He had said what needed to be said. Done what should have been done.
Now came the harder part.
Proving that his words meant something.
CHAPTER 21
“You’ve been staring at that wall for twenty minutes.”
Lady Eleanor’s voice punctured Maribel’s reverie like a needle through fabric. She turned from the drawing room window, where she had been watching rain trace patterns down the glass, and found the older woman regarding her with an expression that balanced concern with exasperation.
“I was thinking,” Maribel said.
“Clearly. The question is whether those thoughts are productive or merely torturous.” Eleanor set down her embroidery with the careful precision of someone who had performed the same motion ten thousand times. “He left three hours ago. I assume you are still deciding what to make of his visit.”
Maribel returned her gaze to the window. Beyond the glass, London stretched grey and indifferent beneath the October rain. Somewhere in that vast sprawl of buildings and streets,Thaddeus was arranging transport to Ashford Academy. Preparing to retrieve the child he should never have sent away.
“He said all the right things,” she murmured.
“But you do not trust them.”
“Should I?” Maribel turned sharply. “Three days ago, he sent Oliver away. Made it abundantly clear that my presence was an inconvenience. And now, suddenly, he has experienced some miraculous transformation?” She crossed her arms. “Forgive me if I find that difficult to credit.”
Eleanor studied her for a long moment. “What do you want, child?”
The question caught Maribel off guard. “I don’t understand.”
“It is a simple enough enquiry. What do you want? Not what you think you should want, or what is practical, or what protects you from further hurt. What does your heart actually desire?”
Maribel felt her throat tighten. The answer rose unbidden, terrible in its simplicity.
She wanted Oliver. Wanted to hold him again, to hear his laughter, to watch him grow without the constant terror that he would be taken from her without warning.
And she wanted—heaven help her, she wanted Thaddeus. Wanted the strong man who showed such precious glimpses of vulnerability, the man who was guarded, the man who had come all this way to apologise to her, the man who had kissed her…
But wanting something did not make it safe. Did not guarantee it would not be weaponised against her the moment she lowered her guard.
“I want to stop being afraid,” she said at last. “Of hoping. Of trusting. Of allowing myself to believe that this time might be different.”
Eleanor’s expression softened. “Then you must decide whether the risk of heartbreak is worth the possibility of happiness. No one can make that decision for you, my dear. But I will say this—” She rose and crossed to where Maribel stood. “—that man who sat in my drawing room today was not the same one who appeared at your wedding. Something has broken in him. Whether it has broken open or merely broken remains to be seen.”
Maribel pressed her palm against the cold glass. “He said he is bringing Oliver home.”
“Yes.”
“And that I could be there. When he arrives.”
“An olive branch, perhaps. Or genuine contrition.” Eleanor placed a gentle hand on Maribel’s shoulder. “Give yourself time. Watch what he does rather than what he says. And if he fails—when he fails, because all men do eventually—observe how he responds to that failure. That will tell you everything you need to know.”
“I suppose,” Maribel said at last. “But I will give it time. Allow Oliver to settle in first.”
Two days passed before the first letter arrived.
Maribel recognised the handwriting on the envelope immediately—Mrs. Allen’s precise, careful script. She broke the seal with trembling fingers and unfolded the paper.
Lady Maribel,
I write at the request of young Master Oliver, who has been asking after you daily since his return from Ashford Academy. He wished me to convey that he misses you terribly and hopes you are well.
