Rose had thought she would have to seek William out at his home or worse, appear at his office under the scrutiny of the State House secretaries. Instead, as she finished drinking her coffee the next morning and poking at a dish of sliced fruit, the housekeeper announced that her fiancé was in the front hall.
Rose glanced at her mother, whose face was a picture of concern, then pushed her chair back and scrambled for the door.
“Invite him to have some tea and oatmeal, of course, if he’s hungry, dear,” her mother called after her.
Rose doubted that he would want either. She had spent the night wondering how to make amends for her inexcusable actions, half dreading seeing him again, yet now he was there, she couldn’t wait to see him. He was her beloved, after all.
She stopped short in the foyer. William looked terrible. Clearly, he hadn’t slept or taken the time with his grooming that morning. His hair was charmingly in disarray, his clothing unkempt, and dark circles under his eyes. And it was all her fault.
“Where can we speak privately?” he asked, his tone flat.
“In my father’s study,” she answered at once. She knew Evelyn would expect him to pop in to greet her first. William clearly looked in no condition to do so.
“Jillian,” she addressed the maid, “please show Mr. Woodsom to the study and get him some tea or whatever he’d like. I’ll be along directly.”
She watched him trail along behind the young woman, looking defeated even from behind, and not the man with boundless energy and a zest for life she’d come to know and love. Her guilt weighed heavily like a wet wool cape.
Poking her head around the dining room door, she eyed her mother. “Mama, I’m going to have a private chat with William for a few minutes. He’s not feeling quite himself today, a touch of indigestion perhaps, so he’s not going to stop for breakfast with us.”
“Oh dear,” Evelyn said. “Tell him to have some ginger tea, or chamomile. Emily can brew him some directly.”
“Yes, Mama.” She turned to leave.
“Rose,” her mother added, narrowing her eyes, “there is no tea that cures a broken heart. I know that from experience.”
Indeed. Both she and her mother shared the experience of widowhood and the long pangs of heartache it caused.
“I know, Mama. Unfortunately, I know.” She paused, about to tell her mother that things were not going smoothly when she thought better of it. Before turning away, Rose forced a smile. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
As she walked along the hallway to the back of the house, she realized those were the precise words she’d said to William that day on the Common when she should have told him the truth about Finn’s return. The words were a lie then as they were now. There was plenty of reason to worry.
Rose entered the study and closed the door behind her. William was slumped in the comfy tufted seat that faced her father’s desk. She had sat in it many times to converse with her father when she was a child — exciting, lengthy discussions that had fueled her spirit.
With his back to the door, despite his height, the top of William’s head was barely visible above the high overstuffed back of the seat. Rose decided not to take her father’s leather chair and put the barrier of the desk between them. Instead, she rested her behind on the edge of the desk on the same side as William and gave him her full attention. She had made this mess, and she would deal with the dire consequences. And they were extremely dire — that she could tell.
William’s fingers were steepled together, and he was staring at them intently.
Rose looked at them, too, seeing a little bruising on the knuckles of his right hand. She knew better than to mention it, though she dearly wished she could take hold of those bruised fingers, kiss the marks, and tell him how sorry she was.
At last, William looked up at her. “I’ve been thinking of the irony that I found out about Bennet duringThe Lady of Lyons.”
She had not thought about it, but he was right of course.
“Am I the jilted marquis? And is Bennet the one who returns as a hero to win your love?”
“This is not a play,” she reminded him, though the similarities suddenly struck her as eerie.
“You married this man you barely knew,” William said, his tone even and precise, “and he deserted you for over three years. He returns bringing nothing but heartache and potential danger. Now what? What are his intentions toward you?”
“I don’t know.”
Silence hung between them like a thick curtain for a long moment.
Then William said, “I guess that’s not as important as this question: Do you still love him?”
Rose hesitated and that seemed to be all it took to push William over the edge into despair. He stood up abruptly and paced the room.
“Perhaps I always sensed there was something you were holding back from me. Not this, of course! This was beyond imagining.”
