Heat pours over my face. “I suppose you don’t know how to—”
“Of course I do. It’s at the Barclay Bank on Southgate.”
“In London?”
“Here in Gloucester.” His puzzled look would be amusing if this experience weren’t so terribly humiliating.
I file the information away and study him for what he isn’t saying. There’s a great deal. This man who does not care for me now knows more about me than I do. I stir in the chair, making it creak. “What was our marriage like, Mr. Brooks?”
“Like?” His voice has lost its sharp edges.
“Were we happy?”
I close my eyes and hear the words in AJ’s angry voice.What can I possibly do to please you?I cringe.
“You were…busy. Striving.”
“Him or me?”
“Both. But for different things.” He crosses his ankle over one knee. “He could scarcely sit still, even on holidays, and you were seldom satisfied. It nearly drove him over the edge, trying to give you everything.”
I feel AJ’s past words strike me like tiny pebbles.What is it you want, Merryn? What is it you want from me? How can I possibly make you happy?
I look to the window, focusing on the muffled noise on the street, and the answer comes like a reflex: time.Waste time on me, Ansel. Everyone was always leaving me. Walking out the door with a wave, on to something more important.Time is aprecious commodity, and you have so little. Waste a luxurious amount of it on me. Let’s be poor and have adventures again.He was halfway out the door when I said it. I can clearly see him standing there, framed by the doorway, on the way to work he was wonderfully skilled in…but did not care for. He thought I wanted it, but all I wanted was my dearest friend and my love.When you can do so many things with your time, spend an abundance of it on me…on us.
My stomach cramped with longing for him. It returns now like an instinct, so often felt. What was it in a man that tied his identity to his provision? How did earnings become a security net that every man felt compelled to stretch out beneath those he loved, his ability to do so somehow shaping his worth?
And what was it about me that made me long so for connection and intimacy? So keenly feel the lack of it? He’d gift me a beautiful gold filigree jewelry box but work through our anniversary. The crushing need for success kept him focused on the urgent and blinded to the important. I could see it even then, but he couldn’t.
“I didn’t want an abundance of anything…except him. The one thing he struggled to give.” My words are more to myself than my companion, but they change the look on his face. “Did he enjoy his work, Mr. Brooks?”
“Nigel. Please.” He clears his throat. “He was quite passionate about it. Driven, I would say. Yes, driven. Part of the reason he succeeded.”
I don’t even know this about my husband. I did once, didn’t I?
Yes. Yes, of course I did. The fire blazing in his eyes, the boundless energy…that had always been there. My vision twists like a kaleidoscope and the pieces fall into the correct pattern.
We were so close once—long, late-night conversations beside each other in bed. We were penniless at first, but wildly happy.Perhaps there was a time I wasnotan heiress, and we had nothing but an abundance of togetherness. Silly little dances in the morning rain. Long walks to nowhere in particular and even a ride on a pair of borrowed bicycles—which I crashed. Popping soap bubbles together over a sink full of dirty dishes. Frosting smeared on noses that was kissed off.
These sensations come in rolling waves as I sit here in our home, amid the scents and sounds of our life together, leaving behind vague impressions. A whiff of longing. The vague images make one thing clear—we loved each other madly.
And yet…the accident. That’s the final piece I cannot understand. Whatdidhappen? What became of our love story? What drove him to kill me? “How did I…? The accident.”
He holds up his hand. “He wouldn’t speak of it. He nearly drowned in his grief. Even got arrested for brawling in a pub.”
I open my mind to everything I’ve closed off before, welcoming memories, begging them to return. I long for the truth. I can’t take the story from anyone else—I need to hear it from my own mind. But every time I sink into this part of the past, there is only panic and pressure on my chest…and a sudden jarring back to reality, the way I once woke from dreams.
Nigel Brooks rises and straightens his suit jacket. “I’ll leave you to your day, Mrs. Winthrop. Mention to AJ that I called, would you? And if you need it…I suppose I could help you find your bank and sort out the funds.” He places his card on the table.
I blink at the man whose manner toward me has softened considerably. “Thank you, Mr. Brooks. Nigel.”
I am restless all day and through the night, and the morning sun comes with no sign of AJ…but I rise and dress in my finest tailored walking suit, gloves, and hat. I take Nigel Brooks up on his offer, walking to the business address on his card, because I need the funds for a train ride to London.
It’s court day. The rest of my story is about to unfold.
Chapter 38
I’llneverforgetthe18th of September, no matter how many times I strike my fool head. I sit in the large, echoing Chancery Division of the High Court in London, watching from the public gallery behind the pillar, veil drawn over my face. Colors from cut-glass windows splay over the onlookers crammed into the gallery, gossips and reporters and curious spectators. The case has been highly publicized, with every hopeful young woman in service out to see what’s to become of the humble companion who’s to manage an estate.
