From London With Love

21 | jane eyres her feelings

Andrew stared down at the ring in his hands.

It wasn't a particularly exciting engagement ring — four carats, princess cut, a golden band. Simple. Standard. The man at Tutton's Jewelers had assured him that it was good quality, though. And it bloody well better be, Andrew thought sourly, for the extortionate amount he paid for it.

He sighed, setting the ring on the coffee table.

The last two weeks in Cornwall had been challenging; Andrew had spent the first half of it camped out on his father's hospital room. Nurses ran various tests. His father slept. His mother cried. And on the tenth day, a grim-faced doctor emerged into the room and told them all the prognosis.

Andrew hadn't understood a lot of the medical jargon, but he understood what the doctor was trying to get at; there would be no more chemo. No more hospital visits. No more hair falling out, and endless tubes and wires, and poking with needles.

His father was coming home.

For the very last time.

Frank had taken the news of his imminent death well. He had asked a few polite questions — "How long do I have?" and "Will it hurt?" — and then he had made the hospital staff laugh by asking if this meant he could have cigarettes again.

"I'm dying, anyways," Frank pointed out. "What harm can they do?"

His father was too weak to travel up the stairs now, so Jane set up a cot in the Orangerie, where Frank could look out over the gardens. Andrew spent most days reading to him. Ophelia had mailed them a book on the history of the Cornish coast with notes that she had made of her thoughts, and it had quickly become one of Frank's favourites.

"She's a bright girl, that Ophelia," Frank mused, shaking his head. "Twice as clever as the rest of, but with only half the ego."

"She loves reading."

"Ophelia seems capable of loving a lot of things," Frank said mildly. "Should the person or thing deserve it."

Andrew's other friends had sent gifts, too. Eleanora had sent a massive bouquet of lilies, while Henry had sent a cheese basket. Millie and James, a cashmere throw blanket. Rupert and Jess, a basket of expensive tea and jam. Only Digby hadn't sent anything, although he phoned almost every day.

Andrew had preferred that, honestly; it had been a source of comfort.

At least, until their latest call.

Andrew had been halfway through a story about an oak tree near Wisteria Hill catching on fire during a really bad thunderstorm when Digby cut in and said, "I asked Ophelia to move in with me."

He said it quite casually, like a person inquiring about the weather. And Andrew had experienced a searing pain, as if Digby had reached inside his chest and ripped out his heart.

"Andrew?" Digby asked. "You still there, mate?"

"I—yes."

"She hasn't given me an answer yet."

"Oh." Andrew couldn't help but feel a wave of relief. "Well, when did you ask her?"

"Weeks ago."

"Ah."

"Do you think I should bring it up again?"

Andrew closed his eyes. Neutral. He had to be neutral, in this. "I don't know. Does she know that you meant it?"

"Well, I told her that I loved her."

Andrew swallowed. The invisible hands had risen to his throat now, choking out his airways. "And what did she say?"