He did not love his wife…
Her thoughts grew foggy, layers of confusing feelings piling on top of one another, merging together until she had nothing close to clarity. Should she feel glad that he had not loved his wife? It did not mean he would love her. Should she feel sad for the woman he had married, to have been forced into such a union? It was what she had feared for herself, up until the slap that stopped it all. Should she feel sad forhim, to have had no choice either? And what of Harriet, growing up without her father present, only returning when her mother was unwell?
It was too much to think about all at once, ruining the peace of the private walk she had been relishing.
“I am sorry.” Dominic stopped walking, his arm releasing hers from being pressed to his ribs. “I do not know why I told you that. I never speak of her. I should not have changed that now.”
A sensation akin to panic prompted her to hold tighter to his arm. “Not at all, Your Grace. It is good to hear of your story, to hear of Harriet’s mother.” She covered his hand with hers. “I imagine it is of benefit to you too, to talk of what must have been a… very difficult situation.”
“I am not sure about that,” he replied, with a short, cold laugh. “Some things are best left buried.”
Frances shook her head, willing him to meet her gaze. “I do not believe that is true, for the things we wish to bury always find a way to resurface. It is better ifwechoose to dig them up and share them with those we trust, to lighten the burden.”
His eyes widened as if remembering something, his hand slipping into his front pocket. From within, he withdrew what appeared to be a handkerchief, somewhat crumpled, with a thin pink ribbon tied around it.
“For you,” he said, holding it out to her.
She frowned at the handkerchief. “Thank you, Your Grace, but I do not need one.”
Am I crying?
She did not think she was. Perhaps she had something on her face that needed to be wiped away, or her nose was running from the chilly night air and the sadness of his story. Sadness for everyone involved, who had been given no choice in the matter, just pawns controlled by the parents above them.
“It is merely wrapped in a handkerchief,” he explained, as he swept a hand through his hair, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
“What is it?” she asked, gingerly tugging on the ribbon.
He cleared his throat loudly and looked away, back toward the lights of the fair. “A gift, I suppose.”
Frances stifled the gasp that attempted to escape her throat, worried that she might genuinely need a handkerchief to dab away tears. He had bought her something. He had thought of her, and he had bought her something. Whatever was in the handkerchief wrapper did not matter.
“It is nothing, really,” he muttered with that odd catch in his voice. “If you do not like it, you can dispose of it.”
In the shadows of the plane trees, with just enough light from the fading sunset to see by, Frances unfolded the handkerchief to discover what was inside. The moment she saw the sheen of the folded square of delicate fabric, her heart fluttered, her chest heaving as a funny, involuntary whimper managed to slip from her lips.
“I overheard what you said to your maid. It was not meant to upset you,” he explained, misunderstanding. “Please, let me return it. It was a foolish thing to do.”
She clasped the exquisite piece of muslin to her chest, shaking her head. “Do not dare,” she rasped. “It is… beautiful. It is probably the most beautiful thing I own.”
Ladies of her standing and heritage across the country would have turned up their noses at a mere square of perfect muslin, asking why it was not a full gown or a fichu at least.Theymight have been upset or insulted, but not Frances. To her, it was as precious as a diamond, for it was something she had wanted and had known she could never have, not even a square of it.
Yet, there it was, pressed against her heart.
“Just a token of thanks for all you have done for my daughter,” he said quickly.
It was a thin needle to the swell of her gratitude, not popping it altogether but causing it to deflate a little. She did not know why, for what else had she expected—some manner of confession with the gift? Some magical reprieve that might permit her to stay here in Bath and never have to return to London at all?
Just because had confided in her about his wife did not mean that he felt anything forher, just as it did not mean that he had changed his mind about remarrying. Whywouldhe marry again, when the first time had evidently been such an unpleasant thing?
“It is my pleasure,” she said as brightly as she could, her thumb brushing the fabric, so silky and slippery it was almost like liquid, cold to the touch. “Now, how can it be that your wife barely tolerated you, when you do something as kind as this?”
She had meant it in clumsy jest, but wished she could pluck the words from the air like cherry blossoms and crush them in her hand as she watched his expression harden. She had been too familiar; she had spoken out of turn.
“Because I was not the same man then,” he answered gruffly. “I was not a good man at all, and I am not certain that I am now.”
Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean? Of course, you are a good man.”
“You say that as someone who does not know me, Frances,” he replied, his eyes squinting as though a sudden headache had attacked him. “Come, we should return to the others before our absence is noticed. I did not realize how far from the path we had wandered.”
