CELINE
The next severaldays followed a depressing pattern. Wake, cry, argue with a bird, pay calls, cry, attend dinners or dances, perhaps the theatre, and repeat. My very public, very concerted effort to demonstrate that I was not investigating anything and that I had nothing to do with William was both time consuming and exhausting.
I hadn’t been out in society in such a bold way since I was a debutant. I was feeling my age and recalling every single reason I detested half thetonin the first place. And, of course, the half that I could stand were infrequent in their attendance.
That was certainly the case tonight at the Montrose ball while Mr. Wesley Parker spoke directly to my décolleté. I had been forced to choose my most scandalously cut gowns for these events in order to ensure that I escaped no notice. It had the unfortunate side effect of attracting leches like Parker. The repugnant oaf made my stomach lurch and my flesh crawl even more than the rest of them.
Every single time someone placed my hand in the crook of their arm, every time someone handed me from a carriage, with every insignificant brush, it was all I could do not to scream at them all. “Not for you! Not for you to touch, not for you to stare at, not for you to smile at. No!” Instead, I merely smiled demurely, looked away, and swallowed the knot in my throat.
“So, what happened to the solicitor who was courting you? Did you finally see reason?” Parker asked.
My fingers positively itched for my long discarded fan to hide behind.
“Our friendship ran its course.”
The first time I had said something to that effect, the words produced a physically painful effect. Now the phrase was rote.
“Peculiar arrangement, that,” he replied. Mr. Parker was, however, the first person to press beyond my vague comment. Interest sparked anew in my chest. Could he be?
That spark was doused as quickly as it arrived. Whether he was responsible for Gabriel’s death or not was irrelevant. Because I was finished investigating.
Nothing was worth William’s safety, not even the truth.
That fact had become its own kind of truth. I had lived for years without knowing, and with no answers in sight. I could do so again.
Ironically, I had also lived for years without William. But his continued existence—even if I never saw him again—was as essential to me as breathing.
In the end, it had come down to William’s life or Gabriel’s memory. And I had chosen.
“I hadn’t realized my comings and goings were of such interest.”
“Indeed, they are. Would you care to join me for the next set?” A waltz. With Mr. Parker. Every part of my being revolted.
“I thank you for the offer, but I don’t waltz.” I turned and stepped over to the drinks table before he could protest further, though he muttered something about waltzing with Hart under his breath.
And so my days and nights continued, mind-numbing monotony after mind-numbing monotony.
A change in pace finally came nearly a week later with Xander’s summons to Rycliffe Place.
It was eerie, stepping inside the house nearly packed up. Great sheets covered the furnishings, and some of the wallpapering revealed darkened rectangles where paintings had protected the paper from the sun’s displeasure.
“Cee?” Xander called from down the hall in the study. I had to press myself along the wall twice to avoid a servant carrying some large trunk or painting. Finally reaching the study, I peered in.
There was Xander, ever dignified even with an undone waistcoat and cravat, plopped on the floor surrounded by books and ledgers in various piles.
“Well, isn’t this cozy?”
“You’re not as charming as you think you are,” he retorted as he flipped through a ledger with disinterest before adding it to a stack.
“Lies. Can I help?”
“Actually, I was hoping you would take a look upstairs and see if there’s anything you wish to keep. You have most everything by now, but I wouldn’t want to dispose of anything precious.”
“Thank you,” I said, pressing a teasing kiss to the top of his head.
The stairs proved to be nearly as treacherous as the hall, but I made the journey without injury. I turned down the hall to the rooms that were once my own. Memories danced throughmy mind of these halls, more loving and less bloody than the moments that haunted me below.
There, at the end of the hall, was a set of three open doors. These had been closed up longer than the rest of the house, seven years, or thereabouts. The same white sheets covered the furnishings, gray for the thick layer of dust.
