“His Grace asked me to give you this.” She pressed the package into Fiona’s hands. “He said—he said you would understand.”
Fiona looked down at the package. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with a simple string, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. She could feel something soft inside—fabric, perhaps, or paper.
“Thank you, Mrs Blackley.”
“Miss Hart.” The housekeeper hesitated, then reached out and clasped Fiona’s hand in her own. “For what it may be worth, you have been the best thing that has happened to this house. And to him. I have served the Hale family for thirty years, and I have never seen His Grace as content as he has been these past weeks. Whatever he may tell himself now, whatever fears have taken hold of him, he loves you. Deeply and sincerely. Of that I am quite certain.”
Fiona felt her eyes burn. “Then why is he letting me go?”
“Because he is afraid.” Mrs Blackley’s voice softened. “He has lived with that fear for a very long time, miss. Fear of rejection, fear of disappointment—fear, most of all, of hoping for something that might be taken from him. You have taught him ameasure of courage, but such lessons do not take root all at once. He may yet require time.”
“I would have given him all the time in the world.”
“I know you would.” The housekeeper gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “And perhaps—once you are gone—he will come to understand that for himself.”
She regarded Fiona kindly.
“Do not lose faith in him, Miss Hart. His Grace is not so lost as he believes.”
Fiona could not trust herself to speak. She simply inclined her head, her throat too tight for words, and Mrs Blackley released her hand and stepped back.
“The carriage is ready whenever you are.”
“Thank you. For everything.”
She tucked the package into her reticule without opening it. She would look at it later, when she was alone, when she had the privacy to weep.
Now, she needed to be strong.
The walk from the entrance hall to the waiting carriage felt like a funeral march.
Fiona moved through the great doors and down the stone steps, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her spine rigid with theeffort of holding herself together. She could see the servants gathered at the edges of the drive—Thomas, the housemaids, the grooms and gardeners who had become familiar faces over the past weeks. They watched her with expressions of mingled sympathy and sorrow, and she knew they understood. Everyone understood.
Everyone except Christian.
She had reached the carriage door when she heard it.
“Fiona.”
She froze.
He stood at the top of the steps, framed by the great doors of Thornwick Castle like a figure from a Gothic novel. He was dressed carelessly—no coat, no cravat, just the shirt and trousers he had worn the night before—and his hair was a wild tangle around his face. He looked terrible. Haunted. Destroyed.
Fiona drew a slow breath.
“Christian.” She kept her voice steady through sheer force of will. “I thought you did not intend to see me off.”
“I did not.” He descended the steps slowly, as though each one required a deliberate effort. “I meant to remain in my chambers, to listen to the carriage depart, and to spend the rest of the day persuading myself that I had done the right thing.”
“And what changed?”
He stopped at the foot of the steps, only a few paces from her. Close enough to touch, if either of them dared. Close enough for her to see the red rims around his eyes, the faint tremor in his hands, the devastation written plainly across his face.
“I could not do it,” he said quietly. “I could not let you go without—without seeing you once more. Without telling you—”
His voice faltered.
“Without telling me what?”
