Without looking, Bess reached out an unsteady hand for something, anything to hold onto. Her fingertips found the velvety bloom of a rose. Shaking, she looked down at the blossom cradled between her fingers. So fragile; she could crush it without a thought.
It was so easy to destroy things. Much harder to keep something soft and tender safe, to hold it close and nurture it and protect it from the world.
Had she made a terrible mistake? Had she let fear come to her in the guise of pragmatism, using the excuse of being sensible to be the kind of coward she swore she’d never be?
For Mama and Papa, for Kitty and Martin, for Davy—when she survived them, Bess had vowed to do more than merely survive…she would live.
A life she could be proud of. A life without regrets.
She’d gone to London, to The Nemesis, to search out the vibrant, vivid life she’d promised her beloved ghosts she would live.
Now that she’d found it—why hadn’t she been brave enough to take hold of it?
“I think you’re ready to hear about my letter now,” Henrietta said, breaking into Bess’s whirling thoughts. “You should know, after all the help he was in tracking Lucy’s movements that night she ran off, I suggested Nathaniel hire young Mr. Charles Truitt as a footman. He agreed, and I must say, Charlie has become an invaluable source of information. Mrs. Drummond quite dotes upon him. And according to Charlie, Nathaniel has been out every night since he returned to Town, till all hours.”
Bess’s blood ran cold. “At parties and balls?” She pictured him waltzing with Miss Devensham and felt sick.
“No, dear,” Henrietta shook her head, her slim, dark brows drawn down sharply. “Unless those balls usually end in brawls. No, he has been at The Nemesis every night. For hours and hours. And when he finally comes home…well. Charlie says it has been very bad, indeed.”
Involuntarily, Bess’s hand clenched around the rose, releasing the heavy fragrance into the air. “He’s been fighting. Is he…losing?”
The Berserker never lost.
But Henrietta shook her head. “According to Charlie, he still wins every bout. But Bess, he’s fighting…too much. Two, even three bouts a night. He wins, but…he is breaking himself to do it. He is breaking himself over you.”
Bess’s knees gave out without warning. She sat down, hard, on the ground. She could not see or hear anything around her—her mind was hundreds of miles away in a crowded, loud Haymarket tavern, imagining Nathaniel throwing himself into the ring over and over, uncaring of the cuts and bruises and pain.
Or worse, seeking them out. Punishing himself.
Because of her.
A tickle at the heel of her hand drew Bess’s consciousness back to the garden. Something tracked down her wrist in an erratic, meandering line, and she glanced down without curiosity to see a trickle of blood. She had crushed the rose, stem and all, and the thorns pierced her palm.
She felt nothing.
There was no physical pain that could compare to the whistling wasteland of her soul.
Henrietta knelt next to her in a flutter of pink and white striped skirts, and Bess wanted to resist when the older woman drew her to her motherly bosom, but she couldn’t. She owed Henrietta too much.
“My dear girl,” Henrietta hummed, rocking Bess a little. “Take a moment, if you must. But then, I think…you have somewhere you need to be?”
Where there had been nothing but devastation, empty and aching, suddenly purpose flooded in and buoyed Bess up like a ship upon a wave.
She straightened, her entire body humming with a surge of energy, as though she’d been struck by lightning. Bess felt as though she’d been half-asleep for days and was only now, finally, waking up. She blinked at Henrietta’s understanding smile and said, “Yes. I…I have to go. Henrietta! I must leave at once, as soon as I can arrange a carriage. And pack!”
Oh, God, how she hated to waste even one moment on the practicalities. Her legs moved restlessly; she felt as if she could run all the way to London, without pause.
The two women pulled each other to their feet in a haphazard embrace which Henrietta turned into a real hug. Into Bess’s ear, she said, “Gemma sent her carriage from Kissington Manor; it’s already waiting for you in the courtyard. Lucy packed your bag before supper. Go.”
Amazement nearly knocked Bess over once more. She staggered and clutched at Henrietta, wide-eyed. “You were so sure you would talk me round?”
Henrietta cocked her head, the tall plumes of feathers atop her bonnet bobbed madly. With an expression of perhaps justifiable smugness, she said, “Well. It’s not so very difficult to talk someone into doing what they already clearly, desperately want to do. You only needed a little nudge.”
Suiting action to words, Henrietta nudged Bess laughingly in the direction of the courtyard. Bess went, feeling as though a cord had wrapped itself around her ribs and was pulling taut, drawing her toward London. Toward Nathaniel.
Toward the rest of her life.
She only paused long enough to press Henrietta’s hands tightly between her own and say a swift, heartfelt, “Thank you. For everything.”
