so sorry.”
He looks surprised, his brows rising slightly. “Good God, for what?”
I gesture to my face, touching my lip where his is split, my cheek where his is bruised. Saying sorry doesn’t even come close to expressing how terrible I feel. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
A tiny smile quirks at the edge of his lips. “I would hate to see what you were capable of if you were trying, then.”
I blanch, and his smile evaporates. He awkwardly clears his throat. “You needn’t apologize for that,” he says quickly. “Only hurts a bit to shave.”
This doesn’t make me feel any better, and now I’m also picturing him at home with his shirt open and beautiful, high cheekbones lathered in soap. I take a deep breath. “Still, I’m sorry.”
“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” he says. “That’s why I came. And to see how you were doing,” he adds.
Blood creeps up my neck and I bite the inside of my cheek. I thought he would ask me what I was doing at the pond, or admonish me for being careless with my life. An apology is the last thing I was expecting.
He looks down at Snip, rubbing under the dog’s ears and eliciting a sleepy whimper of contentment. “There are things I should have told you before now, and maybe if I hadn’t been so cold and shut you out, maybe you wouldn’t have tried to... I can’t help but feel responsible.”
“Mr. Barrett, I mean John, you—”
He stops me with a shake of his head. “No, I haven’t acted well. I told you that this wasn’t a good place for a family, and I only meant... There have been tragedies here in the past and...” He trails off, struggling to finish his thoughts. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.” I don’t dare ask him what sort of tragedies; if he wanted to tell me, he would. “I expect you’re angry at me,” he says quietly, “and you have every right to be. I acted badly at the dance, and again at Emeline’s burial.” His voice drops so low that it’s little more than a murmur. “And... I think about that night a hundred times a day, wishing I could have saved her.”
My heart stops in my chest. I have to look away, inspecting where the wallpaper seams meet, the gaudy chrysanthemums overlapping in the wrong places. How desperate I was to hear those words before, and now that I have heard them, I realize how little they actually change anything. I hastily wipe a stray tear away before turning my attention back to him.
He stares at his hands as he knits them together, watching each knuckle whiten and relax in turn. “There’s something else.” He takes a breath. “I know about Boston,” he says, his tone soft and apologetic.
“Oh,” I say, as if he was telling me that he knew my hair is brown, or that the sun rises in the east. I should be ashamed, wary, defensive,something, but instead I just feel vaguely relieved. He’s known this whole time and he’s still Father’s business partner, he still visits our house. He’s still here. “Why are you telling me this now?” I ask in a whisper.
“Because I want to be honest with you. I don’t want you taking unfounded notions into your head and making rash decisions based on them.”
What would he think of us if he knew that they weren’t rumors? But I nod. I can’t tell him that, and I can’t tell him that Catherine’s attention to him and his friend are because of the testament of the truth she carries in her belly.
“Are you angry? For not telling you that I knew, for what happened at the pond?” His voice is soft, barely a whisper, but there’s a hard, urgent edge and when I look up to meet his gaze, his eyes are searching.
I let out a breath. “Of course not.”
Mr. Barrett slumps back in his chair, his eyes closing for a moment. When he opens them again his face is washed in relief, his blue-green eyes clearer than I’ve ever seen them. “Good,” he finally says. “I’m glad.”
Outside dark clouds are rolling in and the breeze picks up. The lace curtains swell and billow into the room, knocking over the vase of flowers. The rain comes down harder, but Mr. Barrett is lost in some private thought and makes no movement to close the window. Silence fills the room.
“May I ask you something?”
“Of course,” he says, coming back to himself. “Anything.”
“The other night... What were you doing there?”
The chair creaks as Mr. Barrett shifts his weight, measuring his words before he answers. A daring bird trills and calls despite the steady rain. “I was walking.”
“Were you following me?”
It’s a moment before he responds, his answer dropping heavy and defiant into the stillness of the room. “Yes, I was.”
“Why?”
A hint of exasperation creeps into his voice. “Why do you think?”