A Midnight Clear (4 page)

What he was doing was perfectly innocuous. Not that it looked that way at all.

Girls spilled out of the front gates, chattering together as they escaped the school grounds. Joe scanned the crowd, his heart jumping every time he saw a familiar looking blonde head, then sinking when he realized it wasn’t her.

But then she tripped out. The sisters looked alike, but while Frances held herself almost stiffly, Suzanne was breezier, as if she didn’t have any weight on her shoulders at all. At sixteen, she probably didn’t.

Time to make his move. “Miss Dumfries,” he called across the street.
Lord, please don’t let Frances be nearby. Or her father.
Oh, the admiral would be worst of all.

Suzanne stopped and looked around, a ladylike frown creasing her brow. When her gaze landed on him, something rather unnerving sparked in her eyes, something that made him want to abandon the whole thing for half a moment. But she loped across the street without hesitation, all well-bred languor as she did.

“I remember you,” she said by way of greeting. “My sister said she didn’t care to know you.”

Yeah, he remembered, although he didn’t care to. “I’m Joe. Joe Reynolds. Midshipman First Class.” He wasn’t going to refer to her sister’s indifference to him.

“I can see that.” She tilted her head, studied him. “You sent the books.” Her tone was much too assessing for a sixteen-year-old. Again he had the impulse to flee and again he held himself still. “Every other midshipman does the obvious and sends flowers. But not you. You sent books.”

He couldn’t tell if she was impressed or accusatory. Maybe a little of both.

“I knew she’d like them.”

Still the assessing look from her. “
Knew.
You knew she’d like them?” She made a face. “Well, she did. You’ve done your homework, at least more so than the others. But you haven’t done enough. Otherwise you’d know you’ll never get to Father through Frances.”

She turned to leave, as firm in her dismissal as her sister had been. He couldn’t catch a break with these ladies. He held out a hand, desperate to keep her there. “Miss Dumfries. I don’t want to get to your father.”
 

“Every midshipman in this town does.” But she’d stopped.

“Not this one. I want to get to know your sister better.” He put all his sincerity into his voice and even some of the crazy romantic delusions he harbored about Frances.

Miss Dumfries stared at him for a long moment, the disbelief in her expression dissolving into shock. “Lord, you’re really serious. Or least, you’re a good liar.”

“I’m as serious as a heart attack. But I need your help.”

“Ah, here we go.” The disbelief surged back, strong as the tide.

“Please. I only want to know what Frances likes. The books, yes, but what else? What would make her happy?”
And convince her to go out with me?

“Happy?” Suzanne raised an eyebrow. “Your sincere concern is for her happiness?”

A long moment stretched between them, stiff and abrading. Joe was in over his head. The more things went on between he and Frances, the more convinced he was that it wasn’t merely a romantic delusion, and that he had truly fallen for her the moment she’d raised those blue eyes to his and opened her mouth.

But he’d be damned if he could convince anyone else it was true. Steven, Suzanne—even the lady herself remained skeptical. Could a thing be true if no one else saw it?

He thought of every moment they’d spent together—few though they were—and his heart throbbed in his chest.

Yes,
the answer came back to him:
It could be
.

“You know our mother passed a few years ago, right?” Suzanne asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“My condolences.” He had a bad feeling about where this was going.

“She was very sick for a long time before. And Father… well, you know where Father was: in the South Pacific.” He nodded. The admiral’s exploits in the war were legendary. “So when Mother grew ill, Frances had to take on everything. Running the house, caring for me, keeping everything together. Because Father couldn’t worry, you see. He had a war to fight.”

“Your father’s efforts helped to win the war.”
 

That didn’t seem to comfort her—she looked down at her gloved hands, the fingers tightly interlaced. “When Mother finally passed, he couldn’t even return for the funeral. Frances arranged everything. She was only fifteen, a year younger than I am. And from then on, she kept arranging everything.” She swung her gaze back to him, her eyes hard. “So you see, Midshipman, I don’t think Frances even knows what would make her happy. She’s never had the time to find out.”

His heart throbbed again, sharper, achier. It sounded a very lonely existence for anyone, much less a lady of nineteen. And it explained how she spent her days. “So you can’t help me?”

It sounded as if Frances herself wouldn’t be able to answer the question of what she enjoyed.

Suzanne watched him. A beat passed and then another, softer than the last time. She shook her head. “I’ll help you. On one condition—you give Frances the chance to find out what makes her happy. Don’t just barge in there and assume you know. And I’m only doing this because you brought the books.”
 

Her grudging tone didn’t fool him—she’d agreed. And her conditions were fair enough.

“It’s settled then,” he said. “You help me and I’ll make your sister happy.” God knew it sounded like Frances deserved it.

“One more thing. If you hurt her, I’ll…” Suzanne shook a gloved fist at him, which should have looked ridiculous, but the unnerving spark was back in her gaze. Instead, it sent a shiver down his spine.

He came to attention. “On my honor as a Naval officer, I’ll never hurt your sister.”

“Huh.” She sounded remarkably like her father there—the admiral made the exact same noise of derision. “To get you started, I can tell you she picks up the laundry every Thursday at three. You can handle the rest, I hope. After all, you did figure out the books.”

“Thank you. I’ll think of something.” Although figuring out what a girl who never had fun might want sounded daunting at the moment.

“You’d better.” Then she was off, striding back down the street with a group of her friends, never once looking back.

He pondered the question of Frances Dumfries all throughout his run that afternoon. And then through dinner, never bothering to converse with his classmates. While he brushed his teeth, he turned it over in his head. But nothing came.

Only as he was sinking into sleep, darkness almost engulfing his brain, did it come to him. He jerked up in bed, his eyes wide. “Perfect.”

“What’s perfect?” Steven muttered.

“Nothing. Go to sleep.”

On Thursday, he stopped by the stationary store, where he found the exact thing he’d been thinking of. Then he parked himself in front of the cleaners, ready to set the next part of the plan into motion.

He saw her at three right on the nose, the church bell across the square sounding its first toll. She was in a light blue dress coat, a hat covering her bright hair, and marching along with an intent that gave him the best kind of shivers. The bell on the laundry door jangled as she entered.
 

He clutched the package to his chest and waited for her to come back out, his ears hot and buzzing, that sensation of expansiveness she provoked unwinding within him.

When she exited a few minutes later, fingers clenched around the twine holding her package of laundry together, she didn’t look left, she didn’t look right. She aimed straight for home, forcing him to intercept her.

“Frances.” He nodded in greeting as she pulled up short.

Her eyes went wide for half a second before she set her expression into cold lines. “Midshipman Reynolds. Thank you for the books. Again. If you’ll excuse me—”

“Yes, I got your note.” He had to keep her here. What would please her? How could he crack her façade? “How did you like them?”

“Oh.” She hadn’t been expecting that. “They were lovely.”

“I’d read the play—you remind me of Rosalind.”

“Boyish?”

“No.” God no, Frances couldn’t be more feminine. “No,” he repeated. “In disguise.” She didn’t answer, but she tipped her head. He’d surprised her. But it was true: Like Rosalind, Frances was hiding herself, except she was doing it in plain sight.

“I did like
Regency Buck
too,” he added. “I wasn’t sure how Worth was going to prove himself.”

That was even more unexpected. Her jaw dropped. “You… you read it?”

“I didn’t mean to. But then I started it and couldn’t put it down.” He’d had to hide the book from Steven though.

Her mouth twitched. “But… but it’s a romance.”

His cheeks warmed. “Well, yes.” He probably shouldn’t have admitted he’d liked it—it made him look less of a man. But it was something they shared. Something she liked.

Her smile fell. She squelched the light in her eyes and squared her shoulders. She was going to dismiss him again—yet another break he couldn’t catch. “Thank you for the books. I did like them. But no, I won’t go out with you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” Not this time. Not for a long time, if things kept on like this.

It was her turn to blush. “Well, not yet.”

“I’m not here for that.” She didn’t believe him, he could tell, but he went on. “I’m here to give you this.” He handed over the box, willing her to love it. Or at least enjoy it.

“I can’t—”

He pushed it closer. “Please open it.”

Slowly, she wrapped her gloved fingers around the box, tugged off the red ribbon the shop girl had tied around it. Prising the lid from the box seemed to take her forever, but eventually she parted the tissue paper—and she sucked in a small breath of shock. “Oh. Oh. A journal. It’s lovely.”

She ran a hand down the red leather of the journal’s binding, her fingertip tracing out the
F
embossed on the cover. When he’d seen it in the shop, he’d known it was just the thing.

“There’s a pen too,” he said. Slim and gold, it had reminded him of her.

“You can’t give me something so personal. You can’t give me anything at all. I keep telling you.” She shoved it back at him so quickly, he had to grab it lest it fall to the ground.

He kept his sigh of frustration held in his lungs and pulled the book out of the box to flip through the pages. “It’s entirely blank. I can’t think of anything more impersonal.” He put it back into her hand, wrapped her fingers around it. He’d never touched her before. He inhaled sharply, but he kept his hands where they were, wrapped around her glove, which was warmed by her skin… and suddenly he was dizzy.

More softly he said, “It becomes personal when you begin to write in it.”

She blinked at him, her expression almost entranced. “But write what?”

“Whatever you want.” He smiled and squeezed her hand—such a small, determined hand. “Whatever makes you happy.”

She didn’t hand the journal back, which was a good sign. But she did pull away from his grasp and he felt colder all over.

Her face screwed up as she clutched the book to her chest. She took a deep breath and then rushed out, “I don’t want to become a Navy wife. Not ever.”
 

The force with which her words came out said that she didn’t want to say so only to him—she’d been wanting to say that to a lot of fellows.

But she had said it to
him
.

“I didn’t—” But he wanted to. Dear Lord he wanted to.

“Please, let me finish.” He shut his mouth. “I’ve seen what it’s like. Do you know how many widows I’ve comforted? First with my mother and then by myself? Because someone from the admiral’s household had to be there and there was only me.”

“I can imagine.” It must have been terrible. Especially once her mother was gone.

“I don’t want a husband who’s always at sea—I want a husband who’ll come home. Each and every night. I want a husband who’ll be there.”
 

What could he say to her? That she might like being a Navy wife—his wife—if she’d give him a chance? She knew what the job entailed, his and hers. She was as close as a person got without having the ring on her finger. She’d seen the suffering those women went through. Had already gone through it herself.

You’re supposed to be making her happy.

He might not have discovered what she did want, but he’d certainly stumbled across what she didn’t—
him
.

“I… I understand.” He was stammering like an idiot, but his tongue wouldn’t work properly. It was thick and heavy in his mouth. His heart was beating sluggishly, a dead weight in his chest. “There’s… I…”
Retreat. Retreat
. He raised his hand to salute, remembered himself in time, held it to her to shake, then pulled it back just as quickly. Christ, he didn’t know up from down right now. “Good day, Miss Dumfries. Please, keep the books and the journal, as a token of my esteem.”

He didn’t wait to hear her reply, which was no doubt going to be coolly correct enough to smash his heart even harder. Instead, he went double time back to barracks, racing up the stairs to the top deck, thanking God that Steven wasn’t in their room when he barreled through the door.

As he collapsed into his desk chair, the realization he’d been trying to outrace hit him:
She didn’t want to be a Navy wife
. She was quite clear. Frances might not know what would make her happy, but she knew what she didn’t want.

For Joe, there was nothing but the Navy in his life. Even if he did want a different career—which he didn’t—he owed his country five years of service, at least. If she married him, she’d have no choice but to become what she absolutely didn’t want.
 

He set his head in his hands. Steven had tried to warn him, but his fool heart wouldn’t listen. He wanted a girl who wanted nothing to do with the future he was carving out for himself. And he wanted her more fervently than he’d known was possible.

He should forget the whole thing. Yes, he had strong feelings for her, but he’d also made a commitment to the Navy. This…
yearning
for her should go away, if he avoided her. Maybe.

But if he were to never see the ocean again, never to fly again, he’d always ache with the loss. It might be the same with her.