“It is my mother I am more concerned about,” Teresa admitted, already hearing the screams.
“Yes, well, if she becomes hysterical, I shall perform the diversion to end all diversions,” Beatrice promised, laughing a rather worrisome laugh. “Youwillsurvive this, dear one. I swear it to you. But… I must know something, and you must be starkly honest with me.”
Teresa hesitated. “Go on…”
“Did you love him?”
The question was so small, but four words, yet the weight as it crashed down upon Teresa was a landslide of boulders, knocking the wind out of her. She had refused to answer it when she had asked it to herself in the carriage here, but considering all her friend had done to help her, she could not deny Beatrice an honest reply.
Teresa swallowed thickly, remembering it all like a book playing out in her mind, scene by bittersweet scene: the two of them, her and her very own Captain, against all odds, edging closer and closer together; the evening strolls in balmy weather like this; the restful slumber at his side, and the thrill of waking up to find him still there, his arms around her; the kisses that never lastedlong enough; the utter, joyous miracle of seeing him properly smile for the first time, and all the times after.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, I think I did. Entirely.”
Beatrice’s hand found hers. “I am so very sorry, Tess. If I could change this for you, I would.”
“I know,” Teresa replied, gripping tight to her friend’s hand, like an anchor in a churning, thrashing sea, where unknown dangers lurked in the depths.
He never did find out the ending,she realized, thinking of the pages that were locked away with the rest of her belongings. Luggage that had not been removed from the carriage, for there was no point if she would be continuing on to her family’s house. The driver had been glad of that, being without footmen to help, just as the driver seemed pleased enough with his quarters in the manor.
“Tess?”
“Hmm?”
Beatrice gave her hand a squeeze. “For what it is worth, I think you are exceptionally brave, to do what you have done.”
“Leaving, you mean?”
A soft, almost sad laugh drifted into the air from Beatrice’s lips. “No, you gooseberry.”
“Then, what do you mean? What have I done that is brave?” Teresa asked, the port making her doubly confused.
“Fall in love,” Beatrice replied quietly. “My dear girl, falling in love.”
Head foggy with the port, Teresa did not know if she had heard her friend correctly. It certainly did not sound like something Beatrice would say. Then again, she had always championed those whodidwant to fall in love; she just did not want it for herself. Maybe, that was why—she did not have the courage to spare to face the rejection of one’s heart, considering she used all of her courage in the defense of those whose hearts had already been broken.
“I am not brave,” Teresa mumbled. “Youare brave.”
“Nonsense. You are the bravest woman I know, and always have been,” Beatrice insisted, turning on the blanket. “Do you know what sort of nerve it takes to attend ball after ball, party after party, even though you despise socializing and everyone around you is a mean harpy?Thatis bravery. WhatIdo is all performance.”
Teresa shook her head. “I do not believe that for a moment, so we shall have to agree to disagree.” She paused, turning her head to look at her friend. “But I thank you for cheering my injuredheart, no matter how temporarily. Truly, I do not know what I would do without you.”
“My sweet Tess, you shall never have to find out,” Beatrice promised, a gleam in her eyes. “Now, another question that demands an honest answer…”
“Very well,” Teresa replied, smiling. “Ask away.”
Beatrice flashed a grin. “Are you certain I cannot exact some revenge on your behalf? I have the mostperfectidea, concerning your husband, some raw meat, four badgers, a quick visit to his castle or his townhouse, and all at no expense to yourself.”
Not for the first time that night, Teresa could not help but burst out laughing. “Where onearthare you able to get badgers at a moment’s notice?”
Beatrice tapped the side of her nose. “I never disclose my sources. Although, Icantell you that I know a man who can utterlydestroysomeone’s gardens with a company of moles.”
Teresa’s mind drifted to the beautiful gardens of Darnley Castle, imagining the molehills popping up, all across the lustrous lawns and neat flowerbeds. She pictured Cyrus’ face as it had been that morning—a cold and unfeeling mask—looking over the destruction, perhaps with confusion, perhaps with disinterest.
A moment later, the vision changed. She was in the carriage on the way back from town with him, listening to his tragic story,hearing the pain in his voice. He had not been able to look at her as he had told it, the torment etched across his handsome face.
“No revenge,” she whispered. “He has endured enough of that as it is.”
“What do you mean?” Beatrice asked, but Teresa shook her head.
