Chapter 21
Twenty-One
The sulking had gone on long enough. Too long, in fact.
Agnes was feeling stir-crazy, almost convinced the patterns in the wallpaper had taken shapes.
Richard had kept such personal secrets from her, Oscar had fled somewhere—to London, the countryside, it seemed inconsequential at this point—and Harry.
Well, she didn’t know what to think about Harry.
The shock of it all was still nagging, but it wasn’t as raw as when she’d first discovered the letter.
Despite what Richard’s letter said, she was not entirely convinced of his betrayal.
They had called each other friends. He had kissed her.
She had finally felt alive, like a woman, after six years of marriage.
He had awakened the fireworks across her skin, caused aches in places she’d long ignored.
She had decided to allow him into her life, into her sanctuary.
The excitement he had brought was worth risking her peace.
One week. She had given herself one week to wallow in the fog of her confusion before she would have to start making decisions.
A week wasn’t long enough for her to make sense of everything—not without speaking to Harry—but given how quickly Charles was putting things into motion, it was all she could afford.
The threatening letters from him were arriving daily.
Men interested in purchasing the home were knocking on the door, attempting to gain access to the property.
One step at a time. She descended down the stairs, bolstering herself with a white-knuckled grip on the banister. She steeled her face against her turbulent emotions, in case she came across any of the staff. If they saw her crumble, she’d immediately retreat back into hiding.
Voices echoed from the foyer. Ward was arguing with someone.
“Please, Ward, if you don’t let me in, I’ll—”
“You’ll do what, sir?”
“I’ll . . . bolt past you. I’ll . . . knock you over too.” Desperation marked the visitor’s tone.
“You? You don’t even come up to my shoulders.”
“Then . . . then I’ll climb through a window. I must speak with her.”
Agnes’s chest tightened as she remembered the first time she had intervened to allow Harry into her home all those years ago.
When she had seen him that day arguing with Ward, she had been affected by the kindness in his eyes.
She wanted to believe that kindness was still there, that he was not capable of the deception that the evidence implied.
Uncertainty tore at her insides. She had to make a choice.
It would be easy for her to slink back upstairs and allow Ward to send the man on his way.
But that was not who she was anymore. She didn’t hide anymore.
When her mother forced men on her, she had fought.
She needed to confront Harry, tell him everything she had found out, and ask him to explain himself.
“Ward!” she called down the stairs into the foyer. “Let him in, but have him sit in the parlor. He will wait until I am ready.”
“Right this way, sir.” Although she couldn’t see him, she knew Ward was frowning.
She tucked herself around the bend of the staircase until the footsteps ceased, and then she continued down the stairs.
Agnes stopped at a mirror in the foyer. The black crepe covering the glass remained, but it hadn’t prevented Richard’s spirit from being caught here anyway.
She uncovered the mirror and looked at her reflection.
Her eyes were puffy from crying or lack of sleep. Both, most likely. She pinched her cheeks to elicit color to her sickly complexion. While Kitty and Mrs. Smith had both brought trays up to her room, Agnes hadn’t the appetite for anything more than bread and measly sips of water.
Bram joined her at the foot of the stairs. A faithful servant. He followed her across the foyer to the door of the parlor. The ticking of the grandfather clock against the wall matched the thumping in her chest while she gathered the courage to walk over the threshold.
As soon as she saw Harry’s face, she could feel her own distort with emotion.
For as strongly as she had fortified herself, seeing him in front of her brought back every feeling to the surface.
It was hopeless to try to stamp it down.
He crossed the room toward her, and she wished she could sink into a hole.
She wanted to push him away as punishment, but instead, she walked toward him too.
He didn’t even hesitate. He immediately cradled her in his arms, sick with fear and worry about what—or who—had done this to her.
Had Skelton returned on his own and made threats?
Did he try to force the marriage? One part of his soul empathized with her sorrow, and the other side burned with rage at the need to avenge her.
Time meant nothing while he held her. He could not say how much had passed before Ward peeked through the door.
To Harry’s surprise, the butler left them alone and disappeared.
Every time she pulled back to speak to him, her cries bubbled over again forcing her back into his chest. When her wails finally softened to sniffles, she looked up at him and pushed him away.
The emptiness of his arms ached. He reached for her hands, but she turned away.
“No . . .” she said. A hopelessness in her voice shattered his heart once more. “You did this to me.”
He nearly lost his balance. He had done this to her? With just one kiss?
“I’m . . . I’m sorry. I should not have kissed you. You’re still a woman in mourning. I was your husband’s accountant. I overstepped—”
“This isn’t about the kiss! Although now that I know everything . . . I don’t know how I feel about that, either.”
He stared at her, waiting for the words she spoke to arrange themselves in a way that made sense. Everything, she had said. What was everything? Was she angry that he hadn’t been able to secure her inheritance? He hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell her he had a lead on Oscar’s location.
“Please, Agnes. I don’t understand. All I know is that you kissed me. You asked me to kiss you, and then you wouldn’t see me. You left me standing on your doorstep. I tried to call on you, ask your permission to court you, but instead, your butler slammed the door in my face.”
“Did . . . did you lie to me?” Agnes asked timidly, with pain in her eyes. Harry’s own blood was like ice, his head pounding in confusion. He hadn’t. Every word he had ever said to her had been true, unless one counted the times he had promised friendship when he wanted so much more.
She continued, “Richard gave you his will for safekeeping. He said so in a letter.”
“Yes, I have it. I read it to you.”
“Richard’s will says this house is mine. So, where is the real one? Have you been showing me a fake? Did Charles pay you to lie to me?”
Harry prided himself as an intellectual, but he had never been so dumbfounded.
The day he had first heard Agnes’s voice, that beautiful, lingering voice, had been the day the late Lord Skelton requested he come and retrieve the amended will.
It was the will he had read to Agnes after the funeral.
He had no knowledge of any other documents.
Harry was still angry with himself for not forcing his employer to discuss the contents of the will.
Lord Skelton had been especially fond of his wife.
Harry, as his accountant, advisor, and executor of the will, should have suggested more protections for her.
But the baron was of sound mind. Lord Skelton had said he had finalized his decisions before even hearing what Harry had to say, so what else could Harry have done?
He reached his hand out once more. Agnes flinched, but after a long moment of studying his face, took his hand. He pulled her gently onto the settee and sat beside her.
“Agnes.” He put his finger under her chin, tilting her face up to his.
“Agnes, dear, I have only ever been on your side. Richard’s admiration for you was contagious, and I found myself caring for you when you were merely a name dropped into the conversation.
I was enthralled by you when you were just a shadow in the hall, however improper it might have been to yearn over an old man’s wife.
I promise, the will I read to you is the one Lord Skelton gave me when he made me the executor.
But if this means there is another will, then that is a good thing.
I do not know what has happened, but if we can find the document he speaks of, then you can get your rightful inheritance. ”
She exhaled a long breath and put a hand on his forearm. “I’ve been so confused. I’ve felt so alone.” Her cries escalated once more, and she collapsed into his chest.
Eventually her sobs subsided and silence stretched between them. She looked up to meet his gaze. Neither one of them spoke. Clearly, she was still questioning him, questioning herself. He hadn’t lied to her, but he would give her time to make her choice. He would give her anything, really.
There was more he had to say, more promises he wanted to make her. He opened his mouth to speak, but she gave a subtle shake of her head. Everything was in her hands.
“I believe you,” she said. “And you have my permission to court me.”
Agnes missed the predictable life she had lived with Richard as her husband, and she mourned the stability that she had lost. When she had first found out that Harry had a tendre for her, she had floated.
Then they had kissed, and she had soared.
The tumble into darkness had nearly destroyed her, but here she was again, allowing Harry to hold her.
He projected her upwards into the light, into his light.