20. The Breaking Point #2
Go to him. Tell him you understand why he did it, but that his protection isn't worth the cost to your trust. Then perhaps demonstrate exactly how "tractable" you can be.
(That's not scandalous advice. That's strategy.
Sometimes the best way to prove you're not easily manipulated is to take control yourself.)
Your dear friend who loves you enough to be brutally honest,
Helen
P.S. Sussex was frightfully dull. Though I did manage to start a small scandal by teaching the vicar's wife about the medical uses of certain herbs. I blame your influence entirely.
P.P.S. If you're determined to be angry at a Moreland, might I suggest focusing on the elder one? He's much more deserving, and it would give you and Everett something to unite against. Just a thought from your most tactical friend.
Everett waited at the foot of the stairs, anxiety making him adjust his already perfect cravat. Two weeks of sleeping alone had already left him raw, hunger for her touch a constant ache beneath his skin.
When she appeared at the top of the stairs, his heart stopped.
The caramel silk made her eyes appear breathtakingly blue, while his mother’s pearls nestled in her golden hair caught light like captured stars.
But it was the diamonds at her throat that undid him.
They seemed to pulse with each breath, drawing his attention to the elegant line of her neck, the graceful slope of her shoulders.
“You’re stunning,” he managed, his voice hoarse.
A faint blush touched her cheeks, though her smile remained reserved. “The gown is lovely. Thank you.”
He offered his gloved hand to help her descend, desperately hoping she wouldn’t reject even this small touch.
When her fingers settled briefly in his, the contact sent longing through his body.
Two weeks without holding her, without burying his face in her hair, without feeling her heartbeat against his chest… It felt like drowning slowly.
At the bottom of the stairs, he couldn’t help himself. He turned to her, one hand rising to cup her face. “Emma…”
She stepped back smoothly, leaving his hand hanging in empty air.
“Please.” The word emerged more plea than statement. “What can I do? Tell me how to make this right.”
For a moment, something flickered in her eyes, perhaps longing, perhaps just pity.
He moved closer, close enough to smell her unique scent. "I miss you. I miss us."
"Was there ever us?" she asked softly. "Or only what you and your father orchestrated?"
"Emma." He took a deep breath, choosing honesty over pride. "My father gave me an ultimatum. Get you away from London or watch him destroy your career. I thought I could protect you without losing you. I was wrong."
She turned to face him, her expression softening slightly. "You should have told me."
"I know. I fell into the same trap as my father, thinking I knew best, trying to control all the variables. Perhaps scheming runs in the family."
"Like father, like son?" But there was a hint of teasing in her voice now.
"God, I hope not." He rubbed his cleanshaven chin. "I want to be better. To be worthy of your trust. I just... I don't know how to protect you without controlling you, and it's driving me mad."
"Perhaps I don't need protection." She stepped closer. "Perhaps I need a partner who trusts me enough to face things together."
"Even if it means losing everything?"
"We're losing everything now, just differently." Her hand touched his arm lightly. "At least if we face it together, we'll still have us."
"I don't know how to stop being afraid for you," he admitted. "But I'm more afraid of losing you like this."
"Then let's start with honesty. No more schemes, no more protecting each other from the truth." She met his eyes steadily. "Can you do that?"
"I can try." He covered her hand with his. "Though I warn you, you may find my brutal honesty disagreeable."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "I'd rather have your honest imperfections than your perfect deceptions."
It wasn't forgiveness, not yet. But as he helped her into the carriage, her hand lingered in his just a moment longer than necessary.
"You look beautiful," he said, meaning it more than ever.
This time her "Thank you" held a warmth that gave him hope.
As they entered the crowded ballroom, Emma found herself watching Everett move through the gathering with practiced ease.
His natural charm drew admirers like moths to flame, and though she understood now he was merely being polite, something twisted in her chest as she watched the ladies cluster around him.
When Lady Winona pressed closer to examine his cravat pin, a possessive heat flared through Emma's body.
Mine, some primitive part of her growled, even as her rational mind recoiled from such sentiment.
"Beautiful creatures, debutantes," Dr Moreland's voice came from beside her. "So eager to please. So compliant. Unlike you. Though I must say, my son has made remarkable progress in managing your...wilfulness."
Emma didn't respond, keeping her eyes fixed on Everett as he extracted himself from his admirers.
"I must commend his scientific approach." The elder Moreland withdrew a folded paper. "Listen to this observation: 'Subject responds well to praise of her medical innovations, particularly after physical affection.' Quite the methodical study of his wife."
The wine glass nearly slipped from Emma’s nerveless fingers. The words struck deeper than any surgeon’s blade; clinical, detached descriptions of their most private moments. Her husband had documented her like a specimen, noting which approaches made her most compliant.
“There are volumes more,” Dr Moreland said softly. “Every treatment, every patient, every tender moment carefully catalogued. He’s quite thorough, my son. A true scientist.”
Emma couldn’t speak. Her throat had closed around the betrayal, choking her with its magnitude. The room felt suddenly airless as possibilities spun through her head. She needed space to think, to sort truth from lies without either Moreland's influence.
"I'll leave you to consider things," Dr Moreland drifted away, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Though do try not to cause a scene. Appearances, you know."
Emma fled. Her feet carried her to a darkened conservatory, where exotic flowers perfumed the air too sweetly, making her feel ill. The diamonds at her throat felt like a collar, marking her as something to be studied and controlled.
“Emma?” Everett’s voice came from the doorway. “I saw you flee. What’s the matter?”
She turned, wordlessly holding up the paper, her fingers trembling against the damning words. Everett took it from her, his eyes scanning the page with urgency.
"Emma, I swear I never discussed our marriage with him. I only spoke of treating you as an equal physician."
"Then explain this." Her voice caught. "These references to... intimate matters."
His eyes met hers, dark with anguish and bewilderment. "I don't know what you mean. He's twisting something innocent into..." He broke off, running a hand through his hair.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and bitter. "Can't you see how impossible this is for us? Every word, every moment between us—I question it all now. What was real? What was calculated?"
"Everything between us is real," he pleaded, crossing to her with unsteady steps. His hands trembled as he reached for her, but she backed away. "Emma, please. This is exactly what he wants—to make you doubt us, doubt me."
His voice cracked on the last word, but she forced herself to stand firm. "Perhaps. But I cannot live in this madness anymore." She squared her shoulders, though each word felt like glass in her throat. "Goodbye, Everett."
She left him standing among night-blooming flowers, her heart turning to stone with each step. Let his father win. Let society gossip. Any pain was preferable to wondering if her husband’s love had been a result of puppetry.
By morning, she would be gone. Back to Rochester, to her practice, to a life where at least she knew who she was. And where her life was her own.