Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
‘Be calm, my glorious Duchess, for you will cause yourself and the baby undue distress,’ he appeases her, sounding calmer than he ought to be.
She would be more ruined by herself than any man could ruin her.
The questions running amok in my mind multiply. As does the ache in my chest.
She’s gone.
‘Mr Melrose?’
I turn and find Wisteria Winters on the bottom step of the staircase. ‘My lady,’ I say bowing my head, bracing myself for yet another altercation with another Winters.
She approaches, a wooden box in her hand, and holds it out to me. ‘You must have this,’ she says, peeking over her shoulder to the drawing room.
‘What is it?’
She doesn’t answer, but places it in my hand and leaves, floating away silently.
I look down at the box, scared, and slowly lift the lid. I see a brown scarf and snap it closed, wondering if this is some kind of cruel joke?
A memento? What am I to do with this box? This pain? The unanswered questions? I am not equipped to deal with any of this.
I need a drink. Or twenty.
Chapter 25
I sit up, feeling groggy after another heavy night on blue ruin trying to drown out certain memories. I scrub my hands down my face, feeling the emptiness within me more than ever. Days have passed. Papa is back seeing to business in my absence, and I am back to wasting my time in drink. But not women. No. I don’t think I will ever touch a woman again.
I blow out my cheeks, wanting to crawl back under the covers and hide. My eyes fall to the chair in the corner where I placed Taya’s box. I had planned on tossing it in the river. I couldn’t. I get up and collect it, opening the lid again for the first time since Wisteria Winters gave it to me, my nostrils being invaded by the scent of honeysuckle.
I sit on the end of my bed and pull out the scarf, revealing a collection of coin purses underneath. Goodness, she kept them? And beneath the coin purses, a piece of paper. I unroll it and find a drawing. A drawing of a man holding a white horse by its reins, leading it and its rider, a female to be sure, towards a sunset. Me. Taya.
Freedom?
Freedom from grief. From hate. ‘What?’ I whisper, turning the paper over to find some words. Each one breaks my heart more. Her anguish. Her grief. Her anger. It is all on this page, how she abhors all members of the ton. It may have been Lymington who murdered her father, but it was the rest of the ton who ran them out of town with judgements and cruelty. Every purse she stole and every ounce of terror she instilled in her victims was a little bit of payback. A little more peace for Taya.
I have no doubt, her mother has given me this box to try and make me understand. But why? And do I?
I can’t be sure. But I do know one thing …
I swallow, closing my eyes, seeing her hurt expression as I poured my hateful words all over her. Words I truly didn’t mean. I was acting out. Being defensive. Trying to curb my own pain by increasing hers.
True love, I know, is rare, for we live in a time when feelings of the heart come second to status and power. My experience of true love was a rare and precious thing, and I did not handle it with the delicacy it deserved, so it serves me right that Taya got up and walked out of town, taking my one and only chance of true love with her. I’ve let her down. I should have been helping her, not abandoning her.
‘You are an idiot, Frank Melrose,’ I say, falling to my back on the bed. If I had just stopped for a moment and thought carefully instead of bellyaching over my ego being dented, perhaps I could have saved us both some hurt. I must fix this. But how? I wince. Being blind drunk certainly isn’t helping. I’m still in agony. Still broken. And what of Fleming? He’s called upon the house numerous times looking for me. Will he ever relent and give up on his mission to discover the identity of the highwaywoman? A very nasty pain in my chest develops at the thought. She would be hanged. I lose my breath. If she is ever discovered, ever found, she would be hanged.
Mama bursts into my room, her face taking on quite the damning scowl when she finds me looking, I expect, somewhat horrendous. ‘God help me, Frank Melrose, I did not raise my children to be pathetic.’
‘I know, Mama,’ I admit, feeling so, so foolish and guilty. ‘Sending her away wasn’t the right thing to do.’