Chapter Sixteen
The carriage arrived at ten o’clock.
Fiona watched from her window as it rolled up the long drive, a dark shape against the grey morning sky.
It was not one of Christian’s carriages—this one was hired, arranged by Mrs Blackley at some point during the night, summoned from the village to carry her away from Thornwick and back to the life she had left behind.
The life she no longer wanted.
Behind her, Molly moved quietly about the room, packing the last of her belongings into the trunk salvaged from the carriage wreck all those weeks ago.
The maid had said very little this morning—had taken one look at Fiona’s ravaged face and swollen eyes and understood that words were not welcome.
There would be time for conversation later, on the long road to London.
For now, there was only the grim business of departure.
“That’s the last of it, miss.” Molly closed the trunk with a soft click. “Shall I have Thomas bring it down?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Fiona did not turn from the window. She was watching the servants emerge from the castle to greet the carriage, watching the driver climb down to confer with Mrs Blackley, watching the ordinary bustle of departure unfold as though this were any ordinary day.
It was not an ordinary day. Nothing would ever be ordinary again.
“Miss.” Molly’s voice was hesitant. “Are you certain—that is, do you truly wish to—”
“I do not wish to do anything.” Fiona’s voice came out flat, scraped clean of emotion. “I am doing what must be done. There is a difference.”
“But if His Grace—”
“His Grace has made his position clear.” She turned from the window at last, and Molly flinched at whatever she saw in her expression. “He does not want me here. He believes my departure is for the best. Who am I to argue?”
She could hear the bitterness in her own voice, the anger that lurked beneath the grief.
Part of her was furious with Christian—furious that he could hold her all night and still send her away, that he could describe their future in perfect detail and still refuse to reach for it.
She wanted to storm into his chambers and shake him until he saw sense, until he understood that his noble sacrifice was nothing but cowardice dressed in prettier clothes.
But she had tried that. On the cliff, in the darkness, she had said everything she could think to say. And it had not been enough.
Perhaps it could not be—not yet. The battles Christian fought were older than their love, rooted deep in years of doubt and quiet self-reproach. Perhaps he needed time to face them in his own way.
“I will wait in the entrance hall,” she said. “See that the trunk is loaded.”
She walked out of the room without looking back.
The entrance hall was cold and cavernous, the morning light filtering weakly through the high windows. Fiona stood at the centre, her travelling cloak wrapped around her shoulders, her bonnet in her hands, and looked around at the castle that had become, briefly, impossibly, her home.
There was the staircase where Christian had carried her on that first night, her body limp in his arms, her consciousness fading in and out like a guttering candle.
There was the corridor that led to the yellow parlour, where they had taken tea and argued and fallen slowly, inevitably in love.
There was the library door, still closed, behind which lay the room where he had once caged her against the bookshelf and kissed her until she forgot her own name.
Every inch of this place was saturated with memories.
She would carry them with her forever, she knew.
Long after the scandal faded, long after her family forgave her, long after the world moved on to newer gossip and fresher outrages—she would remember.
The weight of his arms around her. The sound of his laugh, so rare and precious.
The birthmark beneath her lips, warm and alive.
She would remember, and it would destroy her.
“Miss Hart.”
Mrs Blackley approached from the servants’ corridor, her expression carefully composed but her eyes suspiciously bright. In her hands, she carried a small wrapped package.
“His Grace asked me to give you this.” She pressed the package into Fiona’s hands. “He said—he said you would understand.”
Fiona looked down at the package. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with a simple string, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. She could feel something soft inside—fabric, perhaps, or paper.
“Thank you, Mrs Blackley.”
“Miss Hart.” The housekeeper hesitated, then reached out and clasped Fiona’s hand in her own.
“For what it may be worth, you have been the best thing that has happened to this house. And to him. I have served the Hale family for thirty years, and I have never seen His Grace as content as he has been these past weeks. Whatever he may tell himself now, whatever fears have taken hold of him, he loves you. Deeply and sincerely. Of that I am quite certain.”
Fiona felt her eyes burn. “Then why is he letting me go?”
“Because he is afraid.” Mrs Blackley’s voice softened.
“He has lived with that fear for a very long time, miss. Fear of rejection, fear of disappointment—fear, most of all, of hoping for something that might be taken from him. You have taught him a measure of courage, but such lessons do not take root all at once. He may yet require time.”
“I would have given him all the time in the world.”
“I know you would.” The housekeeper gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “And perhaps—once you are gone—he will come to understand that for himself.”
She regarded Fiona kindly.
“Do not lose faith in him, Miss Hart. His Grace is not so lost as he believes.”
Fiona could not trust herself to speak. She simply inclined her head, her throat too tight for words, and Mrs Blackley released her hand and stepped back.
“The carriage is ready whenever you are.”
“Thank you. For everything.”
She tucked the package into her reticule without opening it. She would look at it later, when she was alone, when she had the privacy to weep.
Now, she needed to be strong.
The walk from the entrance hall to the waiting carriage felt like a funeral march.
Fiona moved through the great doors and down the stone steps, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her spine rigid with the effort of holding herself together.
She could see the servants gathered at the edges of the drive—Thomas, the housemaids, the grooms and gardeners who had become familiar faces over the past weeks.
They watched her with expressions of mingled sympathy and sorrow, and she knew they understood. Everyone understood.
Everyone except Christian.
She had reached the carriage door when she heard it.
“Fiona.”
She froze.
He stood at the top of the steps, framed by the great doors of Thornwick Castle like a figure from a Gothic novel.
He was dressed carelessly—no coat, no cravat, just the shirt and trousers he had worn the night before—and his hair was a wild tangle around his face. He looked terrible. Haunted. Destroyed.
Fiona drew a slow breath.
“Christian.” She kept her voice steady through sheer force of will. “I thought you did not intend to see me off.”
“I did not.” He descended the steps slowly, as though each one required a deliberate effort. “I meant to remain in my chambers, to listen to the carriage depart, and to spend the rest of the day persuading myself that I had done the right thing.”
“And what changed?”
He stopped at the foot of the steps, only a few paces from her. Close enough to touch, if either of them dared. Close enough for her to see the red rims around his eyes, the faint tremor in his hands, the devastation written plainly across his face.
“I could not do it,” he said quietly. “I could not let you go without—without seeing you once more. Without telling you—”
His voice faltered.
“Without telling me what?”
“That I love you.” The words came out rough, almost unsteady.
“That I have loved you since the moment you stormed into my study with a fireplace poker and offered an apology. That I will love you for the rest of my life, however long or short that may be. And that losing you will be the worst thing that has ever happened to me.”
Fiona felt tears slide down her cheeks, but she did not brush them away.
“Then do not lose me,” she said softly. “It is not too late. You could tell the driver to stand down. You could take my hand and lead me back inside. You could choose us, Christian. Here. Now. You could choose us.”
His expression crumpled.
“I can’t.”
“You can,” she said quietly. “You simply will not.”
“It is the same thing.”
“No.” She stepped closer, near enough to feel the warmth of him, to catch the familiar scent of soap and sandalwood.
“It is not the same at all. One is inability. The other is choice. And you are choosing, Christian. You are choosing fear over love. You are choosing solitude over joy. You are choosing the voices in your head over the woman standing before you—begging you, for once in your life, to be brave.”
“You do not understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, feeling the scratch of stubble against her palms. “I understand that you are terrified. I understand that the world has been cruel to you, and that you have learned to expect cruelty from everyone, including yourself. But I also understand that you have the power to make a different choice. You have always had that power. You just refuse to use it.”
He closed his eyes, tears leaking from beneath his lashes.
“I am sorry,” he whispered. “I am sorry I am not the man you need me to be.”
“You are exactly the man I need. You are simply too blind to see it.”
She released him and stepped back, putting distance between them before her resolve failed entirely.
“Goodbye, Christian.” Her voice was steadier than she felt. “I know you love me. And I know you understand what we are giving up.”
She drew a slow breath, steadying herself.
“But perhaps you need time—time to quiet the doubts that have followed you for so long, time to see yourself as I see you.”
Her gaze held his.
“I shall not pretend this does not break my heart. Yet I will trust that what we have shared is not so easily undone.”
She paused, her composure trembling for only a moment.
“If you ever find the courage to believe you deserve the happiness before you, you will know where to find me. And when that day comes…” Her voice softened. “I believe we shall meet again.”
She inclined her head slightly.
“Until we meet again, Your Grace.”
She turned and climbed into the carriage before he could respond.
Molly was already inside, her eyes wide and wet. Fiona settled onto the seat across from her and stared straight ahead, refusing to look out the window, refusing to see whatever expression was on Christian’s face.
“Drive on,” she called to the coachman.
The carriage lurched into motion.
And Fiona Hart, who had sworn she would not look back, broke her promise.
She turned her head and gazed out the window, just for a moment, just long enough to see Christian standing where she had left him—alone, broken, watching her leave with an expression of such profound anguish that she felt it like a physical blow.
Then the carriage rounded the curve of the drive, and Thornwick Castle disappeared behind a screen of trees, and he was gone.
They were an hour out from the castle when Fiona remembered the package.
She had been sitting in silence, staring out the window at the passing countryside, trying to numb herself to the pain that radiated from somewhere deep in her chest. Molly had attempted conversation once or twice, but Fiona’s monosyllabic responses had discouraged further effort.
The maid now sat quietly opposite her, pretending to read a book she had not turned a page in since they departed.
The package was still in her reticule, a slight weight against her hip that she had almost forgotten. Now, with nothing but empty miles ahead of her, Fiona reached for it.
The brown paper fell away easily, revealing a square of soft fabric—a handkerchief, she realised, though far finer than any she had ever owned. It was made of delicate white lawn, edged with lace, and embroidered in one corner with a small, elegant design.
A birthmark. Wine-dark thread against white fabric, shaped like the mark she had kissed so many times.
She pressed the handkerchief to her lips and breathed in.
It smelled of him. Sandalwood and soap and something underneath that was simply Christian—a scent she would recognise anywhere, even in a crowd of thousands.
There was a note, too. A small piece of paper, folded once, with her name written on the front in his familiar hand.