that she was free of any obligation to marry, she’d realized she didn’t want me?
In a terrible mood—made more terrible by the fact that such moods were usually alien to me—I stomped out of my carriage and stomped into my townhouse, throwing my jacket and hat onto the floor, slamming doors, and growling at any servant that came near me. How could they understand? How could they possibly help?
No. Only gin could help me now.
I went into the parlor and poured myself a stiff glass, and right as I was about to take my first, much-needed, drink, a banging sounded at the door.
Molly.
At this hour, it could only be Molly. To apologize, to rail at me, I suddenly didn’t care. I needed to see her. I needed answers and reassurance and the smell and feel of her against me. I suddenly needed to know that she still loved me. No, more than that. I needed to know that she loved me as much as I loved her. Because I couldn’t bear the lonely reality of being the one who cared the most.
I couldn’t.
But when I flung open the door, it wasn’t Molly I saw but a solemn-looking young man—illuminated in the dim gaslights along the street—extending a small envelope. It took my tired, emotional mind several seconds to process the scene, but once I did, I knew it would stay with me forever: the anonymous delivery boy, the London fog swirling behind him, the innocuous-looking envelope that would change my life.
“Thank you,” I said, fishing a coin from somewhere to tip him. I took the envelope and closed the door.
It was strange to get a telegram so late, and somehow I knew, though I couldn’t explain how, that it portended bad news. It was the lateness of the hour or the solemnity of the delivery boy or maybe even the heavy fog outside, that fog that crept up from the river at night, as if to remind us glitzy, happy Londoners that sterner, ancient powers still held sway over our lives.
Or maybe it was the origin of the message smudgily printed on the back in hasty ink.
Vaison-la-Romaine.
The closest town to Thomas and Charlotte’s villa in Provence. The closest telegraph station to the house that held, aside from Molly and Julian and Castor, the dearest people in the world to me.
I tore open the envelope right there by the door, my hands shaking and my heart thumping with dread, and when I read the contents inside, I sank down to the floor, where I buried my face in my hands and cried.
I hated myself a little.
Well, not a little. A lot. I hated myself a lot. And the steel fortitude it took to go back into the bustle of the party and smile and shake hands was indescribable. I simpered and smiled, all with tears burning my eyes and Silas’s seed still damp between my legs, all with this leaden ball of self-hatred and confusion hanging from my heart, and somehow, barely , I managed to keep my voice even and my face clear for the rest of the night.
Even as I felt waves of panic about marrying Silas.
Even as my body still tingled and buzzed with the memory of his touch.
It was so stupid—really, just idiotic—that this panic would come, so unexpectedly and so inconveniently, when for the last month, I’d known in my heart that Silas was the one man I could be happy marrying. That Silas was the one man I wanted to be with.
But surely he understood? That this whole idea of marrying for my company had been thrust upon me without my consent? That I hadn’t necessarily been ready for it before it became the economically expedient thing for me to do?
If only he would give me time to think about it and explain. Because it wasn’t that I didn’t love him—I loved him so intensely that it frightened me. It was more that I wanted to make sure that when we moved forward together, we did it on my terms—on even footing, as it were. Not while I was still reeling from this horrible situation and all of the horrible demands it’d tried to place on me.
That was fair, right? To want an engagement to come from a place of
In a terrible mood—made more terrible by the fact that such moods were usually alien to me—I stomped out of my carriage and stomped into my townhouse, throwing my jacket and hat onto the floor, slamming doors, and growling at any servant that came near me. How could they understand? How could they possibly help?
No. Only gin could help me now.
I went into the parlor and poured myself a stiff glass, and right as I was about to take my first, much-needed, drink, a banging sounded at the door.
Molly.
At this hour, it could only be Molly. To apologize, to rail at me, I suddenly didn’t care. I needed to see her. I needed answers and reassurance and the smell and feel of her against me. I suddenly needed to know that she still loved me. No, more than that. I needed to know that she loved me as much as I loved her. Because I couldn’t bear the lonely reality of being the one who cared the most.
I couldn’t.
But when I flung open the door, it wasn’t Molly I saw but a solemn-looking young man—illuminated in the dim gaslights along the street—extending a small envelope. It took my tired, emotional mind several seconds to process the scene, but once I did, I knew it would stay with me forever: the anonymous delivery boy, the London fog swirling behind him, the innocuous-looking envelope that would change my life.
“Thank you,” I said, fishing a coin from somewhere to tip him. I took the envelope and closed the door.
It was strange to get a telegram so late, and somehow I knew, though I couldn’t explain how, that it portended bad news. It was the lateness of the hour or the solemnity of the delivery boy or maybe even the heavy fog outside, that fog that crept up from the river at night, as if to remind us glitzy, happy Londoners that sterner, ancient powers still held sway over our lives.
Or maybe it was the origin of the message smudgily printed on the back in hasty ink.
Vaison-la-Romaine.
The closest town to Thomas and Charlotte’s villa in Provence. The closest telegraph station to the house that held, aside from Molly and Julian and Castor, the dearest people in the world to me.
I tore open the envelope right there by the door, my hands shaking and my heart thumping with dread, and when I read the contents inside, I sank down to the floor, where I buried my face in my hands and cried.
I hated myself a little.
Well, not a little. A lot. I hated myself a lot. And the steel fortitude it took to go back into the bustle of the party and smile and shake hands was indescribable. I simpered and smiled, all with tears burning my eyes and Silas’s seed still damp between my legs, all with this leaden ball of self-hatred and confusion hanging from my heart, and somehow, barely , I managed to keep my voice even and my face clear for the rest of the night.
Even as I felt waves of panic about marrying Silas.
Even as my body still tingled and buzzed with the memory of his touch.
It was so stupid—really, just idiotic—that this panic would come, so unexpectedly and so inconveniently, when for the last month, I’d known in my heart that Silas was the one man I could be happy marrying. That Silas was the one man I wanted to be with.
But surely he understood? That this whole idea of marrying for my company had been thrust upon me without my consent? That I hadn’t necessarily been ready for it before it became the economically expedient thing for me to do?
If only he would give me time to think about it and explain. Because it wasn’t that I didn’t love him—I loved him so intensely that it frightened me. It was more that I wanted to make sure that when we moved forward together, we did it on my terms—on even footing, as it were. Not while I was still reeling from this horrible situation and all of the horrible demands it’d tried to place on me.
That was fair, right? To want an engagement to come from a place of
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