Chapter 21 #2
There was his name, printed in big bold letters at the top of a column written by one ‘Earnest Truth-Teller’. It was a byline that fooled no one. Beatrice Levant was behind the column.
The item was short and vicious. It read: “A certain widowed gentleman of Grosvenor Square and Truro has not confined his devotions entirely to his intended bride this Season, having been observed these past months in a box at the opera, attending with rather more constancy than mere appreciation of music generally inspires, upon a certain leading lady of the stage whose name Society had once been firmly asked to forget.”
Rosalie stared at the paper, certain she had misread something.
Her hands had gone numb. There was no mistaking what had been implied.
Mr. Sinclair and an actress, entangled in something forbidden but long-standing.
She could not parse the text any more clearly in her mind.
Horror washed over her as she heard voices in the hall.
Mr. Sinclair was calling for his carriage.
She dropped The Morning Post and ran to catch him before he could leave. He was alone in the entrance hall, standing at the door, his coat hastily cast over his shoulders.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she said.
He did not turn to look at her, but he did not open the door either. He asked, “Did you read it?” And when she said that she had, he turned, his face worn with embarrassment and regret.
“I had never intended you to find out,” he said. “That was my mistake. I should have known she would strike now. Miss Winthrop... You must believe me. There has been nothing improper between myself and anyone else since I have known you.”
“But is it true? Have you set your sights on another? These trips to the opera...” She gasped. “You said weeks ago, something about the opera. It is true.”
“It is.” His voice was low, stripped of its usual easy warmth and colored instead with shame.
“Beatrice has done this before, to Rose, and that is why I should have known better. Long before we married... There was another woman first, someone my family decided was unsuitable before I had even properly understood that I loved her.”
“And is she...” Rosalie swallowed. “The woman in the column?”
He nodded. “I am so sorry, Miss Winthrop.”
Rosalie felt the pieces settle into place with a sickening click: the opera, the tiredness he could never properly explain, the instructions to his staff about an important visit. But he said that there was nothing improper between them, Rosalie thought. Could he be lying?
She realized that she did not know him enough to answer the question. She also realized—and this was worse—that she did not care what the answer would be, because he was not meant for her, and she was not for him.
“You must understand, Miss Winthrop. My intentions with you were—they are—still pure. My friend... We have been this way for years... But not with Rose, and never with you... I would not disgrace you in that manner.”
He closed his eyes, looking suddenly younger. “My father threatened to cut me off entirely when he first found out. And I...” He stopped, pressing his knuckles to his mouth for a moment. “I was not brave enough to choose her over everything else. I married Rose instead, and Honora understood.”
“Honora?” Rosalie repeated.
“That is her name.”
“But you still go to see her.”
Mr. Sinclair took a step forward. “Miss Winthrop.”
“No.” She put out a hand to stop him, surprised and yet not surprised by her lack of anger. Another feeling rose to the surface. “Do you love her, Mr. Sinclair? Do not answer me as a prospective husband. Answer me as the gentleman I thought you to be.”
The silence stretched long enough to answer the question, and yet he still said, “Yes. And I do not know how to cease loving her. I am more sorry for that than you could ever understand.”
Rosalie felt something in her chest crack open. It was not betrayal exactly. He had never lied to her outright. Maybe it was grief for both of them, caught in the same particular trap of dreaming of someone they were not permitted to have, and settling where they thought they ought to be instead.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she said steadily, stepping toward him. He froze as she reached up and adjusted the coat on his shoulders. “I do understand you, and that is why I cannot despise you for this.”
“You...”
“Yes.” She nodded, hoping he understood what she was not yet ready to say out loud. “You must leave this house for good and go to her.”
“But, Miss Winthrop—”
“I will not be second in the heart of any man,” Rosalie said, stepping back. “And you should not have to divide yours unnecessarily. I am not cross. I forgive you for this... so long as you do not return.”
Neither of them said anything further. There was nothing left to say. A tear fell down Mr. Sinclair’s cheek. When she moved to wipe it away, he took her hand and kissed it fervently, thanking her silently for setting him free.
Much later, after Doctor Brown had come and gone and the newspaper had been burned, Rosalie found her way to her father’s room and stopped dead in the doorway at the sight of him.
His eyes were open.
“Father!” She rushed across the room and took his hand, which curled weakly but unmistakably around her fingers. “You’re awake... Oh, thank heavens... The doctor never said—But I must fetch Mother at once...!”
“Rosie...” His voice was thin and rusted with disuse. She began to cry before she could stop herself. “Do not fetch anyone yet. Sit with me first, my daughter.”
“But Father... We should have the doctor call.”
“I need my daughter first. Humor me, my serious girl.” He managed something that was nearly a smile. “I have had a verse in my head for days... I think.”
“A verse?” His voice was low, and she leaned down to hear him better. “Do you mean poetry?”
“Fetch my book. The little one, by the bed.”
She hated to release his hand but did as he bid. The sun had set an hour ago, and the fire cast the room in shadow. She found the book and a pencil on the bedside and dragged the candle closer, her heart racing, tears pooling in her eyes from relief and surprise.
Sitting close beside him, her father dictated a few halting lines about a river that did not disappear, always finding its way home. She wrote them down exactly as he spoke them, her script a shaky scrawl on the page, calling to mind Mr. Aster’s hellish poem.
“That will do,” he whispered when he had finished. “How long?”
“Many days,” Rosalie said, staring at the page before she could bring herself to look up at him. “You have been sleeping so much, but Doctor Brown tells us you must rest, that you have had a terrible shock.”
“He bled me.”
“I think so.”
“Good Lord...” It looked like her father intended to roll his eyes, and Rosalie stifled a laugh. He let his eyes close briefly before opening them again, fixed on her face with an intensity that frightened her. “Possum... I must say something to you while I have the strength...”
The doctor had warned them about excess agitation, and Rosalie shook her head. “You will have the strength for that later.”
“No,” he said, licking his chapped lips and staring out the window. “You must hear this from me. I love your mother more today... than the day I married her. I chose rightly... You must choose right, Possum. Anna chose right...”
She was crying openly, unable to stop it. “This doesn’t matter now.”
“Your happiness is the only thing that matters to me now. So do not marry a man... only because he asks little of you.”
Her father had no idea that she had released Mr. Sinclair that very day, but maybe that did not matter. Maybe he did not even mean Sinclair, but every other man who might vie for her hand out of duty or convenience.
“Now... Put that down, and fetch Brown,” he murmured. “And let us never talk of this again.”
She kissed his hand, laughing and crying together in a way that made no sense, and went to find Anna and her mother to tell them the news about her father’s awakening.
Anna tasked herself with fetching the doctor while their mother went upstairs to see their father. When she returned to the drawing room, she drew Rosalie into a hug.
“What did he say to you?” Anna asked.
“He made me write down some verses he had been thinking about.”
“You are joking.” Anna sighed, rubbing her brows in defeat. “All this worrying, and the first thing he thinks to do is compose a poem. But there is something else, isn’t there? What is it?”
Rosalie smiled sadly, her heart still beating wildly. “I must leave, Anna. I have an important call to make.”