Chapter 22

Be Still My Heart

Juliet Heatherstone was led home by Jarvis Raymond, even though for an uninvolved observer it didn’t look so. Juliet ambled with swinging strides that resembled dance-steps more than normal walking, always two or three paces ahead of Jarvis, who had difficulty keeping up with her. Apparently he had done a lot of justice to the punch: his steps were careful, but not very steady. He finally caught up with her when she slowed down at Mrs. Hawkins’ front door.

“This has been a delightful evening, my d—Juliet,” Jarvis managed, pettily slurred. He took Juliet by her arm and pulled her around so that she faced him. “I’ve enjoyed myself very much.”

“Thank you, Jarvis,” Juliet replied, carefully dislodging her arm from his grasp. “The pleasure was all mine.”

She smiled politely at Jarvis, holding out her hand to him. To her utmost astonishment, Jarvis took her hand and lifted it to his mouth for a hand kiss; she just managed to pull it back a heartbeat before his lips touched her skin, and after a short tangle she was able to get a hold on his hand and shake it.

“Good night, Jarvis,” she said decidedly and made sure to add a dash of dismissal. “Thank you for an entertaining evening.”

But instead of doing the smart thing, Jarvis decided to listen to the alcohol in his blood and took Juliet by her shoulders. “Indeed, indeed, my dear Juliet, it was a very entertaining evening, and you were the most wonderful company a man could wish for,” he said, now with a slightly more pronounced slur, and leaned forward, obviously aiming for a goodnight kiss.

Juliet was generous. She had had a splendid evening, she felt—for whatever reasons—more content than in ages, she had her share of punch, too, and she didn’t want to spoil a perfect evening. And so she just turned her face away from Jarvis; but the annoying, ignorant, dimwitted idiot of a man had the effrontery to reach out and turn her face to him to try it again.

Well, on some people generosity obviously was wasted. “Jarvis!” Juliet scolded him sharply and yanked herself out of his grip. “You will stop this ridiculous behaviour this instant!”

Jarvis winced under her glare and made a step back, but nevertheless recovered quickly. “Oh, sure, Juliet. I apologise.” He had the brass to put a hand to his chest and perform a ludicrous half-bow. “Of course, had it been Adam Cartwright who’d brought you home, you wouldn’t play the prude, would you?”

The slap was quick, precise, and sharp; and Juliet fervently hoped that it would leave a bruise. Jarvis stared at her, owlishly blinking a couple of times, and then, finally, the words he had blurted out reached his brain.

“Oh, dear me, Juliet! I’m sorry…I…truly am sorry,” he stammered. “I shouldn’t have…good grief!”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” She crossed her arms and fixed a deprecating stare on him. “Do you even know what you think before you hear what you say?”

He blinked again. “What?”

“Ah, never mind. You are too intoxicated to think at all, I suspect.” She lifted an eyebrow. “The only question is: what are you intoxicated from, Jarvis? Punch or conceitedness?”

Jarvis seemed to sober instantly. “Oh, are we talking about vanity now, dear Countess?” It wasn’t a question, it was an accusation. “I saw you dancing with Cartwright, we all saw it. I’m sure he enjoyed it; but you can’t honestly think….”

“Think what, Jarvis?” The question was delivered with a clear warning. Unfortunately Jarvis was still too inebriated to understand it.

“Adam Cartwright is the most coveted bachelor in the whole district. He can choose any woman he wants. Why would he choose you?”

This time Jarvis was on guard and caught her hand. “Come on, you were never so vain, Juliet. You know you’re not the most eligible woman. Not for a man like Cartwright. You are in no way suitable to become a rancher’s wife.”

“I have no intention to become anyone’s wife, Jarvis; and if I had—I wouldn’t discuss it with you.” She added two highly raised eyebrows to her stern tone and a deadly glare, just to be sure that the message was understood. “I will retire now. Good night, Jarvis; and have a safe way home.”

Without even waiting for any parting words she turned and entered the house, while Jarvis, with only so much as a mumbled “Good night,” beat a hasty retreat.

Despite her contrary response, Jarvis’ words still rang in Juliet’s head when she stretched out under her bedcovers barely ten minutes later. “You are in no way suitable to become a rancher’s wife.” Well, in her experience she wasn’t suitable to become any man’s wife, or at least nearly any man’s; and the few men who did consider her suitable were in no way desirable to her. Not that she was looking for a husband at all. To have a husband would mean to give up her independence; to hand over control; to submit: to commit herself to someone and allow him to rule over her, to give him the power to decide for her. No, she wasn’t ready to give herself up, and if she was honest, she would never be ready to give herself up.

But Adam…Adam once had said he would never decide things for her. She knew he hadn’t talked about marriage or even a romance back then, and yet it had told her that he was different from all the men she had ever met before: he would never misuse the authority he would legally gain over his wife. No, Juliet was sure Adam wouldn’t rule over his wife; he would feel responsible and that would give him more duties than rights. Yes, that or I‘m back to having adolescent fantasies about strapping black knights again. She smiled as she thought about the series of stories she had written when she was a young girl, about a fair lady named Juliana and a heroic knight with strawberry blonde hair and the bluest eyes the world had ever seen.

Well, it had turned out that there weren’t any knights waiting for her, and that she hadn’t grown into the fair lady everyone had expected her to become. Aunt Maud had often marveled that her sister hadn’t bequeathed to Juliet her famous beauty but instead lavished it upon Henry. The real tragedy though, Aunt Maud had bemoaned, was that in some kind of twisted compensation Juliet had inherited her father’s biting humour and stubbornness and a few other less-than-desirable traits that would prevent any normal man from seeing a prospective bride in her. This had proved to be unquestionably true ever since Juliet had spit on the sole volunteer’s strawberry blonde head. Not that Juliet had ever considered P.P. Wilcox a normal man, but that was a completely different story.

Moving from one continent to another hadn’t changed much—only that Juliet had become more and more left to her own devices; and when she had started to earn money by writing articles for the San Francisco Morning Call, she had realised that she didn’t even need a husband to support her, thus removing any pressure. When her aunt and uncle had decided to move on to Boston, a place they expected to be more like home, Juliet had stayed behind, fully intending to never give up her independence.

Which didn’t mean she couldn’t fall in love.

Oh, come on, Juliet…. It had been a dance, a simple barn dance. Although, dancing with Adam…she had felt at home in his arms, she realised with sudden amazement. For the first time since she had left England she had felt at home. Safe. Content. At the right place. Home. She had given herself into the music, the movement, his eyes, oh, his eyes…she always had the feeling he could read her mind through her eyes, as if he was diving with his eyes into hers, advancing to places in her soul no one else had ever bothered to explore. There had been no words between them this night, maybe even no thoughts, only emotions, instinct, feel.

“He can choose any woman he wants. Why would he choose you?” And yet he had been dancing with her only tonight. No, Juliet, don’t start with that. It’ll only lead to heartache. Friends. They were friends. Even though his eyes…. No, no, no, no, no, don’t do this to yourself, don’t—His eyes had been different tonight. There had been fire, not the blazing lava she saw in them when he was angry, though; it had been a calm fire, cosy and warming, like in a hearth—but with underlying…danger. Well, that was Adam: dormant volcano, sleeping panther, resting storm. A strange mixture of calm serenity and peril. Juliet had never met a man like that before, a man she trusted completely—fully knowing he could destroy her with a single word. She had never met a man who had held such power over her, who stirred her as he did, who riled her as he did, who affected her as he did. Could it be that…?

She lay silent, listening to her heartbeat, searching for…? Yes, for this: the tight little knot in her stomach, a well known warm feeling, yet stronger than ever before—how could she have missed it all this time? And she knew, she knew; with certainty—and with the same hopeless desperation that had accompanied this feeling all her life and that told her she wasn’t enough, never enough, never good enough—she knew. Then, for a brief glorious moment, she allowed herself the luxury to think, what if? What if Adam considered her…suitable after all?

She willed her racing heart down. No. She knew better than to indulge herself in this dream. “Adam Cartwright is the most coveted bachelor in the whole district. He can choose any woman he wants.” Yes, Jarvis was right: why would Adam choose her?

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There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness
of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow