But if she left… he would not. She’d known that but had not been ready to face his quite justified anger, his prudent decision to move on without her. His jagged and seductive threats tokeep her.
Still…
Felt like a fishhook in her cheek. A cannon in her belly. Hot coals beneath her feet.
It felt like falling with nothing to catch her and no end in sight.
Mostly, it felt wrong. She wanted to throw open her door and run to him, to tell him she would not leave, she could not leave. Not him, not this family, not this place.
That life he dreamt of living here now… she wanted it too.
But she couldn’t have it.
She couldn’t.
Could she?
It would mean telling him everything she’d locked up tight all these years. It would mean giving him the key to herself when she’d thrown it into a metal-burning fire long ago, watched it twist and curve out of shape so no one could get to her again the way her not-husband had.
She could not refashion another key. She was no Hephaestus.
She peeked at the letter where it burned like a hot coal on the bed beside her. A bit of paper, and she feared it.
But what if she refused to fear it? If she faced the water-logged ink and shared her fears with those who could help her? In the past, no one had helped her, laughing at her fears, calling her ruined, throwing her out, teaching her she could trust no one.
But the Cavendishes had done nothing but earn her trust. Every day and in every situation. The very reason she wanted to protect them. But perhaps telling them would protect them. They could not guard themselves against a threat they did not know existed.
Had she denied them that right, that protection, all these years?
She sat upright and inched toward the edge of the bed. The cat woke up and followed her, butted its head against her arm. She slid her feet toward the floor and reached for the epistle, arm trembling, heart thumping.
The cat crawled into her lap and curled up, purred loudly enough to send her body rocking. Its weight pinned her to the bed. She laughed, despite her dour mood, clutched the letter tight, and placed the cat aside.
Refusing to trust those who had proven themselves worthy. She was not just a coward, but a fool. Everything she claimed not to be.
A foolish coward who had turned away the man she loved.
She wanted to sink to the floor and cry.
But she found her thorns and clung to them. Run, her body screamed, so she did.
Right to Jackson’s room.
Dark shadows, a crackling fire, a tidy bedchamber with moonlight sliding through the window, but no Jackson. She shivered and strode for the window. The man should close the curtains on such a cold night. But he often forgot the practicalities. She stood at the window for several moments, breathing him in, letting the cheery warmth of the fire crackling nearby comfort her. It seemed to be encouraging her, telling her that despite all her worry and reservations, this was the right course—show him the letter. See if he could help. He might not want to love her again. He’d said he always would, but all hearts had a breaking point. Had she finally found his?
She pushed her palm hard into her chest over her own erratically beating organ.Please no, please no. She slipped her other hand inside her pocket to stroke the crinkled paper there. She could let him see at least this, give him something of herself, at least, a reason for her actions, for leaving. She left to save him and his family from her unsavory connections. Tonight, she would trust him.
Where would she find him? The library? His father’s study? She took one last look at dark outside his window and grasped the edges of the curtains to pull them tight, but movement outside caught her attention. The wind in the trees, likely. But when she looked further, she saw the tall dark outline of a man. Of Jackson. She knew him even in the dark. Especially in the dark.
She ran out of the room and down the stairs and out the door.
Her heart knew she ran right because it thumped with as much joy as dread. Finally, she’d lay herself bare, a small bit of herself, yes, but one that was raw and angry and wounded, one of the most difficult bits of herself to share.
And finally he’d see her. He’d know he had escaped. But what if he didn't? What if he saw her and still wanted her?She lost nothing,now, with trying. He’d already washed his hands of her, after all.
Fourteen
Jackson had once read a treatise on the moon and stars. The author had claimed the ethereal bodies were inhabited by people. A scandalous hypothesis that had caused plenty of scoffing and naysaying in academic and religious circles. Jackson could not be sure, though. Who was he to say what happened on the moon, among the stars, in the heavens? An open mind was necessary in all things.