She wasn’t sure. But facing the literal architecture of her past would help her find some measure of peace. How had Hurtheven understood she’d have this need? Because he’d kept the evidence of his own worse nightmare?
She glanced askance.
Hurtheven’s head was turned toward the street. She could not see his face, only the black curls hugging his collar, a stark contrast to the snowy white lawn of his shirt. She had armored herself against him when he’d first appeared, ready to do as she thought she must and send him on his way once again. Of course, that armor had failed.
She was glad for his presence. Glad he’d anticipated this need. Even if she had still not fully forgiven him for approaching his godfather with matters that were her concern and her concern alone.
Strange to be thought of in such a way.
Sitting next to a man whose silent, solid presence was a comfort beyond words. The burdens of life seemed lighter when he was near.
“Arranging for me to visit the house was”—she paused—“thoughtful of you.”
He turned. His expression was unreadable.
“I’m a little afraid,” she added.
“You’ll be fine.” He placed his gloved hand over her own. “And should you need me, I will be by your side.”
Once they’d entered the house, she wasn’t interested in the grand parlors, the gilded ballroom, or the long, state dining table, its chairs now draped in holland covers—none of those places had formed the most significant of her experiences in this house.
The servants’ stair, however, she remembered well.
She led him through high-ceilinged, empty rooms. until they found the dark concealed passage where their footsteps no longer echoed on marble but clicked against worn wood.
Up, up they climbed until they’d reached the highest floor. Then she wove through the narrow corridor to just the right door. She let go, and he transferred his palm to the small of her back. The single point of warm solace gave her strength.
Cautiously, she stepped inside.
The air crowded around her. She inhaled damp heaviness into her lungs.
The room had no windows, but above them winked a patch of sky. She’d expected to feel sad, perhaps even angry. But the prickle in her neck, the heaviness in her heart was more akin to resignation.
She’d been telling herself she’d had a choice the night Karl had first entered this room. She knew now that the answer was less simple.
The house had been Karl’s. The position she held, Karl’s.
Yes, she’d lifted the covers and welcomed him into that little bed because she’d resolved to do so, but also because the alternative to these four walls had been too vast, too unknown, and too frightening to bear.
Could Hurtheven see? Could he appreciate what she’d experienced in this place?
She turned to face him. He was looking up into the skylight. Muted rays fell onto his shoulders making sharp shallows that rendered his face severe. His jaw flexed.
He’d stopped breathing.
Surprising tears gathered in her eyes. “This room felt safe.” She refused to let them fall. “Until it did not.”
His face was dark, his expression grim. He glanced back up at that square of light, then over to the bed, and then back into her eyes.
Fleetingly, she remembered how she’d felt when she’d seen the carriage wreck. Well, this washerwreck. The secret she carried.
The pain she’d expected never to share.
“It’s hard to breathe in here,” he said softly.
“I know.”
“I didn’t understand.”
