Brynne’s legs feltas if they were carved from wood as she staggered into the manor. One look at her, and Mrs. Grimsby, the housekeeper, ushered her straight into the parlor and nudged the door closed behind them.
Soft and plump with a merry smile and a perpetual twinkle in her brown eyes, Mrs. Grimsby was the eldest daughter of the previous housekeeper, a dragon of a woman who had often sent Brynne scurrying away in terror. She had a husband, who worked as the head groundskeeper, and three daughters of her own, all grown with families. Both she and Mr. Grimsby had begun discussing their retirement, but they were loyal above all else, and loath to leave the family they’d served so diligently for more than two decades.
“Sit down and drink this,” Mrs. Grimsby said gently, pressing a cool glass of water into Brynne’s numb hands. “That’s it. Slowly now. Good, good. Head between your knees if you’re feeling faint, just as we talked about.”
Wordlessly, Brynne lowered her forehead towards the ground as the housekeeper took the glass and then began to rub her back in large, soothing circles.
“My poor dear,” Mrs. Grimsby clucked. “I haven’t seen you in such a state in ages. Deep breaths, my lady. Deep breaths.”
Years, Brynne thought silently as she inhaled through her mouth and exhaled through her nose, just as Mrs. Grimsby had taught her. It had been years since she’d had an Episode. So long that she thought they were a thing of the past. Why, she hadn’t even had one when she walked into the bedroom and saw Lachlan–no. Best not to think about that now. Or ever again, if she could help it. Which was why she’d buried that brief period of time in a box, and she’d put the box in a trunk, and she’d locked the trunk with a key.
For eighteen months, almost to the day, she’d kept that key tucked away and the trunk closed. For eighteen months, she’d avoided dwelling on what she had seen that day when it all came crashing down. Her life, her love, her happily-ever-after. Like wooden blocks knocked asunder by a child’s clumsy hand.
Except Lord Lachlan Campbell was no child.
And a shattered heart was no easy thing to rebuild.
Thus, she’d made the decision to pretend it had never happened. Their secret engagement, their giddy elopement, their blissful honeymoon, everything that had come after…all of it, gone. She had carved it out of her mind, and out of her memory, and put it in that damned box. Where the feelings and emotions couldn’t be seen, or heard, or touched. Then she had gone on with her life as if nothing was amiss. As if she reallyhadbeen on holiday in Bath, which was the excuse she’d given everyone to explain her absence. They’d believed her because…why wouldn’t they? She was Lady Brynne Weston, after all.
Perfect, pristine, practical Brynne.
And she’d done such a good job at concealing her hurt, her shame, her brokenness, that no one–not even her twin brother, Weston–had suspected that her entire world had been tilted on its axis and all of its contents dumped out, leaving her to pick up the pieces without anyone being the wiser.
Which was why it was so important–vital, really–that shenothave an Episode.
And she hadn’t.
Until today.
When Lachlan had strolled back into her life looking as devilishly handsome as the day she’d married him. The bastard. But he hadn’t just unlocked the trunk and released the memories she had tried so hard to forget. Oh, no. Her estranged husband wasn’t nearly that subtle. Instead, he’d smashed it open with a hammer, wrenched the box out, and proceeded to stomp it into smithereens.
Now she couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’tbreathe. Courtesy of strict tutelage, she was fluent in six languages, could perform a curtsy with a glass bowl resting on top of her head, knew every step to every waltz ever created, and could play the piano with such proficiency as to nearly be considered a master. But she was unable to breathe. The most basic of all subconscious human actions, and she was struggling to remember how to do it. Because ofhim. Because of what his reappearance meant. Because of what he’d unleashed inside of her.
“A cold compress,” she murmured, pinching her throbbing forehead between her thumb and index finger. “If you please, Mrs. Grimsby.”
“Right away, my lady.” The housekeeper dashed from the room. In the silence left by her departure, the ticking of a longcase clock in the corner of the parlor tolled as loudly as church bells on Sunday morning.
Wincing from the sound, Brynne reclined all the way back onto the sofa Mrs. Grimsby had guided her to, and dragged a pillow over her face.
In and out, she reminded herself.In and out. Like waves upon the shore.
By the time Mrs. Grimsby returned with a damp cloth that she draped across Brynne’s temple before whisking the curtains closed and quietly excusing herself, Brynne had managed to regain control of her racing pulse. Such a small thing, but a step in the right direction nevertheless.
As her breathing evened, the weight sitting on her chest began to subside, and her fingers tingled as sensation returned them, like the tiny prick of a hundred little needles. Eventually, the shadows in the corners of her vision receded, and her heartrate steadied, then slowed.
Goodness, but she hadn’t missed that. Years since her last Episode, and yet it was exactly as she remembered it. Just as she still recalled the first time she’d ever had one. Of course, back then, she hadn’t knownwhatwas happening. Or if she would even survive it.
She’d been fourteen. The same age, minus seven minutes, as Weston. Their mother had died birthing them. Their father had left them to be raised by a handful of rotating nannies and governesses. Mrs. Grimsby was just a scullery maid, and the housekeeper–Mrs. Pembroke–was to be avoided at all costs.
In a household of servants and no parents, Weston was the constant in Brynne’s life.
Her brother was her rock. Her most trusted confidant. Her best friend.
And as she had watched his carriage, destined for Eton, roll away, something inside of her had snapped, like a clock screw twisted a tad too far. At least, that was the best way she could describe the terrible, suffocating feeling of having the air suddenly thin and her heart race and the awful, awful pressure gathering somewhere deep inside of her chest.
Panicked and gasping for breath, she’d clawed at her throat as she had dropped to her knees, and then collapsed onto her side. Until she opened that bedroom door and saw Lachlan sprawled on the rumpled bedspread, it was the single worst moment of her entire life.
