Chapter 12 #2
After a few moments of silence — a silence where Nathaniel's hands stayed open at his sides, ready, waiting — Miss Fairleigh nodded slowly and then made to rise to her feet.
Nathaniel rose with her, his hand refusing to part from hers, his eyes searching her face and seeing the sorrow still lingering.
"I care for you, Ashcombe."
His breath hitched, a jolt of warmth, of joy, slamming through him.
"But it is because of that care that I must ask you now to step away."
He shook his head, his chest tightening. "No, I cannot."
Her tears spilled freely once more, her eyes finding his and lingering there. "You have done so much already, but I cannot be the reason that society will turn upon you as it has turned on me."
"B — but we are so close to the truth," he said hoarsely, unwilling to allow her to move back from what they had built.
"You know what Lady Woodside told me, all that is left now is for me to speak with Lord Atherby, to confirm what it is that was done for Lady Warrington all those years ago.
From that, I think the connection is clear. "
To his utter astonishment, she shook her head.
"I have realized, I think, that whether the truth of my connection to Lady Warrington is discovered or not, society has already judged me.
They have made up their own mind, and it is that which will cling to me.
I cannot bear to have your own good name so sullied, simply by your steadfast connection to me.
" Her eyes closed again, and in that moment Nathaniel knew, with a certainty that would not be argued away, that he would not let her go.
"To have such distance between us will bring an enduring pain to my heart, but endure it I must." Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"I care for you deeply, Ashcombe. I must think of your comfort, your happiness, your standing far more than my own. "
The depth of her feeling, expressed to him, laid bare his own heart. It swept over it, whispering to him, telling him to look at all he felt, to recognize and acknowledge it, to see it for what it was.
He swallowed, hard.
"I would choose you over society's scrutiny," he said hoarsely, his heart pounding with the words now pulling from his lips without his express consideration. "Eliza, I — "
"Eliza?"
Hurried footsteps had him stepping back from her, seeing Lady Newark moving swiftly towards them both.
"Oh, Eliza, I am terribly sorry. I did not know what happened. I was speaking with Lady Jeffries, and it was only when Lady Sarah came to find me that I learned that the commotion had settled upon you." Drawing Eliza into her embrace, she sent a sharp, questioning look in Nathaniel's direction.
He hung his head. "I am sorry."
Before Miss Fairleigh could give any response, before he himself could say anything more, Lady Newark guided her away, leaving him standing alone in the dim corridor.
He did not follow immediately. He remained in the alcove for a moment after they had gone, his hands on his knees.
The corridor was the same corridor — marble, candlelight, silence.
He looked at the wall where she had been sitting.
The stone was cold beneath his fingers when he touched it, as if her warmth had never been there at all.
He could not undo what James had said, could not restore what had been lost in that ballroom.
The thought of her absence from his life was a knife in his side, and it made the decision simple.
I will not step away from you, Eliza, he swore, silently. Nothing will keep me back from you. Not even my brother's ire.
He stood slowly, his knees aching from the cold marble, his hands hanging loose and open at his sides.
Then he left, out through the servants' entrance and into the cold night, where his carriage waited at the far end of the drive.
He gave the coachman his own address, climbed inside, and sat in the dark with his hands resting on his knees, open, palms down, and stared at nothing.
The study was cold when he arrived. The fire had not been banked. He did not call for one to be lit. He sat in the chair beside the grate and let the voice come.
You know what this costs. It was his own voice, the one he had listened to since boyhood, the one that had kept the family's name clean through his father's debts and his brother's indiscretions.
The name matters. The standing matters. If you speak publicly for her, you tie yourself to every whisper she carries.
James was right about that, if nothing else.
The ton does not forgive men who attach themselves to scandal, no matter how noble the intention.
You know this. You have known it since you were eighteen and watched your father destroy everything he touched.
He sat with it. He let it speak. He did not argue.
Then he saw her face.
Not the Eliza who had fought back against Lady Ravenshill with her chin lifted and her voice steady.
Not the Eliza who had found the letters at midnight.
The Eliza in the alcove, slumped against the marble, her head bowed, her hands open in her lap — palms upward, emptied, as if she had been holding herself together for so long that when she finally could not, she did not even have the strength to close her fingers.
The voice stopped.
His right thumb pressed once into his left palm — the old reflex, the old habit, the instinct to gather and protect and control. Then it released. His hand opened. He let it rest on his knee.
He reached for the pen on his writing desk.