Her Every Wish (7 page)

“Really,” he mused, “the only true check in my past was the time Jeremy and I robbed Mr. Wintour. But he deserved it, and everyone does stupid things when they're young…”

All Daisy's explanations had failed her at that moment. Her stomach had roiled uneasily, and the
almost
she could not quite dispel returned with a vengeance.

“You did what?”

“Oh, did I not tell you about that?” He'd given her a brilliant, unashamed smile. “Actually, it's an amusing story. Mr. Wintour, see, was Jeremy's employer at the time—you recall Jeremy, yes? In any event, he accused Jeremy of thievery. Which was…” Crash had shaken his head. “Stupid and wrong, and in any event, Jeremy was sacked without his wages. Taking matters into our own hands was a matter of justice…”

Daisy had scarcely heard the account that followed.

Who does it hurt?
He had always asked her that question. He'd given her his magical smile, and she'd gone along. His magic had finally failed.

Who does it hurt?

Here, there was an answer. Never mind his earnest confession. Never mind that it wasn't that much or that Mr. Wintour had deserved it. Crash could only alter Daisy's sense of right and wrong so far, and stealing was wrong. Under all circumstances. It was wrong, demonstrably wrong.

Maybe he'd been wrong about everything else.

“It was nine years ago,” he finished. “I was seventeen and stupid, and, well…”

And he was sorry now. She clutched at that. It had just been the once. Boys did stupid things.

Her thoughts might have been rationalizations, but she held tight to them. She had reached out and taken his hand impulsively.

“It doesn't matter,” she had said. “I love you. I forgive you.”

He'd frowned down at her fingers twining with his.

“You forgive me,” he had finally said in a low tone. “Why do
you
forgive me? I didn't steal from you. What are you forgiving me for?”

“For everything,” she had said earnestly. “I forgive you for
everything
you've done.”

“Everything.” The pleased animation had slipped from his face. The next words came slowly. “You forgive me for
everything.
Not just the one-time theft. Pardon me; I should like to have your
everything
spelled out.”

She'd felt confused.

He pulled his arm from her. “Do you forgive me for taking wagers?”

“Of course.”

“You forgive me my former lovers, I assume.”

“Naturally.”

Instead of appeasing him, each answer of hers made his face even more dangerous. “You forgive me for being a bastard, I suppose.”

“You know I do.”

His voice was low and cutting. “Next, you'll forgive me my aunt and my mother. You'll forgive me for not having English features, for the color of my skin, for—”

In the months since, she'd come to understand that she'd misstepped. She had said the wrong thing, precisely the wrong thing.

At the time, she'd thought she was reassuring him.

“Yes,” she had said desperately. “I do. All of it.”

“Then you surely
forgive
me for having the stones to believe I'm worth something.”

She'd stared at him in confusion. “How can you doubt it?

He had pulled away from her, standing up, hunting in their clothing piled together for his trousers. “Very well. Do you want me to forgive you for your mother?
She'll
be a burden, that's for sure. Shall I forgive you for working in a shop? I know you flirt with the men who come by.”

“Only a little—it doesn't mean anything, just enough to puff up their esteem—”

“Don't worry.” He made the next words sound ugly. “I forgive you.” His voice dropped. “I forgive you the fact that you were raised to think yourself better than you are.”

She had gasped.

“I forgive you your impertinent and unwomanly desire to be more.”

She had been beyond gasping.

“I forgive you your utter ignorance in bed,” he had continued, “and your maidenly qualms. Hell, I'll forgive you your very existence in return. Even though, as these things are reckoned, you are a complete waste of a woman.”

She felt as if she'd been flayed alive. As if she were as sore in her spirit as she'd been between her legs. She'd pulled the sheets about her.

“What are you saying?”

“What does it sound like I'm saying? I forgive you, Daisy. I forgive every miserable thing about you.”

She had choked back tears, but his words hurt. Not because they were lies; they were all the truth. The truth she'd hoped he didn't see. The simple facts of her, laid bare.

She
was
ignorant about lovemaking. She was impertinent. Her mother
was
a burden.

“I'm only saying what you said,” he told her. “I forgive you.”

“Maybe I didn't say the right thing the right way.” She'd struggled to understand. “But there's no call to hurt me like that. Good heavens, Crash, it's not like I wounded you.”

Even now, even months later, it still hurt to remember his words. So she had said the wrong thing. What should it have mattered to him? She'd seen him shrug off worse insults, and her remarks had at least been kindly meant. His response… Now
that
had been truly unkind.

“Of course you didn't wound me,” he had said. “I never feel pain. Why should I care if you do?”

She had been too devastated to think. “Get out.” She'd scarcely managed those words.

“These are my rooms.”

“I don't care.” She turned away from him. “I can't look at you. I can't talk to you. Get
out.”

He'd hesitated. Perhaps at that moment, he realized that he'd said too much. “Daisy.”

“Don't.” If he talked to her, she would remember all the lies she told herself. She'd remember thirty minutes ago, when he had said he loved her, when he'd kissed her and entered her and talked to her and made her laugh. She'd remember that, instead of what he had just said.

“Daisy. Wait.”

She had looked over at him. “For what?” she had said viciously. “For me to
forgive
you?”

He sat beside her. “I lost my temper. I have a— Oh, God, I have more than a little chip on my shoulder about some of this. And, well…” He had looked over at her. “I know everyone thinks I don't care. I can't let them know when I do. But I thought you understood me.”

She had thought she had, too. “Did you mean it? Any of it, somewhere—did you mean it?”

He had inhaled. He'd looked away. There had been a long moment where she'd scarcely been able to breathe. His knuckles had turned almost pale, clenching so hard. Very quietly, he'd spoken. “Yes.”

One word, and it had ended everything. All her lies. All her wishes. All her dreams.

Crash had been the lie she told herself.

Who does it hurt?

Her. It hurt her. It had stabbed her so deeply she thought she might weep blood.

“Don't wait two months.” She had shut her eyes. “Go to France.”

“But—”

“There are telegrams,” she had told him. “If I have need of you, I will let you know. Go to France. We shouldn't see each other any longer. Now get out.”

He had left the room. She'd dressed, her hands shaking, and let herself out.

Part of her had hoped that something would come of that single time together. She'd woken at night, her fingers probing her stomach, not sure if she feared a pregnancy or wanted one. If she'd been with child, she would have been forced to speak with him again, forced to lie herself back into love. But that wish, too, hadn't come true.

She hadn't seen him for months.

He had come back, wild as ever, smiling, with that damned velocipede and his damned plan. He hadn't been hurt at all. But every time she saw him, she still bled.

He was right. His words had only been harsh and painful because they'd been true. She was, as these things were reckoned, a complete waste of a woman. No money. No family. Nothing to give to a marriage but a beauty that would fade in a matter of years.

Crash reminded her of the truth. Of course it hurt to look at him.

And what had she done to deserve his cutting words? She'd forgiven him.

For taking wagers.

For that.

You forgive me for being a bastard, I suppose.

She stopped, coming back to herself from her reverie. She was in the shop where she worked. The day was winding down, slowly, surely. She had only a handful of flowers left, sitting forlornly in empty buckets.

You know I do,
she had told him.

You surely forgive me for having the stones to believe I'm worth something.

Yes, she hadn't delivered her sentiments properly. Who could choose the perfect words at a time like that? But Crash was invulnerable. She'd heard him laugh at constables when they'd shoved him against a wall.

He was arrogant, full of himself, confident, audacious…

And she could see him as he had been yesterday glaring at her.

I am good at going fast,
he had said.
So good that sometimes all everyone sees is a blur.

He was right. She
had
known that. She'd known beneath that brash exterior that he was kind. Devoted to his aunt. Boastful, yes, and ambitious, but he'd caught her up in his ambitions, making her feel she could do anything.

Yes, she'd heard him laugh off far worse insults. He'd always laughed the hardest at the cruelest ones. His laughter, like his wickedness, was a persona he put on. He never let anyone know how he really felt.

Anyone, that was, except her.

All this time, she'd felt her own hurt. It had been so all-encompassing that she hadn't heard his.

She had forgiven him for existing, and when he'd complained, she told him he couldn't be hurt by it. How must that have felt? To have had Daisy shrug off his pain as inconsequential simply because he was good at hiding it?

All she'd seen was the blur of speed. The illusion of him that he cast. She'd thought that his laughter made him invulnerable. She hadn't seen him, not really, not even in the moments when he'd stood still for her.

Daisy exhaled and felt the world around her coming into sharp relief. For the first time since Crash had walked away from her, she understood why.

C
rash stood
at the narrow window of his aunt's flat. Aunt Ree was bundled up in her seat, her feet warmed by bricks, her eyes narrowed on the street in front of them.

“Did that man just hug a goat?”

Crash found the person she was speaking about, a tall, thin man. “Ah, that's George Mirring. And no, I suspect it wasn't a hug, not knowing his habits. It was likely more of a glancing embrace. He tends to be private with his affections.”

“Hmm.” Her eyes narrowed. “You're making this up.”

He didn't let so much as a smile touch his lips. “That goat saved his life once.”

She turned to look at him. “Did it?” Her words conveyed the utmost disbelief.

“Here's a little known fact. Goats are excellent watch-creatures. Better even than dogs.”

“Crash,” Ree said with a shake of her head, “are you capable of speaking without making up a story?”

“I wasn't!” Crash smiled at her. “This is the truth. Mirring got the goat because its nan rejected it. Everyone had given up on getting it to eat, and he raised it from a bottle and a rag. After that, the goat followed him around everywhere. They were nearly inseparable. One day, a man tried to cosh him over the head. The goat grabbed hold of his would-be assailant's coat and held him back.”

“And did you see this?”

“No,” Crash admitted, “and the goat ate the coat, so there isn't any evidence. But—”

A knock sounded on her door, and they both turned to look in its direction.

“You have a visitor,” Crash said slowly.

“How exciting.” A glimmer of a smile showed on Ree's face. “Maybe it will be a goat. My very own personal watch-goat. Since they are so very much in vogue these days.”

Crash went to the door and opened it. There on the other side stood Daisy.

She looked weary. She looked beautiful. Her eyes were wide, her hair slipping out from under her bonnet. She must have been awake since the early hours of the morning.

She looked up as the door opened, and when she saw it was him, she gave him her shop girl smile—the one that occupied her lips, but not her heart, the one that was all faked politeness. It was the smile she'd give a man who was dallying in her shop at the end of the day.

It was an act. She'd always fooled him with the way she looked: so carefree, with that smile that said she was up to mischief. He'd let that lead him astray. He'd let himself make no such mistakes any longer.

“Ah.” He met her eyes. “How appropriate. We were just speaking of goats.”

He really shouldn't goad Daisy. He knew he oughtn't. He knew it was unkind, unfair—every
un
he should avoid. But he'd waited and waited for her. He'd expected that telegram in France every day for months.

I'm sorry. I need you. I love you.

He'd come back to discover that in his absence, she'd found another sweetheart.

So yes, he was annoyed with Daisy Whitlaw. Annoyed, frustrated, and…

Her chin squared. There was no mischief dancing in her eyes now. Just a fierce determination. She cradled a brown paper package in her two hands.

“Here,” she said. “I hope you'll excuse my calling on you without a prior appointment, but Mr. Lotting said that you were here with your aunt. This is for her.”

His eyebrows rose.

She pushed the package into his hands. “You were right,” she said simply. “I feel terrible. I was angry about everything you said to me. I never thought through what I said to you. I…” She paused, then the false smile fell from her face. Her tone lowered. “I told you that I would forgive you for who you were, for what you did. That was unfair. It wasn't even true. I
didn't
forgive you. I was still sniping at you about those other things, even last week, which I oughtn't have done if I had actually forgiven you.” She frowned and looked down. “I thought nothing could hurt you. I didn't realize that I could.”

Crash could not have been more stunned.

Her cheeks were pink with emotion; she wouldn't meet his eyes. “I think I am discovering that I'm something of a horrid person who lies to herself. You were right about that, too.”

“Daisy.”

“No, don't stop me. I can't stop, or I'll fall.” Her words came out in a rapid stream. “I lie to myself. I lie to myself all the time. I would apologize, but I don't know how to stop. Women like me don't get wishes granted. Instead we just keep making them and making them and making them, and what else I am to do…” She trailed off. “So.” She shook her head. “In any event, there. I'm sorry.”

His fingers closed around the package as she unceremoniously dumped it in his hand.

“Good-bye.” She turned to go.

He reached out and took hold of her elbow. “Wait. Daisy. That's all. Really?”

“Really.” Her cheeks turned an even brighter red. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go…” She pointed out the door.

“You're going to go where?” He felt somewhat stupid.

“Out there,” she said. “Just because you were right doesn't mean I want to spend time with you. I may be a waste, but I'm
my
waste, thank you. Good-bye.” She said that last in a tone that brooked no denial. “I'll see you for our appointment tomorrow, still, because I haven't stopped lying to myself. I can't appear to give up on anything.”

He let go of her, and she turned and marched down the stairs.

He stared after her, his mind whirling. Of all the things he'd ever expected to happen, having Daisy apologize to him…

“What on earth was
that?”
Ree asked behind him.

Crash sighed and let the door close. “That was…a woman.”

“A woman.” His aunt said the words with care. “And does this woman have a
name?”

“Daisy,” he muttered. “Daisy Whitlaw.”

“Ah.
That
woman. The one you said I should meet.”

“I…possibly, I….” He looked over at his aunt, who was watching him with her head tilted.

“It's like this,” he said. “I was smitten with Daisy for a while.” He still felt stunned. “She is clever and kind and funny, and she never made me feel that I was beneath her. Not until…” He looked upward. “In any event, I thought we were of like mind. We were taken with each other. Then the inevitable happened, and after that, she found out about some of the things I'd done in the past, and she…”

Ree was watching him with a frown.

“To make a long story short,” he said, “we argued. She made it clear what she thought of my past, and I told her she was…” He couldn't say those words. Not to his aunt.

“I heard what she said.” Her voice was cold. “You told her she was a waste?”

He'd heard that voice before. Not for years, but that warning tone could still make his blood run cold. “Aw, Ree. Not like that. It was more in the context of—”

“The context of the
inevitable
happening?” Ree frowned at him. “Do you mean that you had sexual intercourse with her?”

“I…” He frowned. “Yes.”

“And she's been brought up to be a good little English girl, hasn't she? Don't lie; I can tell from her accent.”

“Yes, but—”

“So that was the context you refer to, then? ‘I know I just took your virginity; terribly sorry, but it was a waste of my time.'”

“Oh, for God's sake.” He winced. “It wasn't— I didn't—
She
was the one who overreacted in the first place.”

“Think of it from her point of view.” Ree folded her arms. “The way she talks—she has gentility in her background, does she not?”

He gave her a curt nod.

“So all her life, everyone has told her the only thing she has of value is her virginity. That she must guard it; that it's the only thing she can sell to safeguard her security. And here you come. You overwhelm her.”

“I didn't—”

“Oh, shut up, Crash,” his aunt said. “Don't be stupid. Of
course
you overwhelmed her. She told you she loved you, I wager.”

He looked down. “Maybe. But I said it back, and—”

“And,” his aunt continued inexorably, “you idiot, you removed her of the one thing she'd been told had value, and you went right ahead and made her think everyone else had been right. That without it, she was a waste.”

He stared at her, appalled. “It wasn't like that,” he said. “It wasn't. There were other things that happened first. I offered to marry her.”

“Crash,” Ree said, “do shut your mouth and listen. Do you know how
hard
it was to raise you to believe you could be more?”

He stopped.

“Every day,” Ree said. “Every moment we had. Your grandmother, your uncle, my friends… Every day we had to sit you down and tell you. ‘He doesn't know who you are; he's accusing you of stealing because he can't see you.' Every damned day we had to drum it into you until you believed it.”

He put his hands in his pockets.

His aunt wasn't finished. “Do you suppose anyone told her she was worth anything?”

He paused, and for a moment, he didn't know how to answer. “But… She…”

“I'm sure she never had anyone think her a thief just by looking at her,” Ree said. “But men have thought her a great many other things. Including a waste.”

He had nothing to say to that. His aunt was right.

“So tell me,” she said. “Why did you pay attention to Miss Whitlaw in the first place?”

Crash swallowed. “The first time I saw her, she was defending her mother. Her mother has pains.” He indicated. “She tries to work, but, well…”

Ree nodded.

“Someone was accosting Daisy. Telling her that if she didn't confront her mother about her malingering, she'd end up walking the streets.” He could almost remember that moment. “Daisy threatened to punch him in the kidneys to see if he could work while in pain.”

He could still see her, her hands on her hips.
Do you know my mother, or do I? Then stop telling me what she's doing. If you felt pain the way she did, you'd never leave your bed
.

He shrugged and looked over at his aunt. “I…liked that. I wanted it. I wanted someone who was so loyal to me that she'd punch a man. And then I started talking to her, and she was…”

He stopped again.

“She was trying,” he said. “So hard, with so little, and I thought, this is someone who can understand what it was like to be me. Finally. To have to try so hard, and to not let anyone know how hard I was trying. And she understood. I thought she did.”

“Crash,” his aunt said quietly. She didn't offer advice. She didn't tell him he was wrong. She just looked over at him.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything.

He'd been holding on to his anger—righteous anger!—for so long. Daisy had forgiven him his existence, damn it all. She'd been as bad as that lady, telling him he was a sinner because…

No. She hadn't been that bad. He frowned. He had this to complain about. She'd sent him away. She had found someone else.

He had told her she was a waste.

Maybe… Possibly…

Damn it. Under the circumstances, he'd have sent himself away, too.

He exhaled and looked at the package in his hands.

“There,” she said. “Now what do you have?”

He didn't know. Slowly, he unwrapped it. Inside was a glass flask labeled
carbolic acid.
An india rubber ball was attached to a tube. He turned the ball and found a little opening.

She had found him a carbolic smoke ball. He had read an advertisement. This was supposed to rid a room of the fumes that caused pneumonia and influenza. He'd looked for one for days.

And Daisy had obtained one for him as an apology.

Oh, God. What was he doing?

D
aisy was angry with him
. Crash could tell by the way she smiled at him when she saw him the next evening—a cold, glittering smile that came from the quiet reserve of strength she always kept.

She came up to him at the bench near the canal. “I understand how it is supposed to be now.” She looked over at his velocipede leaning against a wall. “If you fall,” she said, “you get back on and go faster.” Her eyes were dark and steady. “You don't think I can do it. Well, if this is my one chance to secure my fate, I should try to go faster.”

She'd leave him behind.

“Daisy.”

Her eyes cut to him. “I prefer Miss Whitlaw.”

“I owe you an apology,” he said.

“You owe me at least two.” She looked away from him. “Don't worry; that's one debt I don't intend to collect. Now are we going back to the velocipede?”

“No. I wanted to show you something else today.” He gestured. “Come. Walk with me. We'll get cold otherwise.”