Page 51 of Marrying Bluebeard

“What are you?”

Three simple words, and yet they cut deeper than any knife or sword ever could. I swallow. “It’s complicated.”

Her lips press together, and I swear she grows taller. “Complicated.” She nods. “That’s what you always say, isn’t it? It’s complicated. You wouldn’t understand. Just leave it.” Her arms fold over her chest. “I’m done leaving well enough alone, Bertrand. I don’t care if it’s complicated or if we don’t have time—you’ll tell me everything, and you’ll do it now.”

Sweet mercy, I love this woman.

“It’s a long story”—I raise a hand, seeing the protest forming on her lips—“but you’re right. You deserve to hear it. And as for time, I’m afraid we’re stuck in here until tomorrow anyway, when a carriage will be ready to take you home.”

She reels backward. “So you do plan to take me back there.”

I immediately see my mistake and hurry to assure her. “No, of course not. Adelaide, I’m sending you to England, to your home.”

Her mouth forms a circle, a surprised “oh” slipping out. I watch her closely, desperate to know what she’s thinking, how she feels. The thought of losing her is shredding my soul, but the alternative is too selfish to consider. I’m done playing that game.

When she fails to add anything else, I gesture to the settee with as much calm as I can manage. “My story then, in all its wretched glory… if you’re sure you still wish to hear it?”

Her chest rises on an inhale, and I may be wrong but I swear her expression softens a bit as it falls. “I’m sure.” She takes a seat on the settee, folding her hands in her lap and tilting her head in expectation. “Tell me everything.”

Everything. Right. I can do this.

34

BERTRAND

Imove to face the fireplace, clasping my hands behind my back as I decide where to begin. The day I met Celeste? But no, that’s not right. The tale truly begins ten years prior, when I found my life drained of meaning.

“The year was 1734,” I start off, the words stiff and formal as I brace for the inevitable feelings I’ve succeeded so well in burying all these years.

A soft gasp interrupts me, and I look over my shoulder to find Adelaide gaping at me in surprise.

“1734? But that’s…”

“A hundred and forty-five years ago?”

She shakes her head in disbelief, but gestures for me to continue.

I clear my throat, returning my attention to the crackling flames in front of me. “I had just completed my tenure at Eton College. I was eighteen and set to return home for the first time in almost a year. I was anxious to leave, having not received word from my family in months.”

I pause, thinking of the bundle of letters hidden below the floorboards. They’d arrived every two weeks like clockwork before then, and I’ve kept them close ever since, each loosely-penned sentence burned into my memory:

I can’t wait for you to come home, Brother. You are going to adore the puppy Father and Mother gifted me for my birthday. She’s all paws and fluffy tail wagging, and I absolutely love her to pieces. You’ll laugh when you hear what I’ve named her, but I think I’ll wait and tell you in person. The look on your face is bound to be priceless.

Over a century, yet they cut as deep as ever.

I clear my throat, the burning tightness adding a strained edge to my voice. Usually I would try to hide it, to maintain my cool exterior, but I’m tired of playing a part. Besides, Adelaide deserves better than that. I turn and face her, meeting her shuttered gaze as I continue.

“The morning I was to depart, I was called into the headmaster’s office and informed I did not, in fact, have a family to return home to. It would seem the entirety of the household had fallen ill to smallpox, without a single survivor.”

Adelaide’s eyes flare wide as I choke the last statement out, but she remains still, waiting for me to go on.

I drag a hand through my hair, further disheveling it. “Apparently my father had given everyone strict instructions that I be kept in the dark, lest I be tempted to come home. He didn’t want me exposed.” A decision I still struggle to forgive. He meant to keep me safe but ultimately deprived me of saying goodbye to the people I loved most. “I lost not only him, but my mother and fifteen-year-old sister, Constance. A household staff that had helped raise me from infancy.” I look away, focusing instead on a swirling knot of wood in the floor. “My will to live.”

Adelaide makes a noise of distress, and I shake my head, a sad smile ghosting my lips. “Don’t worry, that sympathy you’re feeling right now will soon disperse. Because that life my father so carefully guarded? I may not have had the audacity to end it, but I did a thorough job of wasting it. Drinking, whoring, gambling—I embraced it all. I abandoned my ancestral home and spent the next ten years traveling from one place to another, sampling every distraction they had to offer. Which is how I came to find myself in a shabby inn on the outskirts of Strasbourg in October of 1744, half out of my mind on a laudanum-induced high. My drug of choice at the time.”

The hazy memory of that day sets my nerves on edge, and I take to pacing back and forth in front of the settee. Every now and then I glance down at Adelaide, who remains attentive as she patiently waits for me to continue. Aside from the single, soft reaction to my family’s deaths, her expression has remained inscrutable—our initial roles upon first meeting reversed. I try not to dwell on what she might be thinking as I push forward.

“The entire city had taken to the streets that day in anticipation of Louis the Fifteenth’s arrival, with everyone fighting for a glimpse of the king. The world outside was a brightly lit festival, but in my dark room there was only me—a withering husk of a man. I’d gotten myself into a right stupor when Celeste came barging into the room. She took one look at me and said “you’ll do.” I couldn’t even summon the sense of mind to ask what for. All I could do was lie there as she crawled on top of me, pinning me to the bed.”