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Rupert

Rupert walked into his bedchamber, his hand fumbling on the door handle in his haste to pull the door shut. It had taken much too long to calm his mother and get her settled in the private sitting room in the wing containing the family chambers. She was now contentedly embroidering with a steaming tea service and a servant at the ready, if it were to turn lukewarm.

His heart was an empty case in his chest. Billy had informed Rupert he had found Franny crawling on hands and knees out of the ravine. She was bleeding from the head, her clothes soaked through. Other than the head wound, she limped, but didn’t appear to have any other injuries. She had been thrown from Blaze.

He ran a hand over his face, pausing to press the backs of his fingers against his eyes. Bloody fucking hell. He had botched this dreadfully. He didn’t blame Franny one bit for her ire. Was it not the same conversation they had over and over again for the past fortnight? He changed himself to be what his mother wanted. He did as Mother said. Took her word as law.

He wasn’t his own man.

Until he married Franny. And she had somehow drawn out the man he truly was—wanted to be—accepted him with all his faults, appreciated parts of him he thought no one would.

He walked up to his chest of drawers and pulled open the top drawer. He would do better, had to do better. He took out the locket he had repaired for Franny. First, he had to convince his wife to talk to him. His hand closed around the locket, squeezing, transferring his heat to the smooth silver heart. He hoped the surprise he had for her would be enough.

Then he needed to talk to his mother. It was time to lay down some rules. His rules.

And after that? Perhaps he could finally start living, but only if Franny was by his side. Willingly, wanting to be by his side. Because truly, it would be nothing but an insipid imitation of a life without her.