Despite telling his sister that he was leaving Chelsea, and his claim that he would go immediately, Richard couldn’t seem to do it.
He wrote to the estate agent about selling the house, but the completed letter, signed and sealed, lay on his desk for days. Finally he told Gerhard to get it out of his sight. His friend nodded and took it away, but no reply came from the agent. Richard suspected Gerhard—no doubt acting at Clemency’s urging—had not delivered it, and might well have burned it.
He didn’t ask.
Even without giving up the house, he could still leave. Karl could pack his things and he could be in Calais by the end of the week, in Zürich within the fortnight. Perhaps he should go south, into the Piedmont. There were mountains there. He hadn’t climbed a mountain in an age, perhaps that’s what he needed... to freeze half to death, and possibly plummet all the way to death in an icy crevasse. A very satisfying ending that would be, he told himself morosely.
But he didn’t tell Karl to pack. Instead he walked for hours every day, sometimes with Hercule and sometimes alone. He had no destination, no purpose; the exercise served to mute histumultuous thoughts, and that was all he wanted. One day he found himself at Hampton Court, some five miles distant, and could hardly understand how he’d got there.
Perhaps he should complete his memoirs. Sluggishly he got out his travel journals and paged through them, trying to find the gripping thread, trying to remember how exhilarated he’d been to embark on these journeys. He read his own words, written in enthusiasm and wonder and even the aftermath of terror, and thought they all sounded dry and dull, even the very first one, when he’d been barely nineteen years old and had decided to climb a nearby mountain with some friends. He’d been transfixed as a child by stories of the men who climbed Mont Blanc, and was determined to do the same. Those men had made it to the summit, only to barely survive the trip down. But they, young idiots, had survived and thought themselves very dashing and brave heroes. He’d exulted in their good fortune, and had written a heroic epic about their quest.
He sat and stared out the window blindly. It all seemed so insignificant now. No one cared. Certainly not he.
The rattle of carriage wheels punctured the blankness of his mind. For days he’d listened for that sound, and now he flinched from it. Every day so far it had been Clemency, coming to ask anxiously after his health, or to speak far too cheerfully of her sons, or—worst of all—to retreat with Gerhard and whisper about him.
He closed his eyes when the tap came at the door.
“Richard?” his sister inquired softly.
She knew he was in here; she’d brought him a tray of food a few hours ago. It still sat on the end of his desk, untouched. Richard frowned. Oh yes; Clemency had been here since late morning. Who had just arrived?
“Ja,” he said.
She peered around the door. “You have a caller.”
He looked at her and said nothing.
She pursed her lips. “Shall I show up your visitor?”
It must be the estate agent. He doubted Clemency would admit anyone else. He sighed, strangely reluctant to see the man. “I will come down.”
She nodded and left, closing the door behind her. He looked at the tray and sighed again. She would be upset that he hadn’t eaten anything. He took a biscuit and ate it, to mollify her and in an attempt to shake off the lethargy that had engulfed him.
He would go to Zürich, he decided. His parents were both gone but he still had friends and other family there, and he was in no state to plan a longer expedition. It had been so long since he’d gone on one. Perhaps his travels would become more of a tour. He could visit the Americas, or Greece. War had always interfered with his plans to see the Mediterranean. He would visit famous sites and art exhibitions like a normal tourist, instead of joining a caravan of camels heading into the desert.
He went down the stairs and opened the door to the small parlor. Clemency had had it painted blue and the shrubbery outside the windows cut back, but it was still small and always felt dark. It took him a moment to locate the visitor, who stood looking out the window.
She turned at his entrance. He froze, hand still on the door.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Evangeline said quietly, when he was incapable of speech. “I feared you might not.”
Slowly he closed the door. “I did not expect you.”
Her throat worked, and she seemed to shrink a little. “Mrs. Murray didn’t tell you it was I.”
“No.”
She nodded. She looked tired, with shadows under her eyes and anxious grooves bracketing her mouth. The sunlight from the window caught the silver creeping into her hair. Her clothing was somber and dark, and she wore her pelisse buttoned up, asif she didn’t expect to stay long. He didn’t know if he wanted her to, or if he wanted her to leave now. The sight of her unleashed a searing mixture of yearning and anguish in his chest.
“If you wish me to leave, I will.” She hesitated, darting a wary glance at him. He didn’t know how to answer, so said nothing. She drew herself up straighter, gripping her hands together. “I have come to apologize for my behavior and words when last we spoke. I was cruel and unjust to you, and I know I hurt you. I am deeply sorry.”
She paused, and he tried to think of something to say. “Is there word from Miss Bennet?”
Her eyes flickered. “She married Burke four days ago.”
He’d seen it in the newspaper. “I wish them every happiness,” he said.
“Thank you.” She wrapped the strings of her reticule around one hand, then unwound them. “My niece came to see me yesterday. She... She is happy. She tells me Burke is also well satisfied with the marriage.” She paused, biting hard on her lower lip. “I believe her. Time will tell, of course, butshe is pleased this is how things turned out. She wished me to extend to you her sincere apologies, and Lord Burke’s as well, along with her devout hope that you will not actually shoot Burke.” She glanced at him uncertainly.
