Chapter 27 Maeve #2
Maeve tried to listen, she really did, but her mind kept circling back to Bethan and Jude.
Part of her, the side that picked at every scab and had long made a habit of eavesdropping on any conversation she could, wanted to know every sordid truth about their relationship.
Were Bethan’s visits a regular thing? Were they truly lovers or was her jealous mind seeing a connection that wasn’t actually there?
A memory surfaced, scoring her mind with the precision of a steel blade.
When she’d been laid up in bed with her monthlies, Jude had brought her tea. He’d given it to her, blushing and stammering, telling her Elden made it for his neighbour to help with similar symptoms.
He also said it prevented pregnancy.
And Maeve had teased him about it, hadn’t she? Poked fun and enjoyed his fidgeting.
She stared down at her mostly full plate as pressure built behind her eyes. Carefully, she laid her fork next to her plate, aligning it with the edge of the table. Her fingers moved to fidget with the stem of her wine glass next.
How foolish she’d been. She wasn’t the one Jude was worried about protecting.
Bethan laughed, reaching across the table to pat Jude on the wrist. Maeve watched with a sick fascination, unable to look away.
For the first time in days, maybe even weeks, she wanted to be anywhere but his home – but she was a coward.
Never one to question her reality until it was too late.
Through the buzzing in her ears, she listened to their conversation.
It sounded like they were discussing Bethan’s foraging.
Something with the weather, maybe. It wasn’t enough to hold Maeve’s attention, nor to keep her gaze from Jude.
He picked at his food almost as slowly as she did. Though he smiled more often than usual, he seemed tense. His occasional laughter sounded forced, almost uncomfortable, though that might’ve been her own wishful thinking.
Their gazes caught and held across the table.
Jude searched her face with wide eyes. He looked younger. A boy, wondering why his friend was ignoring him. If they were alone, Maeve knew he would ask her what the matter was. She could almost see the question written across his face.
Friends, Maeve reminded herself forcefully. He knew her as a friend, cared for her as a friend. Nothing more and nothing less. She would take it, grateful to have a piece of him at all.
Clearing the plates, Elden urged them to reconvene in the sitting room.
‘I think we ought to go upstairs,’ Bethan said, eyes on Jude. ‘It’s getting late.’
Jude pushed back from the table. Maeve tracked his every movement, waiting for his reply.
He picked up his cutlery, laying them neatly on his empty plate.
Adjusted the hem of his jumper on his hip.
He met her eyes for a heartbeat before turning to Bethan and gesturing towards the doorway. ‘After you.’
Maeve’s lungs emptied in a rush. Though she was no longer sure she had a body, she followed Elden into the kitchen and began filling the sink with hot water.
It burned her hands as she scrubbed plate after plate.
Try as she might, she couldn’t help but listen for every stir in the house.
Every creak of footsteps and squeak of furniture.
She imagined she could hear the sigh of breath and the slide of skin.
She squeezed her eyes shut, surprised to find her lashes damp.
Rejection was a demanding mistress.
‘Maeve?’ Elden pulled the plate from her hands and gently nudged her aside. He hissed when his hands hit the water, turning the cold tap on and stirring a spoon through the basin to mix it. His movement stilled when he noticed her expression. ‘What is it?’
She took a shuddering breath. Dammit. She needed to pull herself together. The very thought of Elden sensing the direction of her thoughts sent a frisson of forced calm through her body.
‘Just—’ she heaved another breath. ‘Homesickness.’
‘Homesickness,’ Elden repeated, face sceptical. ‘Is that all?’
Maeve nodded, retaking her place at the sink and picking up a plate. Thankfully, Elden didn’t prod as he dried every dish she washed. She tried to keep her mind on her task, but—‘How long have they known each other?’
Maeve cringed as Elden’s drying motions slowed to a stop. The question had left her lips too quickly to stop. He set the plate down, putting his back to the counter and resting his weight on his hands. ‘Bethan and Jude?’
Maeve nodded, watching herself scrub a wine glass as if with someone else’s hands.
‘A year, maybe,’ Elden replied. ‘He doesn’t have many friends.’
‘Is it…’ she hesitated. Warmth coursed up her neck as she considered how to word her question without outright asking if they were lovers. ‘Are they close?’
Elden shrugged. ‘Hard to say. I wouldn’t say they’re friends… necessarily. Not close friends. Her presence is more helpful to Jude than anything else.’
Helpful? What did that mean? She chewed on the inside of her lip as she dried the final few dishes, folding the towel neatly on the counter. ‘Why did they go upstairs? Where did they go?’
Elden paused. He picked up the drying cloth Maeve had just folded and picked at the hem. ‘Jude’s bedroom, I believe. But Maeve—’
‘I’m going to bed,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m sorry.’
She’d heard enough, and her emotions were too close to the surface. If she stayed here any longer, she was going to cry. The prospect was too humiliating to consider.
Before Elden could reply, Maeve left the kitchen.
She made her way slowly up the stairs, listening to every creak of the house around her.
She told herself she didn’t care. Her goals may have shifted, but she still had a reason for being here in his home.
His memories still hung in the balance, and hers were at risk of slipping every day.
She needed to focus on unpicking the link between the icons, the saints, and the artists that created them. The Abbey that stole from them.
After that…
Maybe she would return to her family. Maybe she’d rent a cottage by the sea and sell paintings at a village market. She could do anything. Go anywhere.
Jude didn’t factor into her decision, her future. He couldn’t.
She shut her bedroom door behind her and leaned against it.
She wondered if she would’ve taken this development easier if she’d experienced something similar before.
If she’d had friends in the Abbey growing up, maybe she would’ve grown jealous of them spending time together without her, and learned how to communicate that envy without letting it eat her up inside.
Or if she’d had relationships that lasted longer than an evening, maybe she would’ve learned how to move past those possessive feelings and not let them pummel her confidence into nothing.
But she hadn’t. Maeve was at a complete loss at how to cope with the force of both the jealousy and the possessiveness – two emotions foreign to her prior to that evening. She never imagined they could be so strong, so insidious. They demanded all her attention.
She refused to think of Bethan and Jude and the knowledge that she was privileged to see him in ways Maeve had only just begun to dream of.
The thought of him, bare, weightless, his hands soft and exploratory.
All of his smiles and lingering glances, his bowed head beneath her hand.
The look in his eyes as he gazed up at her, a sign of the fragile trust blossoming between them.
It hurt. She couldn’t pretend that it didn’t.
She’d opened up to him in ways she never had with anyone else.
Let him see sides of her she didn’t know existed.
And still, he hid from her. He wouldn’t tell her who Bethan truly was to him, wouldn’t be honest about all the shades of his heart.
He still kept her from his library unless he was with her, still guarded his memories and his magic like he was afraid she would strike when he wasn’t looking.
As much as he tried to deny it, she knew he still feared she would betray him and take his icon to the Abbey.
Beneath the pain, the hurt, a spark of anger bloomed.
If he didn’t trust her now, Maeve feared he never would.