“You are not a companion?” Neither his tone nor his expression gave any hint as to his feelings on the subject.
“I am not,” she said. “I do hope you can forgive me—”
*
Finch was on his feet before he realized what was happening, and Miss Barrows followed, babbling things he couldn’t follow as his disheveled wits attempted to make sense of this development. Mina stumbled over her notes, and though it was usually she who blushed, Finch felt a flush coloring his cheeks as he and Miss Barrows drew the attention of the others.
“Have I ever told you the history of this painting?” asked Lady Lovell, motioning towards a dramatic depiction of a man astride a horse. With Simon’s assistance, she rose to her feet and ushered him and his wife to that side of the drawing room, which was as far from Finch and Miss Barrows as they could manage. With overly loud words, the older lady began a recitation of the history of the Lovell family while gesturing at the painting.
And Finch was left to stand there like the mute fool he was.
He’d spent far too many years with an intimate knowledge of the fickleness of fate to trust a sudden show of good fortune; Finch had long ago learned that the proverbial horse was more likely to trample than bestow gifts. And such a revelation certainly counted as providential.
“You are not a companion?” he echoed the question, and though the lady smiled and gave him all sorts of reassurances, Finch struggled to realign his previous worldview with the reality that lay before him.
Miss Barrows was an heiress.
Marrying for money held no appeal for Finch. Though he may have entertained mercenary fantasies as a very young man, they’d faded and vanished in quick succession. Of course, they were helped along by the fact that he had no enticements to secure an heiress, but the thought of approaching matrimony like a business venture sickened him.
And so, marriage had been out of reach. Or so he thought. But with her income, there was no reason they could not…
Finch stiffened, his thoughts pulling free of those fancies, and a weight landed on his shoulders, pressing down on him like a boulder. His legs gave out from under him, and he slumped down onto the seat.
“You lied to me,” he mumbled.
Miss Barrows took the seat beside him, resting a hand on his forearm. Her expression was grim, a sorrowful shadow darkening her gaze.
“I did.” Her eyes fell to the ground with a wince. “I’ve spent years being hounded by sycophants and false suitors. Though it is a poor excuse, I did not wish to be seen as a bank account…”
The lady babbled on about all the many justifications, but Finch’s thoughts were not present. Casting his mind back through the weeks they’d spent together, Finch saw them in a new light. Though there had only been one blatant falsehood, it colored so many of their conversations in half-truths and misdirections.
A flush of heat swept over him, and Finch bit down on the inside of his cheek, hoping that pain might ease the ache that had taken hold in his chest. Tingles ran along his skin as he thought through his behavior. His cheeks burned, and he leaned forward to rub at his face, as though that might wipe away the past or hide him from the future.
“You sloughed off your privileged life for a few weeks, like some traveler wishing to experience how other cultures live. Did it amuse you to play pretend?” he asked.
Miss Barrows’ hand tightened on his arm, but Finch’s eyes remained fixed on the rug.
“It was not a playact, Mr. Finch,” she whispered, though her voice faltered. “Well…yes, but not in the manner you mean and not the majority of it…” Miss Barrows continued to ramble excuses, her words halting and breaking while Finch wished the ground would swallow him whole.
Finch couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t look at anyone. Though he felt cold to the core, his face was flush with a heat that threatened to consume him, and he hardly felt fit to stand. His head dropped lower as he castigated himself. He had spent his life keeping his own counsel; why had he not done so in Miss Barrows’ presence?
*
With panicked thoughts, Felicity struggled to find the right words. Surely there was something that would erase the hurt etched in Mr. Finch’s face and the dejection rife in his posture. The gentleman rose to his feet once more, his gaze averted from her, and Felicity wished he would meet her eye. Perhaps then she might understand what was going on in his head.
“Please, Mr. Finch. I know I have hurt you, but can you not forgive me? Yes, I lied—a fact of which I am ashamed—but that does not erase the friendship we have built. Would you throw it away for the sake of a little white lie?”
Mr. Finch stiffened and turned his gaze to hers, but there was no comfort to be found in his eyes; like the frigid winter wind, his pain swept through her, chilling her heart.
“A little white lie?” he parroted in a tone as icy as his gaze. “I told you things I’ve never admitted aloud because I thought you understood my struggles. I trusted you with hidden parts of myself because I trusted that little white lie. You lectured me about finding joy in this life, acting as though you understood my situation. You made a fool of me, Miss Barrows, and now you dare to act as though that deception was an insignificant nothing. I assure you it is not.”
Felicity wished she had some defense, but the twist of her stomach told her otherwise. Whether or not her deception had been justified at first, it did not negate her efforts to perpetuate the lie. On their own, each deceitful word had seemed unimportant, but together, they pressed down on her in a great mountain of guilt.
“I am sorry,” she whispered as her vision blurred. “But everything else about me was true. My life may be different than yours, but I know what it feels like to be trapped by one’s circumstances—”
Mr. Finch snorted, rounding on her with a fire blazing in his eyes. “I’ve spent my life hiding in plain sight, unable to speak a word of my troubles to anyone lest I disgrace the very family that deems me useless. I thought you understood. I thought…”
His voice faltered, and Mr. Finch turned away, pinching his nose. Taking in a shaky breath, he shook his head and strode to the door.
