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CHAPTER THIRTY

C yrus braced his hands against the windowsill of the tower, watching the carriage take his wife away from Darnley Castle. It had been no more than two hours since they spoke in the gardens, her escape from him hasty.

This is how it must be, he told himself, over and over, while the tight grip of his hands threatened to break the sill altogether.

It had broken him to have to speak to her like that, behaving so coldly, so cruelly.

It mortified him to remember how he had used her beloved stories as a weapon to hurt her, telling himself that it had been a necessary evil.

She might have doubted his sincerity, otherwise, or pressed him for the reason why he was behaving in that way.

Had she pressed hard enough, pleaded desperately enough, he knew his resolve would have crumbled. He would not have been able to let her go, and it would have killed her.

“What did you go and do that for, eh?” a sad voice asked from the doorway of the tower.

He did not need to turn to know who it was. “I do not know what you mean, Belinda.”

“You do, Your Grace.” Her sigh carried like a nipping winter wind, prickling the back of his neck. “I know I’m just the housekeeper, I know I’ve no right to speak my mind to my master, but you’re likely to destroy two people’s lives if you don’t ride after her and apologize.”

His eyes burned as he followed the carriage to the gates. “I am sorry for the discourteous manner in which I spoke to her, I am sorry she decided to leave, but I am not sorry about the separation.”

I cannot ride after her, no matter how much I want to.

Belinda’s footsteps creaked on the damaged floorboards. “I have been around long enough to see things for what they are, Your Grace.” She paused. “You might’ve fooled her, but you don’t fool me. You got scared, didn’t you?”

“Not in the slightest,” he replied grimly.

“Very well, keep lying to yourself and to me, Your Grace,” Belinda said, edging closer still. “But I know that her fall did something strange to you, and when you recover from whatever that strangeness is, you’ll regret this for the rest of your days.”

The carriage disappeared through the gates, the sound of crunching gravel lasting a few moments longer. He hung upon every one.

“If I want your advice, Belinda, I shall ask for it.” His voice was husky, like he had breathed in smoke. But the only thing he had burned down was his marriage.

“Understood, Your Grace,” Belinda replied, startling him as her hand came to rest on his shoulder. “I’ll say no more about it, but… she loves you, Your Grace, and a broken heart is not fixed so easily.”

He sniffed, shaking off her hand. “She does not love me. And if she does, she will soon overcome it, as she has overcome so many other things in her life.” The carriage reappeared on the dirt track that led away from the grounds.

“I will be but a short chapter in a much greater story; I am certain of that.”

“That is a tremendous pity,” Belinda murmured, her footsteps retreating.

The cypress-lined driveway was not very familiar to Teresa, her sore, swollen eyes taking in the expanse of rather overgrown lawn with vague curiosity.

An orchard grew wild in the distance, and a wall hinted at the existence of gardens, every new sight making her wonder if she had been a bad friend, all these years.

The manor was not familiar to her, either.

A building of faded beauty, Tudor in style, which looked like it might not have been repaired at all since those bygone days.

A few windows were cracked and there were shingles missing from the roof, one chimney so lopsided it would surely topple right off, any day.

Is this why she has never invited me here?

It occurred to Teresa that Beatrice usually came to Grayling House, or they arranged to meet elsewhere, or happened upon one another at balls and dinner parties.

Indeed, now that she thought about it intently, she realized she had never once, not even in passing, been invited to call upon her at her family’s country seat.

She glanced down at the equally faded note in her hand, but the address was correct: this was Fetterton Manor, home to the Viscount and Viscountess of Fetterton.

How did I not know about this? Perhaps, it is grander inside.

As the carriage jostled closer to the manor, down the uneven, patchy driveway, she began to think that coming here had been the wrong choice.

She had been in two minds since leaving Darnley Castle, whether to go directly to her family, or to her best friend.

In the end, the thought of confessing everything to Beatrice had triumphed as the least difficult option.

The carriage lurched to a standstill, and with a deep breath, Teresa opened the door. Her hand reached instinctively for Cyrus’ safe grip, the empty air like a smack in the face.

I am on my own now. This feeling… it will pass.

Raising her chin and blinking back a fresh bout of tears, she got down from the carriage and limped her way across weed-strewn earth to the crooked front porch of the manor.

She knocked, letting the thought of seeing her best friend bolster her courage.

A few minutes later, the door swung open… and wide, shocked eyes greeted her. Not the eyes of a housekeeper or a butler, but of Beatrice herself.

“Tess?” Beatrice choked, darting out onto the porch, closing the door behind her. “What are you doing here?”

It was not at all the greeting that Teresa had expected.

On any other day, she might have taken it differently, but after the barrage of rejection she had just faced, it was the very last straw.

Her threadbare strength abandoned her, her shoulders slumping, her chin dropping to her chest, as she burst into tears.

“Tess?” Beatrice rushed forward, putting her arms around her friend. “Tess? My goodness, what is the matter? Sweet Tess, what on earth is the matter?”

But Teresa could not speak. It was like she had been holding back a tide on the carriage journey, and that vast wave had finally overwhelmed her defenses.

It all struck her at once, right there on the porch.

The weight and heartbreak of everything she had endured that morning conspired to tie her tongue in knots, her tears running down the back of her throat to block any words from escaping.

“Oh, this is not good,” Beatrice murmured, helping Teresa toward the door.

“You take all the time you need, my dear, dear creature. You cry as much as you please, and when you have breath again, you tell me everything that has happened. You tell me who I need to take revenge upon, and who requires an immediate meeting with my fist.”

Teresa allowed herself to be led, noticing nothing of the manor’s interior as Beatrice led her quickly through an entrance hall.

Down a dark hallway, and turning right down a narrower passageway, they soon ended up in what appeared to be a very old, very stately study.

It smelled ancient, of hot dust, varnish, and yellowed pages, harboring the same faded majesty as the manor itself.

“You sit here,” Beatrice urged, situating Teresa in a creaky leather armchair. “I will not be a moment; I just need to… um… fetch something, and then I will return.”

Teresa nodded, pulling out a handkerchief to blow her nose. “Do not mind me. I will… be well again… soon.”

“Nonsense. You are in pain, and I mean to find out who requires my wrath,” Beatrice replied, frowning. “I promise; I shall not be a moment.”

She raced back out of the study door, her footsteps echoing in the hallway beyond.

Yet, though Teresa listened intently, she could not hear any other noise within the house.

Peculiar for the residence of a Viscount, but perhaps they were in a private wing of the house, where servants rarely entered.

I made the right choice, coming here.

Already, despite the dust, she could breathe a little easier.

Her chest still felt as if a huge block of masonry had been placed upon it, her eyes itched as if she had filled them with sand, and her heart would never be pieced back together again, but Beatrice had always meant safety.

Protection. As Cyrus was not available for that role any longer, Beatrice was the very best substitute.

Focusing on her breathing, intermittently dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, it seemed like no time had passed at all before Beatrice came running back in.

She had a tea tray in her hands and a twinkle in her eye.

“I thought you might be in need of this,” she said, setting the tray down.

“But I have every liquor you could desire in that cupboard over there. Say the word, and I shall exchange the tea for something so strong you will not remember your own name.”

“Later, perhaps,” Teresa replied with a weak smile.

Once again, she puzzled over the lack of servants to bring such things as a tea tray, but she quickly set the thought aside. It was none of her business how other households were run. Indeed, even the running of her own—marital—household was no longer any of her business.

Beatrice sank down onto a three-legged stool, positioning it right in front of Teresa. “Begin. As I am not permitted to go anywhere, according to my mother, you have my complete attention for as long as you need it.”

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Teresa did just that, beginning where everything had started to go right, and ending where everything had gone so bewilderingly wrong.

“So, I gathered most of my things, and I left,” she concluded, her handkerchief soaking up fresh droplets of her sorrow. “I could not imagine being in that castle alone. Would not want to be in that castle alone.”

Beatrice had not interrupted throughout the tale, but now that it had ended, she gave a low whistle. “Clearly, the man has gone mad. And in a castle like that, it was only a matter of time. It is quite the place for insane hermits.”

“In that case, perhaps I should return.” Teresa laughed sadly, jumping out of her skin as Beatrice cheered loudly.

“You see, you are already on the mend,” she crowed. “If I am not mistaken, that was a very tiny joke.”

Teresa nodded. “An attempt.”

Scraping the stool closer, Beatrice took hold of her friend’s hands and looked deep into her eyes.

“My dear Tess, this may be a terrible shock, but I am going to be serious for a moment. Brace yourself.” She smiled.

“While I do think he has gone mad, or has been replaced with a changeling in the night, I do not think that you deserve to bear the brunt of… whatever has consumed him. I can see that your heart is broken, and if anyone expects you to mend quickly, you may send them my way. I know this will not be a swift recovery but, my dear friend, you will recover.”

“I do not think so,” Teresa whispered, shaking her head. “Rather, I think I will always bear a scar. This was my one opportunity for love, and it is over. The End.”

Beatrice expelled a heavy breath. “What would you like me to do? Name it, and I shall see it done.” She squeezed Teresa’s hands gently.

“I have a few schemes left on my list that I have not yet enacted. I could do them all to the duke, if you like, in relentless succession? It would, at the very least, ensure he never leaves his residence again out of fear alone.”

True laughter spilled from Teresa’s lips, the hilarious visions of Beatrice exacting her revenge filling up her mind, making it impossible not to chuckle.

After all, Beatrice’s vengeful schemes were notorious in their creativity, some so outlandish that no one would believe they were real.

And, of course, the gentlemen she took revenge upon never wanted anyone to hear what had been done to them.

“It is tempting,” Teresa admitted, “but… no, I think you can save your schemes for other gentlemen. There might be some who deserve it more.”

“Deserve it more than the man who has broken my best friend’s heart?” Beatrice snorted.

Slumping forward, Teresa took a few steadying breaths. “I am less interested in revenge, Bea, and more interested in… why this happened. We were happy; I know we were.”

“Well, he has no family, so it cannot be their influence,” Beatrice replied, tilting her head to one side in thought.

“It is highly unlikely that he has a lover who has made demands of him, though I can investigate that if you want me to. Nor does it seem like something done out of fleeting anger if he was, say, cross with you for climbing the crag—which, also, I would take umbrage with, for marriage should not mean an end to one’s passions. ”

An end to one’s passions… Those words circled like vultures in Teresa’s mind, awakening an unpleasant thought that she had been too upset to consider.

What if it had nothing to do with the fall?

What if it had everything to do with the fact that they had shared a bedchamber, and had not yet had a wedding night?

His kisses, too, after that initial one in the carriage, had been infrequent.

More often than not, he had preferred to kiss her hand or her cheek or her brow.

Always chaste, never like the all-consuming ardor of her beloved books.

“What?” Beatrice raised an eyebrow at her. “I know that look.”

Teresa shook her head quickly. “It is nothing.”

The prospect that she might be right was too embarrassing to say out loud, even to her dearest friend.

“But I should rather like a glass of your most potent liquor now, if I may?” she added, for if Beatrice had something strong enough to forget one’s own name, she surely had something strong enough to forget Cyrus Deverell.