It was not from Christian—she would have known his handwriting instantly—but from Mrs Blackley, written in a careful, deliberate hand that suggested the housekeeper was not accustomed to personal correspondence.
Dear Miss Hart,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I take the liberty of writing because I believe you ought to know how matters have stood at Thornwick since your departure.
His Grace has been greatly indisposed in spirits. I would not distress you unnecessarily, yet I think it only right that you should know the truth. For several days after you left, he scarcely touched food. In moments of temper, he did considerable damage to certain rooms of the house, and for a time, he neglected himself entirely—refusing proper meals, and showing little concern for his appearance or comfort. The servants were much troubled by his condition.
Of late, however, there has been some improvement. A few days ago, His Grace spoke to me of his intention to set matters right—by which I am confident he referred to you. Since then, he has resumed taking his meals regularly, has begun again to attend to his person, and has taken up the business of the estate, which had been much neglected during that unhappy period.
He speaks of you often—though never plainly, for pride forbids it—but I observe him watching the post with great attention, as though expecting tidings that do not arrive. I cannot say with certainty what he intends, yet it is my belief that he is striving to gather the courage he lacked before.
I would not presume to promise anything. I have known His Grace since he was a boy, and I know well how deeply his fears are rooted. Still, you brought a great deal of light intothis house, Miss Hart, and I do not believe that light has been wholly extinguished.
Pray do not answer this letter. Were His Grace to discover that I had written, he would be most displeased with me. Yet I could not bear that you should remain in ignorance where there may still be cause for hope.
I remain, Miss Hart,
Your obedient servant,
Eleanor Blackley
Fiona read the letter three times, her hands shaking.
He was coming for her.
Mrs Blackley believed it. He was gathering his courage, preparing himself, working toward the step he had been unable to take before.
Or perhaps he was not. Perhaps he would falter again, as he had so often in the past. Perhaps fear would triumph once more, and she would spend the rest of her life waiting for a knock that never came.
But there was hope.
After weeks of emptiness—of going through the motions, of pretending to be well when she was anything but—there was hope.
She pressed the letter against her heart and closed her eyes.
Please,she thought.Please, Christian. Be brave. For both of us.
And somewhere in the distance, as though in answer, thunder rolled across the London sky.
Chapter Nineteen
Christian had been sober for twelve days.
It was not a long stretch of sobriety, all things considered—barely a fortnight—but it felt like an eternity. Every evening, the brandy decanter called to him from its place on the sideboard, promising oblivion, promising relief from the constant ache of missing her. Every evening, he turned away from it and went to bed with nothing but his thoughts for company.
The thoughts were not pleasant companions.
But he was trying. That was what mattered. He was eating regularly, sleeping occasionally, and attending to the estate matters that had piled up during his weeks of dissolution. He had shaved his beard—though he kept his hair long, as she had liked it—and dressed in clean clothes each morning. He was, by all outward appearances, a man who had pulled himself back from the brink.
Inwardly, he was still falling.
He thought about her constantly. Fiona, with her sharp tongue and soft heart, her grey eyes and copper-touched hair. Fiona, who had looked at his birthmark and called it beautiful. Fiona, who had loved him despite everything—despite his walls, his fears, his seemingly infinite capacity for self-destruction.
He had let her go. He had pushed her away, convinced himself it was the noble thing to do, and watched her carriage disappear with his heart breaking in his chest.
And now he was meant to… what?
Carry on as though nothing had happened? Return to the quiet routines of Thornwick and pretend that the weeks they had shared were some brief enchantment from which he had now awakened?
