Chapter Fourteen

 

I sat on my bed, staring at the fireplace and wondering if Jonathan would ever show himself to me. As much as I had desperately wanted to see him, his was not the face I needed.

I was eager to see Wentworth. I wished I could tell him about the horrible thing that had happened to me. I wished he would offer me comfort and protection. I wished he could come out into the real world with me, and maybe even kick the mayor’s ass.

Instead, I stared at the brick and waited for a ghost to come.

The house was silent, as everyone else was sleeping.

The candles made for a perfect scene in which a haunting would occur.

Even my crisp white nightgown was exactly what a girl wore when a ghost entered her room at night.

But he didn't come.

So I went to him, certain I would see him in the secret passageway, certain he would be spying on me.

I pushed the brick as Mrs. Humboldt had, making a ton of noise as it slid open, dragging along the floor. I winced and glanced back at the door, hoping I hadn’t woken anyone.

It was open enough for me to slide through so I grabbed a candle in a holder and carried it into the shadows.

The flicker of the light danced on the walls as I made my way down the stairs, casting my own shadows.

“Emma?”

I spun, seeing him standing on the stairs behind me, the ones I’d just come down. I must have walked right through him, considering I could see the bricks through him now. “Jonathan,” I whispered. He looked exactly as he had the day he died, same clothes and all. My heart leapt at seeing him. It was the moment I had been waiting for all this time.

“You’re here?” He scowled. “How?”

“I’m in my dream. I’m in a story where I created you with lies of an ex-husband.” My explanation sounded insane. I hadn’t thought it through well enough.

“Ex?”

“You’re dead, my darling. You died. You left me. I came here looking for you.”

“No. Impossible. I would never leave you. I love you.” He rushed me, but his hands went through mine. He didn’t sound like himself, but rather what I would want him to say to me, what I wanted him to say a long time ago.

How was Danny there for Lana, so real that she gave up everything to be with him, and I got Jonathan the ghost who spewed words like the hero in a romance?

This was not my funny and pragmatic Jonathan. This was not Jonathan but a cheap copy, a version my brain weakly made up to satisfy a lie I told. My own creation.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, fear whispered that my loss and grief and imagination were not the same as Lana’s. I couldn't make Jonathan real. Maybe it was the denial. Maybe she had a much better case of it than I did.

Or maybe it was that my rational brain, my scientist’s brain, saw through the façade.

“My hands.” He swiped them through mine again and again, confused as to why we couldn't touch. “You’re a ghost,” he spoke softly.

I thought about arguing the fact but then I realized, the story was real to them and I was the ghost in the machine. I was the outsider. “Yes, darling.”

“Is this the only time we’ll see each other? Is this you saying goodbye to me?” Was it? Was that why, after all these years, I was having the least realistic interaction with my husband possible?

“I don't know.” I stared into his eyes, lost in their unnatural glow.

“I came to Sir Walter Scott’s house to wait for you. I knew you’d be back. It was your favorite place.”

“Of course.” The memory I couldn't believe I’d forgotten slipped back in. I’d been here before. I came on a tour with Jonathan once. We came to Sir Walter Scott’s house, but we never saw secret tunnels.

That was why I’d linked him to this house—the lies in my brain told the nanobots about this place.

“How are you?” he asked so delicately.

“I miss you.” Tears flooded my eyes. So many things were different now. So many things ruined.

“I miss you too. How’s Lola?” He chuckled bitterly.

“Well. She’s with Stan and Marguerite. They’re taking care of her now. She loves the kids and the yard. And my lonely life isn’t good for a dog.”

“You must miss her.”

“I do. I miss you both. I wanted to say sorry. I wanted to try to explain how sorry I am.”

“Sorry for what?”

“That I let you go back in. I should have stopped you.”

“In where? Did you sell the house?” he asked, clearly unaware of the fire. Unaware of how he had died. Unaware of being dead. Because this was not him and it was never going to be him. That bitterness of truth stung but I forced myself to see it, scared to go backward from it.

“Yeah. I did. I bought an apartment in the city and then I sold it too. And now I’m living in your gloomy old aunt’s house. It’s creepy and Gothic and sort of exactly what I needed.”

“Are you fixing it up?” His eyes widened with delight.

“Yes,” I lied. I didn't know why. This wasn't his ghost and the real Jonathan wasn't going to see the house. For some vain and shallow reason, I wanted him to think I was doing better than I was. As if giving away my beloved dog, moving from my cozy apartment, selling my prized company, and living in his dead aunt’s run-down mansion wasn't a sure sign things weren’t going well.

But this wasn't Jonathan. He was dead.

So dead that I couldn't even make him real in my mind.

I called it preservation and told myself it was because I didn't want to mourn him again. I’d nearly died last time. But I really did want to say sorry.

“I always dreamed about fixing that old house up. I imagined it beachy and more Hamptons than scary with old wallpaper and smelling like dog piss.” He smiled. “I’m glad I got to find out you’re fixing it up. And that I got to see you again.” Was that what he would have said? Or did my mind make him say it? Would he be glad to see me but not be able to touch me? How had Lana made this transition so smoothly?

“Me too.” That was true. While I was grateful to see him, even in this form, I couldn’t trick myself into believing this was him. I saw this for what it was, my imagination. In Austen’s book, I could play along and be convinced of everything. Everything but Jonathan being real. He was a man who made snide comments and joked constantly and laughed when he should have cried. He was something I could not create. I could not fake my way through.

I wished, only allowing myself a second, that he were real, that we could kiss and touch and he would make me smile.

But instead he faded. “I love you, Em. I will always love you.”

“I know,” I whispered back as he became nothing but a figment of my imagination, the remnants of something once great. I made my way back up to my room, closing the fireplace again and slipping back between the sheets.

I lay for a long time and stewed on how final it all was. Jonathan was dead. He was really dead. He was never coming back. I was never going to see or touch or hold him again. We would never kiss. I would never be able to tell him I was sorry for letting him go back inside. Sorrier than I had ever been about anything.

And while this machine didn’t bring back my husband and didn’t trick me into believing he was still with me, it had done something else.

This story had saved me the way it had saved Lana, differently though. She was saved finding the man she missed, and I was saved finding joy.

I blew out the candle and sighed, exhaling so many things beyond a bit of air.

When I woke, I felt rested in a way I hadn’t in ages. A servant brought in tea for me to drink while she readied me.

“Did you hear the news, miss?” she asked softly, glancing back at the door.

“What news?”

“Captains Benwick and Harville, ma’am, they’re on their way. They’re coming to stay.”

My eyes widened. “They are? What about Miss Anne Elliot? Have we heard anything from her?” I no longer wished for Anne Elliot to join us. She was now competition.

“Just tragedy in the last letter Miss Mary received. A Mrs. Smith has passed suddenly, pneumonia. Miss Anne was devastated and her father was disinclined to attend the funeral, leaving her alone.”

“How tragic.” Mrs. Smith was the widow friend of Anne’s in the novel. She was the one who saved Anne from marrying Mr. Elliot, her cousin. I wondered if she had been able to tell Anne of William Elliot’s cruel nature and social climbing ways. Or of his affair with the treacherous Mrs. Clay. “I need to send a letter.” I cringed at the thought of interfering, but I also couldn't sit by while poor Anne was heartbroken and ruined by a horrible marriage. She might have been competition, but she didn't deserve that fate. No one did.

“Of course. I’ll send for some paper and ink. Or would you rather dictate it?” Her eyebrows lifted in hope.

“No, thank you. I will write it myself. I appreciate the news as always.” I lifted one side of my lips in a slight grin.

“Yes, ma’am.” She curtseyed and left me.

 I went to breakfast, lost in what I should do for Anne and unsure if writing the letter was really a good idea. Wentworth greeted me with a wide smile. “Good morning. Did you hear?”

“Yes, how exciting. Your friends are joining our party.” The story was twisting and turning, and I was the one driving the crazy train taking us into uncharted waters.

“I am expecting them this afternoon. Were you made aware of the other sad news?”

“I was. Poor Mrs. Smith. Poor Anne.” I sat, picking at some grapes as tea was poured for me.

“And to be there with only her father and Elizabeth to comfort her. It’s awful. I had Mary send word that Anne should join our party as well.”

My stomach sank. “Certainly. That was kind of you.”

“Do you think it sensible of me to do such a thing? I don't want to be misleading in my intentions.”

The fact he was confessing this to me was a crushing blow to our obvious attraction to one another. Of course, I should have known he was still in love with Anne, and I should have realized I was nothing more than his friend and confidant. “Yes. In polite society, a respectful invitation should only be considered sent as a courteous offer. No one would think you having ulterior motives beyond helping an old friend.” It was a lie but I hoped a genuine sounding one. Surely, Anne and her awful father would believe this to be the rekindling of the relationship between Captain Wentworth and Anne. And now that the Elliots were broke, the captain was suddenly a good prospect.

I didn't want him to think me under an illusion as to our time spent together and what it meant. He hadn’t given me reason to believe there was anything beyond companionship in our own personal tragedies. And if the one-sided relationship was nothing more than a crush, I didn't care. As least I told myself I didn't.

Mary and Charles lumbered in, sounding like ten people instead of two. “What a peaceful sleep, so good for my condition.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Yes, what a wonder it is for one’s mental state, being away from one’s children.”

“The noise of them aggravates my ailments.” Mary sat, wiping her noise with a handkerchief before sipping the tea. She wrinkled her nose and added two lumps of sugar, stirring and marveling at the room. “What a lovely breakfast room, Captain. Your aunt had an eye for décor.”

“Yes.” The captain lifted his brow, amused.

“Are we going to have a hunt when the other men arrive?” Charles asked, taking a large bite of sausage without cutting it. “A hunt would be capital.” He spoke and chewed like an animal.

“We shall. I was thinking tomorrow after they have rested. Harville tires easily.”

“Right, of course he does.”

“And if you don't mind not mentioning the death of Harville’s sister, I would appreciate it. It’s a sensitive subject for poor Benwick. He loved her so.” The captain’s eyes darted to Mary’s and then mine. “Are Louisa and Henrietta coming down?”

“They’ve already gone outside for some air.” Mary scoffed as if the notion were something disgusting.

“Is Anne going to come?” I asked Mary, half hoping she would say no.

“She is. She’ll be leaving Bath within a fortnight. She sent word this very morning that we should be expecting her.”

“Excellent.” I smiled and sipped my tea. I couldn't shake the displeasure in the news that Anne was coming, even though I had only intended to warn her myself. It was selfish and awful, but I wanted the captain’s attention and I didn't want to share it with Anne or the ghost of his feelings for her. My ghost had left and it would seem his was just arriving.