Chapter 11
Eleven
Istumbled into the blinding sunshine, dazed by the news.
The world marched on, unfazed and unscathed. Horses clopped by, wagons rolled past, and marchandes called, enticing passersby with their wares, the melody of the city a discordant cacophony of contrasts. I had succeeded, for now, but none of it mattered.
Silas was dead.
I gripped the doorframe on my way out, needing to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to faint in front of all of them.
All other sounds drained away, replaced by a piercing whine emanating from the center of my brain.
I jostled forward until I reached the doors that opened to the veranda.
The humid air closed around me, squeezing all the breath left in my lungs.
I clutched the nearest post, dragging in deep heaves of air.
It was over.
I’d spent years searching for him, the purpose anchoring me, driving me forward. I had no family left.
William hopped down, concerned. “Are you all right?”
I would never be okay again.
“The meeting . . . It was about Silas.”
“What happened?”
I swallow, wishing the words weren’t true. “He’s gone.”
“But how?”
I shook my head. “I have it on the firmest authority that it’s too late.”
William’s face wore anguish. “I’m so sorry,” he said, taking my elbow. “Let me help you in the carriage.”
I sat inside, reeling from Death’s revelation.
I squeezed my eyes shut, the powerlessness a vise snaking around my core.
William paused, holding me for a moment.
I wanted to cry into his jacket but couldn’t find the tears.
We just sat in the back of the carriage until my heart slowed and I could breathe again.
“I’m here.” William kissed my forehead.
He lifted my chin. “You could stay? We could stay?” His eyes brimmed with promise.
I could almost see what our life could be in this city: a cozy house beside his blacksmith’s shop, my very own study built by him and filled with endless paper and ink, a garden spilling over with our friends. “Don’t go to Paris.”
A single tear streamed down my face. “I only came to this city for Silas, and he’s no longer here.”
A knock rattled the carriage, and an angry voice barked about moving out of the way.
William planted a gentle kiss on my mouth before slipping out. He hopped up, took the reins, and turned the carriage down the street toward the docks. I pushed back into the seat, inhaling the strong breeze through the open window, the scent making everything more real.
My brother was dead.
And I was on my way to meet Jacques to start a new life in Paris.
I couldn’t go back.
I couldn’t change anything.
I couldn’t save Silas.
William stopped the carriage and helped me down, careful with his touch in the public eye—no passion there, only comfort.
“Are we going to Paris?”
I nodded.
“Are you going to be all right?”
I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know if anything would ever be all right again.
“Get on the ship. I must drop off the carriage, but I’ll return with my things. We can talk then . . . I’ll come and ensure you’re well once Mr. Jacques gets settled in.” William gathered the last of my trunks and handed them to the steward, who helped me toward the ship.
He climbed back into his seat, then turned to look down at me, his eyes full of bittersweet hope. “I’ll return soon.”
The ship’s steward guided me to my room, one of the few proper cabins on the vessel. I lay on the bed, completely numb. It was one thing to think Silas might be dead, but to have it confirmed was another thing altogether.
Jacques trundled into our room close to departure, smiling. “Why don’t we go up on deck?” he said. “We’re casting off soon.”
“You go. I . . . need a moment.”
He took my hand and kissed it. “All right, I suppose I’ll see what William has gotten up to. Don’t worry, I won’t let the ship leave without him.” He strode out the door, whistling a tune, oblivious to so many things . . .
But the idea that the ship could leave without William began to gnaw at my heart.
After a while, I rose and made my way to the rail of an upper deck to watch for him.
The sun shone bright, warming my shoulders.
The sky was robin’s-egg blue, a mockery of my despair.
Gulls called, beckoning our ship to sea.
It wasn’t long before I saw William striding toward the pier. A small bit of my heart lifted. He would understand my pain; he would hold me in my grief.
I held my hand above my head and called to him. “William!”
He looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun, searching for me.
I began to wave, and meant to call again, but the words died on my lips.
Three men in sailor’s uniforms lurched from the shadows.
My heart seized. I knew them. The men from Mardi Gras, the night we’d found where Silas was kept.
“William!” I shrieked. He continued to search for me and didn’t notice as the sailors made for him. They were on him in an instant, dragging him into an alley full of cargo, until he was out of sight.
The world spun. I heard a shout from the ship’s gangplank: “Stop! Stop there!” It was Jacques. He and three members of our crew ran to where William had disappeared.
None of it seemed real. It couldn’t be happening. The echo of Jacques’s voice calling William’s name was the last thing I heard before the world went black.
I woke in the cabin. For a moment I believed, I hoped, the entire thing had been a dream. Then I noticed Jacques settled heavily on the end of the bed, his head in his hands.
He turned to me. Dark circles ringed his eyes. “Noelle, there’s something I have to tell you.”
I touched his shoulder. His body shuddered, and he went on.
“A fight broke out on the docks. Three sailors. They spotted . . . they spotted someone and carried him off. The crew and I gave chase, but they had knives and a musket. We were too late.”
The silence hung in the air. I prayed to God, to Death, to any force in the universe to keep the words from coming from Jacques’s mouth.
“William,” he rasped. “He’s dead.”
Bile rose, burning in my throat. “But how? Why?”
Jacques scrubbed his face, as if he could wipe away the horror and make sense of it all. “I don’t know, Nella. William was an honorable man. What trouble could he possibly have had with sailors?”
None. Except . . .
Guilt riddled my heart.
It was all my fault.
If I hadn’t insisted on going out at night, they wouldn’t have accosted me.
If they hadn’t accosted me, William wouldn’t have had to embarrass them.
If William hadn’t embarrassed them, they wouldn’t have sought revenge.
Jacques cupped my cheek with his hand. My tears rolled down, dampening his palm.
“Oh, my dear, you are so pale. I know, this is a terrible shock. But I am here. And I am unharmed. You are safe. Tell me, what can I do to help put this horror behind us?”
“Nothing,” I whispered. “There is nothing.”
First, the news of Silas.
Now William . . .
I stood unsteadily and stared out the porthole of our cabin. I felt frozen, the tips of my fingers numb.
Jacques announced he would fetch some tea. It was good he left when he did.
The moment the door closed, my stomach heaved. I retched into the chamber pot until only air was left, the tears coming then—hot, fast, and ceaseless.
I poured out every bit of me.
For William.
For my brother.
For my shame.
For what could have been.
Death had been right about life and loss.
If it felt like this, I didn’t know how I would survive.