So, Eliza did. The whole miserable story poured out and the more she spoke, the more she said. Morgan’s distance, their argument, the hollow feeling of living in the same house as someone who couldn’t bear to be near you.
“He said loving me terrified him,” Eliza finished, her voice breaking. “That caring for me made him weak. That he can’t, he won’t live like that.”
“Oh, Eliza.” Imogen’s voice was thick with sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”
“I thought we were happy. I thought he loved me.” She laughed bitterly. “How stupid of me.”
“It’s not stupid to believe in love. And for what it’s worth, I think he does love you.”
“It doesn’t feel that way, Imogen.”
“It’s why he’s so frightened.”
“Then he’s a coward.”
“Yes,” Imogen agreed simply. “He is. But that doesn’t make the pain any easier to bear.”
“I think we need some pastries. I recently received a delivery of French macarons. Let me ring for them and we can just sit here for a while and wallow.”
“I would very much like a wallow.”
“Good,” Imogen said as she rang a small bell next to her.
Meanwhile, across London, Morgan sat in White’s nursing his third, or was it fourth?, glass of whiskey.
“Kirkhammer! There you are!”
Lord Pemberton clapped him on the shoulder, his face flushed with drink and goodwill.
“Heard the final word on that awful Whitfield business. Glad I could be of help. Absolutely smashing work, getting that monster arrested. The whole ton is talking about it.”
“Is that so?” Morgan’s voice was carefully modulated, charming as usual. The perfect veneer of a satisfied duke who’d just brought a murderer to justice.
“Three wives!” Lord Ashford joined them, shaking his head. “Can you imagine? And to think we all dined with him, let our wives dance with him, treated him as one of us.”
“Chilling,” someone else agreed, whom Morgan didn’t recognize nor care to introduce himself to.
They all toasted Morgan’s cleverness, his dedication to justice, his bravery. He smiled and accepted their congratulations with practiced ease, playing the role they expected, the role he knew. But when he looked at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, he barely recognized the man staring back.
“Another round!” Pemberton called. “To Kirkhammer, the man who proved that justice can prevail!”
Morgan raised his glass with the others.
And felt nothing. Nothing at all.
The cemetery was quiet, the afternoon sun filtering through the leaves overhead. Eliza stood before Abigail’s grave, reading the inscription carved into the pale marble.
Lady Abigail Whitfield
Beloved Daughter
1804-1826
Gone Too Soon
No mention of her marriage. No reference to Whitfield at all. Her parents had seen to that. Eliza knelt on the grass, not caring about the damp seeping through her dress.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” she whispered. “I was… I was too afraid. Afraid that coming here would make it real. That you’re really gone.”
