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Mr. Barrett clears his throat. “How is your mother? Is there anything I can do to help?”
Catherine puts her hand on his arm and lets it linger there. “How very kind of you. Father is finally sleeping in his study, and I wouldn’t want to disturb him. It’s been a hard few days for him. Will you come in and have some tea? This isn’t an evening for standing about a drafty hall.”
Wordlessly, he follows Catherine to the parlor and after a moment’s hesitation I fall into step behind them, Snip trotting excitedly at my heels. All those sleepless nights and now he’s right here in front of me, those same broad shoulders, the strong, sleek energy that thrums beneath the surface of his taut body. It’s one thing to make a resolution in the safety of a bed miles and miles away, but quite another to see what I’m losing in the flesh.
Mr. Barrett stiffly seats himself in a chair, and I perch at the edge of the settee while Catherine chatters on. “It’s so nice that we’re all together again, isn’t it? I’m dreadfully jealous of Lydia who’s been on such a tear in Boston. I hear she’s been quite popular there.”
Even now, with Mother fighting for her life upstairs, Catherine can play her games as if it were any other day. I suppose the opportunity to make me miserable is too good for her to pass up. I’m burning up at her lies, but know better than to throw fuel on Catherine’s fire, so I keep my mouth shut.
“I’m sure she has,” Mr. Barrett says tonelessly.
“Well,” Catherine says, rising. “I should go back upstairs. Someone needs to be with Mother.” She gives me a pointed look and stands aside to let Ada pass with the tea tray. “Before I go, has Lydia told you her happy news?”
Mr. Barrett’s gaze flickers to me and then back to Catherine, frowning. “I don’t believe she has.”
“Why, Lydia is engaged to be married.” Catherine smiles warmly, though only I can see the malicious glimmer in her eyes. “Aunt Phillips wrote us earlier in the week. Isn’t it wonderful?”
And with that, she leaves us alone, her words hanging in the air behind her.
Mr. Barrett’s hand pauses midstroke on Snip’s back. The muscle in his jaw clenches and I wish I knew what was going through his head, what he wants to say. I look down at my lap, unable to meet his penetrating gaze. When he finally speaks his voice is rough, and it’s not so much of a question as a demand. “Who?”
Of course he would find out eventually, but I never thought I would have to sit in front of him and see the effect of my decision myself. I never thought he would actually care. My throat narrows to almost nothing. “Cyrus Thompson.”
He nods, as if this confirms his worst suspicions about me. “The young man at Emeline’s burial.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Well,” he says shortly, “I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
I thought I was numb, that nothing else could hurt me. But this hurts, more than I could have ever imagined. “And you, I hope you’ll be happy too.”
His brows draw together, puzzled, or maybe it’s disgust. But he doesn’t say anything in return, just stands up and puts down his untouched cup of tea. “I’m afraid I should be going. Please, do let your father know that I called. If he needs anything... Well, he knows where to find me.”
I sit there, too stunned to move. His footsteps recede quickly down the hall, followed by the rustle of his coat as he slings it on, the door yanking open and then clicking shut behind him.
Before I know what I’m doing, I bolt out of the room after him. “Wait!”
I fling open the front door, and the cold air hits me like a wall. “John, wait.”
Mr. Barrett turns on his heel, pausing in the midst of pulling on his gloves. He throws me a harried look and something hardens in my stomach. He’s angry, at me.
“Yes, Miss Montrose?”
I wince at his formality. There’s no warmth in his face, no encouragement. But if there is one benefit to being empty, to giving away everything you have, it is that there is nothing left to fear. What have I to lose?
“You never answered my letters.”
He stops, glove halfway on, and raises a brow.
I plow on, determined to say my piece before I lose my nerve. “I understand you might have been offended by the first letter, that I didn’t explain why I was going away or how very much it hurt to have to leave before you came to meet me as we planned. But the second one, I... I poured my heart out to you, and you couldn’t even send me a word in response.”
The ice cracks under his boots as he moves a step closer. He peers at me through the December dusk, slowly pulling his glove the rest of the way on. “You wrote me?”
“Twice!”
“I never received any letters. I came and Catherine told me that you’d gone back to Boston for the winter to visit friends.”
I grit my teeth. Either the letters went missing in the post, or, more likely, Catherine is doing everything she can to live up to her promise of making my life miserable and somehow intercepted them. “I didn’t want to go.”