Chapter Seventeen #3
“Yes,” Foxcourt said. “I long to smell Immortal Rose.”
I sat back in my seat, my head throbbing like hammer strikes. “You’ll have your bloody perfume. Believe me, I want nothing
more than to be finished with you—”
He looked up at that, his gaze quicksilver. “With me, or with the perfume?”
I clenched my jaw, unable to speak with the sharp stabbing behind my eye. I pressed a hand to my face, willing it to fade.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, leaning toward me. “You’ve gone as gray as cod.”
“Being made to speak with someone as loathsome as you will have that affect,” I snapped.
There was a beat of silence. “Ah.”
That single sound was enough to stir a flicker of guilt. I shoved it down ruthlessly. He’d been terrible. He was terrible.
Foxcourt knocked against the coach. I lowered my hand as Cartwell slowed us to a stop.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Removing the irritant,” he said, reaching for the door. “Cartwell will see you home safely.”
“Wait,” I began. “Foxcourt—”
But he was already outside, shutting the door. I lifted the curtain as we set off again, watching Foxcourt’s tall figure cut
through the milling crowds.
I leaned my head back against the seat, shutting my eyes again. Bloody man—and they said women were prone to dramatics. But, at least, I didn’t have to bother trying to disguise my discomfort anymore.
At Foxcourt House, Cartwell handed me down himself with a look of concern I waved away. I barely heard him say he would bring
in the satchel of supplies after he’d seen to the horses.
For once, the house was mercifully quiet, as if lulled into a drowsy reverie by the heat. Hearing voices in the study, I hurried
up the stairs, my skull throbbing with each step. The hall blurred dangerously around me, the last warning I’d have before
the megrim rendered me all but unconscious.
Somehow, I made it to my bedchamber, collapsing back against the door as I shut it. My stomach turned, nausea rising. This
time, however, it was soured by deepening guilt.
“Stop it,” I muttered, pressing my fists against my forehead. The pressure almost helped. “He deserved it.”
Loathsome had been a rather cruel choice of word, maybe, but he’d been a churl all morning. Surely he’d been called worse, and with
good reason.
But it had been unmistakable—that carefully managed Ah. He hadn’t been able to strip it entirely of hurt.
I released another shaking breath, and when I was sure my stomach wouldn’t betray me, I straightened, lowering my hands.
And came face-to-face with my mother.
In the unreality, I doubted my own eyes. But no, she was there. The portrait of her from Briarwood Palace, in which she looked
so very young and proper. So luminous in the midday light, it was as if she had been born of it.
Her secretive smile bade me forward. My darling.
My sputtering pulse made my skin feel as though it belonged to someone else as I took a tentative step forward, my hand rising
from my chest to press softly against my lips.
My God, she had been so beautiful. So full of promise, like a rosebud readying to bloom.
The sight of Mama’s face blurred as tears pricked my eyes. I drew nearer to the easel, a storm of feelings raging in me: confusion,
longing, grief, disquiet, and gratitude.
Gratitude most of all.
I knew exactly who had done this, who had brought her back to me.
My knees turned soft. I sat heavily on the chaise.
I aim to make amends. If she’ll allow it.
Damn him. Damn him.
Guilt tore at me. I wanted to believe it was a manipulation, but to have it displayed here, on a fine brass easel, was a gift.
A comfort.
One thing I knew for certain: Foxcourt had seen the yearning in me, despite my best effort to hide it. He had seen me, and that was why it had always been safer for me to be alone.
Even now, I could feel myself softening to the possibility of this place, to these people, to him, and there were few things more dangerous to a woman than an unguarded heart.
I had been carrying the weight of my secrets for so long, and I had done it alone. I had worked hard for everything I had,
fought and clawed for every scrap of freedom and peace the world was willing to toss to me. The thought that there might be
people willing to share that burden now, who would look after me . . .
That was a soft life, a sweet dream meant for someone else. None of this was real. It couldn’t be. People would always disappoint
you in the end. Security, independence—that was safety. I would be beholden to no one. I could protect myself from any nightmare
that tried to catch up to me.
Whatever happens, you cannot tell anyone what you are, Mama’s voice whispered in the darkness. He will find you, and he will take you.
I leaned toward the painting, close enough to ghost a finger along the smiling curve of her mouth. What a cold, biting irony
to be in the position to regain everything denied to her, and to be the reason she lost it in the first place.
“I love you,” I whispered to her. “I’m sorry.”
And now there was nothing left to do but complete the perfume, and live.