The Other Daughter (40 page)

“Brave.” He turned back to her, his shoulders straightening. “I wouldn't have taken the New York job but for you. I'd meant to turn it down. Too much responsibility, too close to everything I'd tried so hard to avoid. But when you showed up at my flat that day—if you could face up to your demons like that, how could I do less?”

Considerations
, he had said, and she, blinded by her own preoccupations, had assumed he meant Olivia.

“My demons—they're hardly on the same order as yours.” Belatedly, Rachel remembered the paper in her bag. “There's something I wanted to show you.”

Simon was quicker than she had been. After a rapid perusal, he glanced up from the single sheet of paper. “Shall I call you Lady Rachel?” Folding it carefully, he handed it back to her. “It's happy endings, then. You've everything you wanted.”

No, no, no. This wasn't at all the way Rachel had meant this interview to go. They might have been polite strangers, standing at a careful arm's length at the rail. Where was all the easy banter of the past months?

Rachel clutched the paper in both hands, making new creases against the old folds. “But it's not what I want. I want to come to New York. With you.” When Simon didn't speak, she added, “If you'll still have me?”

The breath was crushed out of her as Simon's arms clamped around her, lifting her off her feet, whirling her in a giddy circle.

“I thought you'd come to say good-bye,” he was saying, between kisses, while Rachel said confusedly, “No! Would I come all this way for that?”

She could feel Simon laughing into her lips. “And that's why I love you. Why waste time on the amenities?”

“I can observe the amenities,” Rachel protested breathlessly, and then, “Love me?”

“Didn't you know that by now?” There was a wicked glint in Simon's eye. “I'd profess it trippingly off the tongue, in limping rhyme, but you'd have me over the side of the ship.”

“Yes, if all you could manage was limping rhyme. Don't I deserve a sonnet?” Rachel felt giddy with happiness, lightheaded in the salt air.

“A sequence of them,” promised Simon extravagantly. “All written with a quill pen.”

Rachel put a hand on his breast. “Spare the chicken, I beg you. A simple I love you will do.”

Simon pulled back, looking down at her. “Will this do, then? I love you.”

Not a question this time, but a statement, simple and unvarnished, with none of the usual protective smokescreen of verbiage.

“Very nicely,” said Rachel softly. A vision of the future spiraled out before her, an unknown city with all its hustle and bustle, but Simon beside her. “Very nicely, indeed.”

Simon's hands tightened briefly on her shoulders, his expression growing sober. “Are you sure? You'll peg your future to a broken-down wretch such as I? You could be the toast of London. You might have your pick.”

His tone was light, but she could hear the uncertainty beneath it.

“You are my pick,” said Rachel bluntly. “Can you see me sitting in a drawing room, pouring tea for Lady X and the Honorable Y? I'd die of boredom. I'd rather spar with you than murmur polite nonsense with anyone else.”

“Bad dreams and all?”

“Bad dreams and all.” A thought struck Rachel. “Will your mother be appalled?”

Simon's arm tightened around her. “She'll be delighted.” His lips curved in a grin, making his face look very young, and very boyish. “She doesn't believe in polite nothings either. We will have to tell her the whole story, you know. She'll be frightfully disappointed that she missed your star turn as Vera.”

“She won't think less of me?”

“She'll be sorry she didn't think of it herself.” When Rachel still looked unconvinced, Simon said drily, “My mother has made a career of flouting society's conventions. She'll give you three cheers and throw you a dinner party.”

Whistles sounded, unbearably shrill. The tempo of the deck had changed, the creaking of the winches stilled, the stevedores fading away, stewards moving busily through the crowd, chivying visitors away down the gangplank.

“That's me, I suppose.” Reluctantly, Rachel pulled away. “I'd best book a cabin on the next ship over.”

Simon snagged her around the waist. “Do you really want to go back to the flat and follow in a fortnight?”

“Of course not! But I've no cabin, no clothes—” Rachel darted a look up at him, struck by sudden suspicion. “You didn't book me a cabin, did you?”

“No, nor pack you a dressing case,” said Simon mockingly. “I wasn't that sure of myself. But, by God, now that I have you, I'm not letting you slip out of my clutches. There's plenty of room in my cabin. I'm sure the captain would find the voyage much enlivened by a marriage at sea.”

Rachel set her hands on her hips, trying to look indignant and failing utterly. “And the small matter of clothing?”

“I seem to recall having to outfit you once before. Albeit in somewhat different circumstances.” He looked down at her, his expression tender. “Let's not ruin our record. Mad schemes are what we do best.”

Rachel smiled mistily up at him. “Only north by northwest.”

Simon's hand tightened on hers. His expression grew serious as he said, “Do you still wish you could go back, to before?”

Two nights ago, at Carrisford, she had longed for nothing more than to go back to the simplicity of being Rachel Woodley, secure in her history and her name. She thought of the Rachel who had bolted from the Ch
â
teau de Brillac only three months before, so sure of herself, seeing the future stretch on in familiar, recognizable paths. Another post as a nursery governess. Possibly, if she were bold, a typing course and a secretarial job. And maybe, someday, marriage to someone as steady and responsible as she.

It had been a safe life, but a narrow one. Her opinions, her judgments, all those had been narrow, too. Bourgeois, even, Rachel thought with a half smile.

Life with Simon might sometimes be rocky, but it would never be dull. Diamond cut diamond. They might occasionally feel the sting of sharp edges, but there was no one in the wide, wide world who suited her half so well.

She had fallen through the looking glass, and she found she rather liked it.

“You're a vast improvement on Amelie, Albertine, and Anne-Marie.” And then, because she felt he deserved something more, she added honestly, “I wouldn't go back, even if I could. For all the pain, it was worth it in the end. It brought me to you.”

She half expected Simon to mock, but he didn't. “And all say amen.”

They stood together for a moment in peaceful silence, the bustle of departure ebbing around them. The final whistle sounded. Rachel could hear the creak of the gangplank being drawn up, people shouting their final good-byes. Ahead of them stretched the gray waters of the Atlantic, and New York on the other side of it.

Rachel leaned back against Simon, feeling a bone-deep sensation of satisfaction. She felt a crazy grin begin to spread across her face. No clothes, no baggage, no papers, even, but what did it matter? Mad schemes were their specialty.

Simon nodded to the paper she held. “What do you mean to do with that?”

“Oh, that.” She'd nearly forgotten about it.

“Yes,
that
.” Fondness and amusement mingled in Simon's face. “Just your passport into the peerage.”

On an impulse, Rachel tore the paper down the middle, then folded the pieces together and tore them again. Opening her hands, she let the wind take the scraps, scattering through the air, whirling and swirling like dust motes above the waters of the Atlantic.

She took a step closer to Simon, standing in the shelter of his body. “It doesn't matter anymore.”

“No, it doesn't, does it?” Simon drew her closer, resting his cheek against her hat. “We can name our first daughter Vera.”

“No.” Rachel smiled up at him through a sparkle of tears. “Katherine.”

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing this book with my right hand in a splint made for a new and challenging writing experience. Special thanks go to my husband, who took on the dull duties like dishwashing and diapering so I could save my wrist for writing; to my mother, who stepped in for extra babysitting; and to Lutchmie, who cuddled and cajoled the little one and kept everything running. Thanks also to the staff at my local Starbucks (Camille Robles, I'm looking at you!) for commiseration, encouragement, and endless lattes.

Thanks as always to my editor, Jennifer Weis, for pushing me to make this book as good as it could be, and to Sylvan Creekmore and the rest of the team at St. Martin's for all the creativity, patience, and hard work of taking
The Other Daughter
from manuscript to book. This book was something of an experiment—I had never written a single-narrative, single-viewpoint novel before—and I am so very grateful to my sister, Brooke Willig; my college roommate, Claudia Brittenham; and my two fellow W's, Beatriz Williams and Karen White, for endless hours of character analysis and plot advice. (Also, Irish coffees and proseccos.)

These acknowledgments wouldn't be complete without a moment of remembrance for the late great Mary Stewart, who passed away just as I was beginning work on this book. As I was working, I jokingly called this my Mary Stewart tribute book, and while, in the end, it turned into something rather different, I am so very grateful for the lessons her books taught me and the hours of pleasure they afforded me.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lauren Willig
is also the
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Ashford Affair
and
That Summer
. An alumna of Yale University, she has a graduate degree in English history from Harvard and a J.D. from Harvard Law School. She lives in New York City, where she now writes full-time. You can sign up for email updates
here
.

 

ALSO BY
LAUREN WILLIG

The Ashford Affair

That Summer

THE PINK CARNATION SERIES

The Secret History of the Pink Carnation

The Masque of the Black Tulip

The Deception of the Emerald Ring

The Seduction of the Crimson Rose

The Temptation of the Night Jasmine

The Betrayal of the Blood Lily

The Mischief of the Mistletoe

The Orchid Affair

The Garden Intrigue

The Passion of the Purple Plumeria

The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla

The Lure of the Moonflower

 

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