Without waiting for a response, she turned—slowly, as if weighted by the gravity of her own words—opened the door, and disappeared into the shadows beyond.
Twenty-Three
London was gray that morning. A dull, uninspired gray that settled into the bones of the house and stayed there, heavy and unmoving. The sky pressed low, cloaking the city in a colorless hush that mirrored Kitty’s chest—tight and hollow.
She sat curled on the window seat of her bedroom, her knees pulled close, a worn shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The faint rattle of carriage wheels drifted in through the glass. Somewhere far below, life went on. But up here, in the quiet stillness of her father’s townhouse, time had dulled to a slow crawl.
A week.
It had been a week.
Seven days since Norman had looked at her as though he had never known her. Seven nights since she had left him standingalone in that studio, her heart in her throat and her voice cracking on his name.
Not a letter. Not a word. Not even a servant sent in his place.
She had told herself—at first—that he only needed time. That he was angry, confused, caught up in the scandal Cynthia had so carefully spun like a spider’s web. He would write. He would come. He would remember who she was, who they had been. Surely. Surely, he would.
But the days had passed, and nothing came.
And Kitty… Kitty had stopped pretending.
Her fingers curled tighter around the shawl. It was one her mother had knitted long ago—ivory wool, worn thin at the edges, soft with age. She remembered wearing it at ten years old when she’d scraped her knee in the garden, and again the year her cat died. Somehow, in all these years, this shawl had become the one thing she reached for when her heart ached beyond words.
She closed her eyes.
Had she truly been so blind? Again?
He had promised her protection. He had sworn she could trust him. But the very first test of that faith—and he had not even asked her what was true.
He had listened to Cynthia.
She felt the betrayal like a bruise that would not stop blooming. Not just for what he had done—but for what he had failed to do. He had left her undefended before all those eyes. Had let her name be dragged through the mud as if it meant nothing at all.
And now?
Now she sat in a city that looked less and less like home each day and wondered why she had ever come back at all.
A soft knock sounded against the doorframe.
“Kitty?” Jane’s voice was quiet, tentative.
Kitty did not turn. “You may come in.”
The bed creaked gently as Jane sat on the edge, the rustle of skirts whispering through the silence. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Jane exhaled slowly.
“It’s too quiet here.”
Kitty let out a sound that was not quite a laugh. “I suppose that suits me now.”
“I wish you’d say something more than that,” Jane said gently. “You haven’t been yourself since we returned.”
“I am myself,” Kitty murmured. “Or perhaps I am exactly who I was always meant to be. A fool who thought herself wiser than she was.”
“Don’t say that.”
Kitty turned then, just slightly, her cheek pressed against the glass, her breath fogging a small patch of it. Outside, the clouds hung heavy over the rooftops. “London is not what I remembered. Or perhaps I simply hoped it had changed.”
“Or perhaps you have,” Jane offered.
