“Who could have taken it?”
“I do not know.”
“Perhaps if you tell them—”
“I tell them a lie, and we won’t live through what they do to us.” His chest worked faster. His cheeks blazed. He looked at her different, with everything about his face changed, all the hard lines softened.
She saw depth and rawness and anguish and pity and—
No.
She pulled back the word on the edge of her consciousness, because Simon Fancourt did not love her. He pitied her. And in the throes of what they were about to endure, he feared for her life.
But he could not love her.
His eyes only lied as if he did.
“The ropes are loosening.” He strained against them, the chair squeaking, hands working behind his back. He pulled and tugged for nearly ten minutes before his head drooped, each breath labored.
“Simon.” Apprehension circled her gut. She scooted to her knees, as far from the beam as the chain reached. “Simon, are you well?”
“Yes.” But his voice lacked strength, and his head remained slumped.
“What is it?”
“Dizzy.”
“I am sorry.” Perhaps she had already said as much. She could not remember. “For what they…for how they hurt you.”
“I’ll live.”
But he wouldn’t. Neither of them would. They would die down here amid the old crates and dusty toys and morphed scents of mold, orange blossoms, and amber.
Mamma would not understand. She would weep an entire day in her bedchamber, and Mr. Lutwidge would feign care and bring her tea.
But they would not visit the graveyard. They would go on with their parties and their trips and their promenades in the park. Even Agnes would not grieve.
Tears brimmed.
That no one would bemoan Georgina settled like a rock in her stomach, and she wiped her eyes dry before Simon could see.
The drawing floated back like a ghost.
The one of Ruth.
She should not have thought of that now, but every loving stroke returned to her. The fondness in the way he had captured his wife’s face. The tenderness he immortalized in that one rustic expression.
To be loved and grieved and remembered by such a man would be worth dying.
“Do not cry, Georgina.”
She had not realized tears tracked her cheeks again. The gentleness in his whisper nearly undid her. She turned her thoughts aside. “Did they tell you of John and Mercy? What was done to them?”
“No.”
“Mr. Wilkins would not have hurt them.” She spoke with confidence, as if she believed it was true. Why could she not wrap her mind about such a deceit? How had they all been deceived so long? How could anyone pretend to be so loyal, so sincere, while their heart was black with betrayal?
Upstairs, a door slammed.
