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Chapter 19

Free as a Bird

J ulianna unlocked the door to the office. It was early, so it was dark. It was cold, too, it being January first. A new year.

She was alone this time, as she’d known she would be.

She hadn’t had the dream again.

She didn’t need to locate her father’s desk in the space to know whether she was awake or asleep.

It should go back in the center of the room, though. She went to it and began attempting to drag it from where it had rested against the wall since Father’s death. If she was successful in her planned speech to Effie, he might want to sit there, from time to time. She wanted him to sit there.

She grunted as she put all her weight into attempting to pull the desk away from the wall. She wanted to have every detail attended to before she made her move. She wanted everything to be perfect.

That was what she told herself, anyway.

It was possible she was procrastinating.

She stopped pulling.

She was scared. Terrified, really. That was why a fortnight had elapsed since the dream—the version in which she finally heard “father.”

What if she was too late? What if he didn’t want her anymore, under any circumstances?

She struck a match, intending to light a candle, to catch her breath and fortify herself for the task ahead, but she stopped and stared at the flame. The adages she lived by marched through her mind. She had spent so long hewing to them, organizing her life around them, for fear that if she didn’t, she might . . . unravel.

But she’d unraveled anyway, had she not?

There is only now.

There was only now, until there wasn’t. Until “now” wasn’t enough. Until you met a person who wanted your future, who made the pleasure of his ongoing company contingent upon being part of that future.

You can’t miss what you don’t let yourself want.

That one only worked when the power of your will was stronger than the power of your desire. That had always been the case for Julianna. Until, again, it wasn’t. And once you flipped, once the wanting became all-consuming, so too did the missing.

The magazine above all.

She had been ruminating on Effie’s comment, the day they parted, that he sometimes thought Julianna cared more about the magazine than she did herself. Did the magazine above all make sense when she, her very being, was included in that all ?

What was she doing ? Why was she waiting ? Because of fear, yes, but she was no longer accepting that as an excuse. Time was passing. Opportunity was diminishing. Effie was not Edith. Perhaps that should be a new adage.

A wave of impatience crested inside her, coming out her mouth and snuffing the flame just before the match burned all the way down. It was time to go to him. It was time to ask him the question that frightened her more than anything ever had before.

“What if you could change the dream?”

Or, it was time to turn toward him, for he was here.

Hadn’t it always been like that with them? That day, at the Pavilion, she had turned, and there he’d been. That last night together, she’d lifted her hand to knock on his door, and he had opened it before her knuckles made contact.

“What if I could change the dream?” she echoed, struggling to shift her attention from the astonishing yet not at all surprising fact that he was here— he was here! —to the content of what he’d said.

“That’s what you asked me, in a letter, when you introduced the idea of trying to control my nightmares, change the outcome of them.”

“I remember, but I’m not sure I follow what you mean saying that now, in this context.” She stepped back and gestured him into the dim office.

“I changed the dream.”

“Yes, you told me.”

“I’m still changing it—the awake one.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You have been speaking about marriage as if it is something that happens to you.” He perched on a table. He looked like he belonged here.

No, he didn’t “look like” he belonged here. He did belong here.

Julianna had so often felt, in recent days, a lack of belonging, as if she didn’t fit in anywhere. She hadn’t seen a way to ameliorate that. You’ve chosen a lonely life , Amy said. Julianna had chosen the magazine above all else, and she had—she’d thought—accepted the lonely consequences of that decision. She hadn’t, historically, even regarded those consequences as lonely.

Until him.

Once again, her mind was undergoing such a rapid reckoning that she had to force herself to consider his words. You have been speaking about marriage as if it is something that happens to you.

“For women,” she said, “it usually is.”

“I am aware, but you are not an average woman. I have never met someone, woman or man, so utterly in control of her destiny.”

“You are wrong. If I were in control of my destiny, I would not have to fight my mother’s late husband’s son for control of my magazine.” That might be beside the point here, beside the reckoning, but she could not resist pointing it out. “I would not have needed to control the person who is dearest to me in all the world as if he were a doll.” The shame was still fresh.

“It is true that you and Mr. Glanvil are frequently at odds, but I do not take that to mean you are not in control of your destiny. I suppose I am speaking more of your temperament, your mental posture. You make things happen. For example, that Pavilion tour. You don’t hesitate to tell people when they’re being daft. For example, the boys and I and our over-worry about propriety in Brighton.”

He paused. Smiled. “And as for the rest, you have an idea of what marriage would mean for you, but I think you’re discounting the you part of the scenario. That’s what I’m saying about you being in control of your destiny. It’s as true in matters of sentiment as it is in matters of business. You have impeccable judgment. I’m not saying there is no risk of heartbreak when one considers matrimony, but I’m also not asking you to marry me.”

The anti-proposal: it stung. The fact that she was disappointed was telling, wasn’t it?

“I have come to tell you that I’ve made some changes in my life, largely inspired by you,” Effie said. “I’ve left home. Not that it was ever home, not really. I’ve left my father’s house.”

He proceeded to spin the most amazing tale. He’d found a brother, and she was so happy for him on that account. He had rented rooms. He was, effectively if not legally, leaving his title behind. It was all very astonishing. It was all very brave. But Effie was very brave, wasn’t he?

“I’m not asking you to marry me,” Effie repeated. Also repeated: the pang of disappointment in her chest. “But I do have two questions. First, will you go into business with me?”

“I beg your pardon?” What could he mean?

“I was meant to appear here with an item that would make my case better than I shall be able to, but that plan proved impractical. It turns out when you’re changing your dream in the corporeal world, large objects can’t float up several flights of stairs as easily as the ghosts that haunt them.”

“What are you speaking of?” Why was this all so befuddling? “You were meant to appear here with ‘an item’?”

“Yes. I bought a hand press.”

“You bought a hand press?” Julianna was aware that she was doing nothing more than parroting what Effie was saying. At least she was better spoken than Leander.

“I confess I did not grasp that although Stanhope’s version is smaller than Gutenberg’s, it still isn’t something one can transport in one’s pocket. It’s currently in Simon’s orangery, but we can arrange to have it moved here.” He paused. “Or to my rooms in Grub Street. Depending on what you decide.”

“You . . . bought me a hand press?”

“No. I bought myself a hand press. Well, that’s not strictly true. I finally cashed all the bank drafts I’ve earned from you over the years, but as you well know, that wasn’t nearly enough. Simon and Archie and Olive bought me a hand press.” He quirked his head, and her heart twinged at the familiar mannerism. “That’s not exactly right, either. Simon and Archie and Olive invested in the endeavor I am launching. I’m going to print things. Books—my own, to start. But also, perhaps, magazines?”

“No!” She was beginning to understand.

“Well, not if you don’t want to.”

“You can’t just . . . print my magazine!” After all she had done to him.

“I’m sure I don’t know why not. But that is not what I’m proposing. I suggest we operate the press together. We print your magazine and my books and whatever else. The “whatever else” is key to the profitability of the enterprise.” He winked. “I am told that ‘profitability’ is what a man of business ought to aim for.”

“But why would you offer me this press when you have funded it? Or, I suppose I should say, you and your investors.”

“Yes. They’re investors, and I might opt to keep them as such. We might opt to keep them as such, should you care to join me. Or, we might elect to pay them back according to the terms outlined in a dismayingly dull document I signed last week.”

“You aren’t answering my question. What would I bring to this proposed partnership?”

“I have a press, but I don’t know how to use it.”

“I . . . well, I suppose I know. In theory.”

“And more to the point, you know people who know. You also know people who might bring their business to us. The way I see it, I supply the infrastructure, and you drum up the business. And the labor, should we require any. See? I don’t even know about that. Do we need pullers? Or can we do it ourselves?”

The notion of physically operating a press with Effie was . . . Well, it was nearly enough to make Julianna swoon, especially when she thought of her own magazine coming off it.

“You’re saying we could print Le Monde Joli on your press.”

“On our press, yes.”

She had to close her eyes for a moment to forestall the swoon. She needed to not get ahead of herself. She needed to know everything. And say everything. Because he needed to know everything, too. “You said there were two questions.”

“Right. Well, the second isn’t really a question. I merely want you to know that I love you.” He smiled, and the sight was so incredibly dear to her. “I am almost certain you already know, but I wanted you to hear it from me and not Leander.”

Julianna gasped. And then began to cry. Two things Julianna allegedly never did.

At least she managed to stave off the swoon.

“I always said I would never marry,” she said through her tears.

“Which is why I’m not asking you to. So don’t cry, Jules, at least not on my account. My question isn’t contingent on my declaration. I still want to be business partners, if you do. It’s just that I can’t . . . go to the sea with you. You understand? I could live in a room in Grub Street with you, or in a”—he glanced around—“cold, dark office with you, but I can’t have you and then not have you. I won’t be used and discarded.” He shook his head, and his countenance softened. “So we shall be friends. And business partners, I hope.”

Oh, Effie. He was proposing, in a way. He was proposing something short of marriage, something he thought she might find acceptable, and what lengths he had gone to in order to be in a position to do so.

“You gave up everything for me,” she said incredulously.

“I didn’t. I didn’t know what you were going to say. I still don’t. I gave up everything for me . And I’m not sure I would describe it thusly. I gave up some things, yes, but I did that so I could get another thing.”

“And what is that thing?”

“Freedom.”

Yes . When you unraveled yourself, or unlatched yourself, you were free. To start over.

An idea was forming, an idea that was at once radical and completely obvious. “What if I . . . started a new magazine? What if we started a new magazine?” That was what she should have said. That was what she meant.

“I think that’s a fine idea.” His eyes twinkled. “ Evans’s Lady’s Book , perhaps?”

She dried her eyes. “Only self-regarding braggarts have their names in the titles of their magazines.”

“I take the point. Well, your name will be on the inside, as editor and proprietor.”

“And your name?”

“Perhaps I shall be your assistant?” He paused. “When I have time. I shall be awfully busy writing and publishing my poetry.” He winked. “Now who’s the self-regarding braggart?”

“So you shall be my assistant but not my husband.”

“You were right before, in Brighton, when we were discussing our roles in that whole breaking-and-entering scheme.”

“It wasn’t breaking and entering.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “You wanted me to be your assistant, but I insisted on being your husband. You were right. In fact, I think you may have had a prophetic vision.”

Here it was: her opening. Her heart thumped—with fear or love, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps both. “Perhaps you were right when we went breaking and entering in Brighton. Perhaps you ought to be my assistant and my husband.”

A slow smiled blossomed on his orchid lips. “Julianna Evans, are you proposing to me?”

This was it. As usual, Effie had smoothed the way for her. All she had to do was say . . . “Yes.”

That wasn’t right, though. Well, it was right. It was her answer, the true answer, but it wasn’t enough. She owed him more than that. He’d started to speak but she held up a hand. “I would like to say something to you, if you will allow it.”

“Of course. Your speech is not for me to allow or disallow.”

“I want to say that I love you, too.”

He dipped his head, looking adorably flustered.

“I didn’t tell you before because I don’t think I realized it myself. Or I didn’t let myself name it. And that was because I was afraid. The bit where it came off as though I was toying with you—the doll business—” He started to object but she shushed him. “You were right about that. It was because I wanted you, but I was afraid. All the reasons I always gave for wanting to avoid marriage were true, but they weren’t . . . comprehensive. There was another one, a big one, one that had nothing to do with laws, or money, or the magazine. I was afraid that if I loved you, when you left to marry someone else—”

“Like Edith did,” Effie said quietly. “I understand.”

“But I have come to realize that you are not Edith. One of the great gifts you have always given me is your careful attention. You have always listened to me. I ought to have done the same for you, really listened to what you said. Believed you when you said you weren’t fussed about the earldom, or the lineage.”

She took a breath. That hadn’t been nearly as difficult as she’d imagined. She felt lighter already, even without knowing how things were going to turn out. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I’m sorry I appeared fickle. I wasn’t fickle, in my heart. I just wasn’t allowing myself to know my own heart. I hope it’s not too late. I had intended, today, to come to you and suggest that we begin an affair. A long-term, poorly hidden affair on terms we find mutually agreeable.”

She took another fortifying breath. “But in light of your changed affairs, and of your fine speech just now, I believe that, yes, I am proposing to you.” She paused. “Proposing marriage , if that wasn’t clear.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. Fear began to assert itself, and Julianna made a gesture of impatience.

Effie smiled. “I am merely having trouble adjusting to such a declaration. You once said the ‘last thing you wanted’ was a man to propose to you.”

“If it helps, I said I didn’t want a man to propose to me.” She grinned. “I never said I didn’t want to propose to a man.”

“I ought to call that quibbling,” he said fondly.

“I was in jest, but I find that perhaps direction makes the difference. Of course, you make the difference. That whole business about you being you, wonderful you. But also, direction seems to matter. How interesting.”

“Direction?”

“I am the proposer here. The question is flowing from me to you. I am doing the asking.”

“And I am doing the answering.”

“Yes. And soon, please? I am not sure I ever appreciated how difficult it is to make a suit of marriage.”

“Are you afraid I’ll say no?”

“Of course I am!”

“Oh, goodness, I was just teasing.”

“Does that mean...?”

“You do understand that regardless of who is doing the asking, if we were to marry, you would be marrying into a title. You would be a countess.”

“In name only, though, yes? Just as you plan to be an earl in name only?”

“You could be whatever kind of countess you like. But in the eyes of the law, you would still be one.”

“I would like to be the kind of countess who lives in a room in Grub Street and publishes a magazine with her husband who is also her assistant.”

He grinned. “I would like that, too. I would like that very much.”

Julianna tried to return his smile, but something still nagged at her.

“What are you brooding about?” he asked. “Oughtn’t this to be the part where the happy couple embrace and what have you?”

He was teasing, but the thing, the nagging thing, was coming into focus. They had discussed this briefly, in Brighton, in the context of needing to prevent conception, but this context—the context of marriage—was quite apart from that. “Some people . . .” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Some people, myself perhaps among them, would say that I am too old for you.”

“Too old! What does that mean? Is anyone too old for anything? If an old man desires to dance a quadrille, he need only find a willing partner.”

“And how does an old man at a ball find a willing partner?”

“He asks ladies until one deigns to dance with him.”

“No. He has money.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Young ladies deign to dance with old men because they have money.”

Effie burst out laughing, and oh, how she had missed that sound. “I suppose that is true.”

“And some people are too old for some things.” She paused. She had hinted at this that night in Brighton, but she hadn’t outright said it. “Some women are too old to bear children.”

“Why would I want a child?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“We discussed this. Because a son of mine would have to be Earl of Stonely someday.”

“I take your point, but aside from that, you would make a perfectly wonderful father.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so.”

“Be that as it may—and believe me, I am mightily flattered—the first thing a father ought to do for his children is protect them.” He was speaking fervently, and she knew what he was thinking about. “And the only way to protect my children from their fate is not to have them to begin with.”

“I suppose my point is more that most people would not allow such high moral standards to prevent them from doing something else they wanted to do, especially when that something else is to have children.”

“Julianna, I am unsure how we have ventured so far down this conversational path. I never imagined myself having children, because I never imagined myself falling in love. I felt no regret over that fact. But here I am now, in love. With you, in case you missed that. Perhaps I should have brought Leander along so he could shout it in your face again. So if you’re trying to tell me that you can’t have children, please believe me that I am taking that news in stride. It’s not that I don’t care. If you care, I care. But I care because you care. I don’t inherently care.”

“I wonder,” she said laughingly, feeling the weight of the moment start to lessen, “if you could conceive of a sentence that uses the word ‘care’ more times than your previous?”

“I think I attained the upper limit of the number of ‘cares’ that may be in a single sentence. In fact, I think you should give me a prize.”

She kissed him.

But only for a moment.

He squeaked his displeasure when she pulled away. “I am eight-and-thirty. My menses are irregular.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you know what menses are?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know what menses are.”

“Well, you do rather tend to live in your daydreams, and you were a virgin when I met you.”

“I will have you know I was a virgin due to inclination, not lack of opportunity. In fact, the very day I left for Earls Trip, I fended off not one, but two suitors.” He was laughing as he spoke, and she smiled along with him.

“My point is, I want to make it utterly clear that I believe it is too late for me to have children.”

“ My point is, as I told you , I have no desire to consign a child of mine to become the earl of Stonely. None.”

“What if you had a daughter?”

“He threw up his hands. If you don’t want to be with me, Julianna, just say it.”

“I can’t say it.” She wasn’t doing a very good job proposing, was she? She regrouped. “I have made a hash of this. I should like to say it’s because you’re the writer and I’m the editor. But that is merely an excuse. I do not have your way with words, but it shouldn’t take that many to say what is in my heart. Even your dim-witted bird can do it.” She took a breath. “I love you, Euphemia-Edward-Effie. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. I want to marry you, most desperately, and I find that fact terrifying.”

His countenance went utterly soft. “I know you do, dearest.”

“I am going to need a new adage, aren’t I?”

“Indeed you are,” Effie said with a wink. “Once you are a married woman you can hardly go around proclaiming ‘the magazine above all else.’”

He was teasing, but the thought was still so . . . upending. “Why is it so easy for you to love?”

He grew serious once he realized that she hadn’t joined him in his jesting. “I don’t know. I suppose because of my friends. Who will be your friends, too, if you will allow it.”

“I have been so afraid to lose the magazine. But I think that was a proxy for my real fear, which was to lose . . . myself. I realize that makes very little sense.”

“No, it makes perfect sense. But if we are to follow the metaphor. . .” He turned up his palms. “If you will allow me?”

“Of course. Metaphors are your department.”

“Your magazine has been chipped away at over the years by the Glanvils. You have been trying to protect it, but it has put you in a terrible position of constantly being on the defensive.”

Yes, that felt right. And it was so exhausting to be constantly on the defensive.

“And perhaps,” she said, speaking slowly, for she was articulating new thoughts as they formed, “in being so focused on the minutia of defending it, I have lost sight of the larger mission.”

“Yes.” He beamed like a proud tutor. “And what is the larger mission?”

“The larger mission is love. Belonging. Trusting that the people I love—the person I love—won’t leave.”

“Oh! Now we are off the magazine metaphor and on to sentiment!”

“Well, let’s say the larger mission is love and a new, better magazine.

“Love and Evans’s Lady’s Book .”

“We are not calling it that.”

“Perhaps we ought to speak to our investors about titles. Perhaps we ought to speak to them tonight, over dinner. That might help with the ‘belonging’ bit of the equation.”

“Perhaps we ought to,” she agreed. “To return to what I was saying, though—to close it off, I hope—I just want to make sure you know what you’re . . . getting with me.”

“I know what I’m getting with you.”

“You’re getting a woman who cannot give you a child.” She wasn’t sure why she was belaboring this point, except that it seemed impossible that she was on the verge of having everything she’d ever wanted. Everything she’d never allowed herself to want.

“I am getting a woman who can give me everything. I am getting a woman who changed the color of the sky,” Effie said. “I am getting a woman on a beach under a chartreuse sky.”

And she was getting everything she’d never let herself want. How extraordinary. “Oh. All right, then.”

“However,” Effie said with a twinkle in his eye, “I don’t believe I’ve actually heard you articulate the question.”

“The question?”

“The question in question.”

“I thought you were a poet.”

“Apparently not when a lady is making a suit of marriage. Apparently then I take leave of my literary senses. But I am not wrong. You have said you are proposing—more than once. But I never actually heard a question, did I?” His strange-beautiful eyes danced.

“Effie,” she said, her heart close to bursting. “Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

“Yes,” he said, and Julianna was free.