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Perhaps his words would not strike fear in her once that hope was bound together with an unshakeable trust. Then she could hear and accept those words. Then she might say them back.

Because, what scared her the most, is what she wished to say:

Mo ghrá thú fresin

You are my love, too.

11

“When will Miss Mason and the children arrive?”

At his brother’s question, Harrison extracted his golden automata pocket watch from his waistcoat, a gift from their late father. “They will arrive upon the hour,” he said. Like I told you five minutes ago. He did not add that but James took it as a sign of the accord between the two of them that Harrison did not gripe at how often James had asked him to check the time when he had a perfectly good pocket watch he had inherited from Lionel in his own pocket.

“All will be well, you know.” Despite his brother's words, James turned his gaze toward the coal furnaces he’d had installed in the corners of the assembly hall to heat the cavernous space. Though they emitted a steady, comforting orange glow, the devices remained relatively hushed.

Would they be enough to heat the entire space for now?

“What do you think she will say?” Harrison asked when it was clear that James was not going to respond. In truth, he was far too anxious to respond. Other than his worry for his brother when he arrived from Scutari five years earlier, James had little experience with anxiety and was finding the emotion deuced uncomfortable.

As much as he wished the theater to be a surprise for Mariah, an endeavor in which Harrison was a willing accomplice, James had a final revelation for his brother that sent his anxiety soaring through the fresh timber of the newly reinforced roof.

“I do not know,” James admitted, attempting a nonchalant shrug. “Mayhap this would be one additional burden on her shoulders.”

“Not if she has you to help her carry the load.” Harrison’s eye did not waver, a question in his statement.

“She always had me,” James said sharply. Then at Harrison’s doubtful look, he added. “I just did not know it. But I do not know if I have her. Or will ever have her.” Since he had returned to live at Bailey Hall, he told her he loved her every day, though she had not returned the sentiment. While he allowed himself to hope for a softening of her heart, he feared it was the desperate yearning of a man seeking a grace he had yet to earn.

“And if she never does? Return your feelings, that is.”

James drew a steadying breath, savoring the crisp scent of fresh timber emanating from the stage where Humphries and a contingent of sappers were securing the final rigging.

“It is the privilege of my life to love Mariah. If she never loves me back, then that is what I deserve.” Before Harrison could respond, one of the sappers released a sandbag too quickly, leading to a loud crash and a great deal of cursing. James rushed forward to the stage, grateful for the reprieve from the conversation.

Not because he regretted it. He meant what he said. He was lucky to breathe the same air as his wife. But he had to admit that a part of him longed to hear her say she loved him. That she wished for a true marriage.

He shoved that longing away for later as he helped hoist the sandbag back up, relishing the manual labor, the feel of the rope on his no longer gentlemanly hands. All he could do now was help rebuild her dream. And he was damned lucky for the chance.

Christmas Eve was upon them, and Mariah was still torn.

Every day her husband told her he loved her, kissed her temple, then went off to work on the tenements that had been her vision. Every day, she went to the study and wrote, sometimes stopping to savor the simple luxury of tea and apricot preserves. Somedays, when she was feeling particularly scandalous, she even indulged in chocolate.

There were days when the words did not come. There were days when her hands almost bled from how much she had used them.

The day before, December 23, the words did not come. And yet…this did not worry her. It gave her time to think through what she wanted to say and how she wanted to say it. Where she wished her story to go and how it would end.

Because she had time. Relieved of the demand to navigate each minute complication or logistical issue regarding the town, she at last possessed the freedom to commit her words to parchment with genuine purpose.

James had given her that.

Today he had not kissed her and told her he loved her but instead left a short note instructing her to come to the tenements that afternoon. Mariah traced the writing on the note, the casual yet elegant lines of his script were much like the man himself. However, throughout these recent weeks, his aristocratic look had evolved to incorporate local linens, the evidence of honest labor upon his calloused palms.

She warmed at the memory of those rough hands on her body the previous evening.

Perhaps he did not tell her he loved her today because he grew weary of her indecision.

She herself was growing weary of her own indecision.

With a groan of frustration at her own waffling, Mariah turned back to her unfinished manuscript. Grace O’Malley was not an indecisive woman. The woman her mother was named for took what she wanted and said damn the rest. Yes, she did her duty, but she also lived bravely.