Chapter 7 #2
William accepted it carefully.
As she placed it in his hand, her gloved fingers brushed his own.
The contact lasted no more than a heartbeat before she withdrew.
It should have meant nothing.
Instead, he found himself oddly reluctant to unfold the letter, as though doing so would require him to relinquish the brief warmth of her touch.
The thought was so absurd he immediately dismissed it.
He turned his attention to the page. Edmund's handwriting remained unmistakably neat, every stroke deliberate.
His eyes settled upon the single line.
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.
He frowned. “It reads like a farewell.”
“That was my thought as well,” Rosalind admitted. “Yet if Father intended to disappear willingly…”
“He would hardly have paid for a horse the day before,” William finished quietly.
“Precisely.”
The four stood in thoughtful silence as William reread the opening line.
Gabriel eventually leaned over his shoulder, scanning the page before giving a small shake of his head. “I confess the quotation means nothing to me.”
Isabella, meanwhile, had wandered only a few paces away. Her fingertips drifted absently across the spines of several well-worn volumes until she stopped so abruptly that a small gasp escaped her.
“Oh!”
The exclamation carried farther than she intended. Several patrons looked up from their browsing, and Isabella immediately flushed.
“My apologies.”
Rosalind smiled despite herself. “What is it?”
Isabella hurried back, excitement brightening her features as she reached for the letter.
“The quotation,” she said, pointing to the opening line. “It is Byron.”
William looked up. “Are you certain?”
“Oh, quite.” She accepted the letter and read the line once more. “‘And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.’ It is from The Giaour.”
As quickly as her excitement had appeared, it faded. “It is... not an especially hopeful passage.”
Rosalind's smile disappeared. “No?”
Isabella shook her head. “It carries the tone of a farewell. Of surviving after losing something one cannot recover.”
The words settled heavily over the little circle.
Gabriel was the first to break the silence. “I fear I have never read Lord Byron.”
Isabella blinked. “Not even once?”
“I prefer histories.”
“That explains a great many things.”
Gabriel smiled without the least offense. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
“It was not intended as one.”
William laughed quietly. “And you, Miss Hartwell?”
Gabriel spread his hands in surrender before Isabella could answer.
“I know little enough of poetry to admit defeat before the conversation has properly begun. But I have read almost everything Byron wrote,” Isabella admitted.
Rosalind reached over and gave her sleeve the gentlest tug. “You need not boast.”
“I was not boasting.”
Rosalind merely raised an eyebrow.
Isabella sighed dramatically. “…Perhaps a little.”
The laughter that followed was brief, but welcome.
For a few precious moments the weight of the letter seemed to lift, until William glanced down at the folded page still resting in Rosalind's hands.
The single line upon it seemed somehow heavier now that it had been given both an author and a meaning.
At length, the church bells nearby marked the passing hour.
Rosalind glanced toward the windows.
“We should return home. If we are late, Mother will never forgive us.”
They left Hatchard's together, stepping onto the bustle of Piccadilly. Carriages rattled past, gentlemen hurried along the pavement, and a newspaper boy called out the afternoon's headlines.
Gabriel paused beside the curb. “I ought to retrieve my carriage.”
“As should we,” Isabella agreed.
William found himself speaking almost without thought. “If nothing else, Byron is hardly uncommon reading.”
Rosalind looked toward him. “I suppose not.”
“The only true devotee I have ever known, save Miss Hartwell, was my brother.”
Isabella smiled. “Your brother enjoys Byron?”
“He has for years.” William returned the smile. “My father despaired of it. Edmund encouraged it. They spent countless afternoons discussing Byron together while Father insisted there were more practical authors worthy of a young gentleman's attention.”
The words had scarcely left his mouth before he noticed Rosalind's expression change.
She had gone perfectly still.
“Lady Rosalind?”
“My father mentioned tutoring Lord Aldermere,” she said slowly. “But never what they studied.”
William felt the smile leave his own face.
A long silence settled between them.
“If Algernon knew Byron well enough to recognize those lines…”
She did not finish the thought. She did not need to.
William understood the moment their eyes met.
“...then he must be considered alongside you.”
The words struck him harder than he expected. His first instinct was to reject them outright. Algernon was his brother. He had known him his entire life.
Yet that instinct had no place in an honest investigation.
Rosalind was doing exactly what he had begged her to do from the very beginning.
She was following the evidence rather than her feelings.
If he demanded that honesty when suspicion rested upon him, he could hardly resent it now that it had reached his own family.
She closed her eyes briefly before opening them again. “I am sorry.”
William searched her face. He found no accusation there, only reluctance.
“I do not say this because I wish it to be true.”
“I know.”
“I say it because I no longer have the luxury of overlooking anyone.”
He inclined his head.
“No,” he said quietly. “You do not.”
Her fingers tightened around the folded letter.
“Until now, my suspicions have rested chiefly upon you. This changes matters. Father knew Lord Aldermere well. If they discussed Byron often enough for him to recognize that quotation…”
She hesitated.
“Then I owe him the same scrutiny I have given you.”
William looked away for a moment, watching another carriage pass along Piccadilly.
Algernon.
The very notion felt absurd.
His brother had always possessed faults enough. Pride. Reserve. A tendency to keep his own counsel.
But this?
The thought refused to settle comfortably in his mind.
Yet neither could he honestly dismiss Rosalind's reasoning.
Following the evidence wherever it chose to lead.
“And me?” he asked quietly.
She met his eyes without hesitation. “You as well.”
For the briefest instant, disappointment stirred within him.
Foolish disappointment.
Some part of him had hoped that yesterday's conversation, the horse, and everything they had uncovered together had finally persuaded her of his innocence.
Instead, she was proving herself exactly the woman he had begun to believe she was.
Yet even as disappointment settled quietly within him, so too did admiration.
She would not sacrifice the truth simply because it had become inconvenient.
“You intend to build a case against us both.”
“I do.” She drew a slow, steadying breath. “Wherever the evidence leads.”
William offered her his arm without thinking. “Come.”
She looked at him in quiet surprise before accepting it, her gloved hand settling lightly upon his sleeve as they crossed the pavement together.
The gesture was entirely ordinary, the sort of courtesy any gentleman might extend, yet William found himself wishing the distance to the waiting carriage were somehow longer.
The footman lowered the step as they approached.
William offered her his hand, and after only the briefest hesitation she placed hers in it. Their gloves brushed as he steadied her. It was the second time that afternoon he had noticed so small a thing, and he found himself quietly irritated that he had noticed it at all.
“You will attend Lady Ashcombe's ball this evening?”
“I shall.”
“Then I hope we may continue this conversation under happier circumstances.”
A faint smile softened her features. “I should like that.”
The smile lingered only a moment before fading.
“If happier circumstances present themselves.”
“They will.”
The certainty in his own voice surprised him.
“For your sake,” he said more quietly, “I sincerely hope they do.”
She looked at him for a long moment. The uncertainty had not entirely left her eyes, nor had the caution that had stood between them from the beginning.
Rosalind inclined her head. “Until this evening, Lord William.”
“Until this evening, Lady Rosalind.”
He watched until the carriage disappeared into the afternoon traffic before turning away himself.
Somewhere between the exhibition and this quiet afternoon at Hatchard's, his purpose had changed.
Once, he had wanted only to find Edmund Carlisle.
Now he found himself wanting something far more difficult.
He wanted to become a man Rosalind Carlisle could one day trust completely.