Midweek called for an afternoon picnic on the beach, and Mare strolled the surf before she was to meet Meredith and the girls. It'd been a truly wonderful few days in the sea brine and sunshine, all thought of men and lies and courtship swept out to open water by the welcome blue waves.
Mare had explored the little wood beyond Thatcher Place, travelled the craggy paths along the cliffs, and sat in the sun on the beach, reading every novel her fingers crossed in Meredith's vast library. She thought not of her mother, and rarely of her father. Matilde and the drama of her sisters dared not trespass in her mind. And only once or twice did her notions stray toward her letters; dearly missed, like her heart outside of her body and locked in a chest many miles away.
Now as she gathered her skirts in one hand and held aloft Emma, traipsing through the creamy foamed surf, she thought of her requested letter from Camden.
He'd been quick to accept the challenge, yet nothing had posted. Mare was beginning to suspect that game again, its rules and players dark blots on her horizon, faceless, daunting. She couldn't help but remember red roses in lapels, and the black sweep of fear that had risen within her in answer the night of the ball. That betrayal still felt present, a poison in her blood. It gave her the same sense as missing a stair on the way down; a moment of question, a moment of fear.
But there had been no resolution insofar as the letters or their appearance in the Gazette. Alison had had earned herself a bit of trouble after the group's night of debauchery, and had yet to steal a moment to investigate her mother's involvement. It was beginning to feel that every force in nature stood against Mare.
So she welcomed this respite, with its sandy shores and balmy breezes. She chose to forget that she was the victim or reluctant participant in some odd game, and that someone pursued her downfall with cloak-and-dagger interest. Here Mare was simply a girl with a book, as she was that day on the road in the rain.
"There she is."
Mare froze.
To her right stood a small sweep of fluffy white beach, capped by a steep pale cliff and a sheaf of whispering sea grass. Beyond lie Thatcher Place and the cottages, and the wood and the road. To her left murmured the infinite, twinkling sea. Ahead stood a crooked arch of stone, upholding a narrow, dangerous widow's walk of earth that was sure to crumble.
And at her back...
Mare turned. Theodore Bridge stood, hat in hand, polished shoes half-sunk in the sand. He looked troubled despite the beauty surrounding them, brow furrowed, dark curls loose over his forehead. His hands were gloved, and he traced his hat repeatedly.
Mare was rendered momentarily speechless. A dozen questions rose in her mind, faster than propriety, and she made the mistake of dropping her skirts as the tide swelled.
"Oh. Here." Teddy stepped into the water, offering his arm, heedless of the foam coursing over his shoes and soaking the hem of his pants. "You were bright to abandon your shoes. I've never cared much for sand, however."
Mare hesitated but took his arm, grateful for his balance as he led her up the beach and into the cool shadow of the cliffs. From here, no one would be able to see them. The thought was oddly comforting.
"What are you doing here?" Mare asked, tucking her windblown hair behind her ears and crossing her arms. She was all too aware of her bare toes in the sand, and the wet chafe of her skirts against her shins was tremendous agony.
Teddy seemed unaware of her discomfort. He stared at the water, pensively stroking his hat. An expression of contentedness blossomed over his face as the breezy moments passed. The lines around his mouth vanished; his eyes brightened.
"I haven't been to Thatcher Place in ages," he said at last, and Mare startled, as she'd settled into the peace of the moment as much as he had. "Meredith was always such an ally. While the men went hunting with Geoffrey and Camden, I'd hide away in her library, pretending I was ill. She'd bring me her favorites, and we'd sit on the floor reading in silence. It was the best part of my youth."
Mare stared at him. He was sharper in profile than expression, and it lent him a sense of age and nobility. He looked less a boy, and more a man. His assured speak, so soft and measured, was only further evidence. "I wasn't aware you liked reading so well."
Teddy smiled, though he didn't look at her. "We've had so many strange moments these last weeks, you and I. At every chance we've decided to part ways. Yet we know very little of one another, don't we?"
Mare was fascinated by this. It was true. Time and again they'd elected to pull apart, to embark on different paths, to look opposite ways. But Mare knew very little of Teddy Bridge but that he was clever and rich and a bit evasive. She was fascinated further by the desire to learn more.
"Camden is in Philadelphia with his father and mine. Business." Teddy pulled a sealed envelope from the pocket of his coat and gazed down at the scrawl, so familiar to Mare's eyes, on its face. "He knew I was coming to call and asked I deliver this to you."
Mare stared at the envelope. A small wispy cloud had veiled the sun, and in the shadow, she was chilled. Rather than reach for the letter, she wrapped her arms around herself. She didn't want to speak the words. She didn't want to admit anything to Teddy Bridge. She wanted to hear him say it himself, so she could read the disapproval or disgust or disgrace on his lips, and fortify herself against it.
He extended the letter, and Mare took it gently from his fingers. She hesitated before looking into his eyes, and was bewildered to find them filled with kindness, and not loathing.
"I knew it was you," he said softly. His fingers had not left the envelope, though he did not resist when she touched it. "From the first moment I read it."
He stood very close, and Mare could smell pine and sea salt on his coat. She could feel his warmth. He was stoic in his demeanor and so kind in his eyes. Mare wanted to tempt his fury. She wanted to test his range. "You do not renounce me for it."
"Writing?"
"Yes."
"Never." There was such fervor in his eyes, yet it was not unfamiliar. Mare had seen it there a dozen times since his return to Star's Crossing. On the road in the rain; in the Watt parlor, speaking of passion; upon the dance floor at the ball; beside the pavilion, Shakespeare on his tongue, embalmed in the cloying scent of jasmine. In the woods. By the water. At the bottom of a hill.
"You urged me to write, once," Mare said. She remembered it all so clearly.
Teddy nodded, a smile stirring his lips. "'Our doubts are traitors.'"
"'...and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.'" Mare shook her head. "They were stolen. My letters. Camden lost them, and...if anyone knew, Teddy—"
"You have nothing to fear from me, Mare." Teddy's brow furrowed and he inclined his head, as though wounded by the implication he might hurt her. "As always, I am an ally. Unlikely as it may seem."
Mare bit her lip. She wanted to believe him. Desperately. In truth she had little alternative. She could not undo his knowing, and she could not halt the publication of her stolen letters.
And she could not stop the warmth at her fingertips as they grazed his, and she could not dispose of the pull the bloomed her heart as she stood in his shadow. She could not choose her writer. She could not abandon the man she truly loved, who penned these letters and lent her grace and strength through the years in times of utter despair.
Mare belonged to Camden Doores. He was her fate and destiny. He was her pen. Her knight. Her past and her future.
Teddy Bridge was...
What was he?
Not hers. Lilith's. Someone else's pen and knight. Someone else's future.
At last Teddy released the letter, and Mare slipped it into Emma and held both close to her chest. She could remain there forever, at his side, in secret, the sea whispering at their feet and the world a world away.
But Mare could not. Both had to step from these pages and return to reality. Teddy was no longer a child feigning illness and hiding in libraries. Mare was no longer a wistful writer penning letters late into the night and dreaming of forever.
They were grown, now. Adults do not have the luxury of dreaming.
"Will you stay for the picnic?" Mare asked softly, gazing down at her sandy toes.
"I will. For the sake of image."
Mare looked up, startled.
Teddy answered her unspoken question softly. "I can't very well have traveled all of these miles to deliver a secret love letter to my cousin's betrothed."
Mare's lips parted. Heat sprang to her cheeks. "Camden is not...we're not—"
"I know, Mare. Ms. Atwood."
"Mare." She pressed her lips together, wishing she could spirit her name back to her tongue.
But Teddy's smile felt worth the sacrifice. He inclined his head slightly, and when he spoke her name, it no longer felt like a sacrifice at all. Nothing risked; everything gained. "Mare."
Mare bowed her head in return, heart racing, and brushed past him, toward the sandy slope that led back up to Thatcher House. He caught her hand. When Mare looked to him in question, Teddy said nothing, but simply swept his coat over her shoulders and offered his arm.
"Masks on," he murmured, looking up toward the cliff like a soldier braced for battle.
"Not yet," Mare found herself saying, giving his arm a tug. "We've got a few moments, yet."
He smiled, and Mare thought she could not write enough words to describe it.
So she abandoned all hope for that cause, and thought rather than write her moment, for once, she would like to live it.