Finn watched them leave and then strolled out into the nighttime air, not sure what to do with the rush of anger that left his heart pounding. Anger at himself mostly. Frustration at how powerless he felt, a feeling that was foreign to him and entirely distasteful.
Catching sight of himself in a store display window, he suddenly realized the foolishness of having spent hard-earned money on an evening suit that he would doubtless never use again. He could have hung about the lobby and saved Rose from those idiots while dressed in his usual clothes. Yet he had felt the need to live up to her expectations of what a man at the theatre looked like, on the mere chance that they might meet.
He certainly hadn’t planned on holding her in his arms.
It hadn’t mattered one bit. She had left with William.
***
Rose waited silently while William turned on the lamps in the dark parlor. Only the most modern of incandescent lighting suddenly letting them see each other clearly. They stood staring at each other.
“A drink?” he offered, then frowned, perhaps recalling what had recently happened to their last drinks and why.
“No.” Her voice was so faint, she tried clearing her throat. Still, she could only look at him. Whatever she said next, nothing would be the same between them.
“Are you ready to talk to me?” William seemed a little hesitant, as if he dreaded her answer.
Rose had spent so much time thinking about this moment, so why on earth didn’t she have the right words to tell him? Gentle words. Apologetic words.
They stared at one another in silence for another long moment. His face was pale, the dark smudges a sharp contrast. If only she could ease his pain.
“I am truly sorry,” she began, for she truly was. Beyond anything, she wanted William to be the laughing, jovial man he’d been when she’d met him.
“Is this the important thing you nearly told me that day we had Italian ice?”
Rose bowed her head, amazed that he remembered. After their walk, they’d kissed in her back garden and discussed wedding plans with her mother. If only she’d told him then.
Finally, she nodded.
“And what stopped you?” he asked.
“The ball to my head.”
William frowned.
“Finn — Mr. Bennet — threw it. He wanted to stop me from telling you that he’d returned.”
“Why?” His voice was raspy, with a hint of anger in his tone.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “He is in some trouble, and he thought that I — or even you — could be in danger if anyone found out we knew he was in Boston.”
“Why isn’t this making sense to me?” William asked. “This has something to do with the incident that made you very sad in the past. We almost talked about it once.”
Rose took a breath, nodded, and still she could barely get anything past her suddenly numb lips. But she did.
“Phineas Bennet. He is my husband.”
William took a step backward as though he’d been struck. He shook his head as if trying to ward off the pain, and a dark lock of hair fell over his forehead, making him look boyish, making her wish she could take back her words.
“Rose?” He stared at her, the hurt that was etched on his face cut straight through her. It resembled precisely the anguish she’d felt when she lost Finn to the cold ocean. Except William had not lost her. She was still his, if he wanted her.
For long moments, William searched her face before dropping his gaze to the thick rug under his feet. Yet not before she saw glistening in his eyes. His pain — and knowing that she had caused it — struck agony in her as if she were on fire.
“No,” he whispered. Then again louder, “No!” He brought his gaze up to look right at her, a mask of anger in place of his confusion and sadness. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I’m sorry. I was going to tell you—”
“That you weremarried? When?Afterour wedding? On our honeymoon, perhaps?”
