CHAPTER THIRTEEN #6
Isabel took it, her face still blank. Constance couldn't bear it.
Something inside her was cracking, like glass shattering in the frigid depths of winter.
She stepped closer, leaning in as if she meant to hand something else to Isabel - just close enough that she could whisper in her ear.
"I love you," she said, as wisps of Isabel's hair tickled her temple and the brush of her cheek against Isabel's reminded her that she would never feel this again, never lean against Isabel and feel warmth settling between their bodies, never kiss a smile onto her face or hear her provoked to unexpected laughter.
She did not dare touch Isabel as she did it, and stepped back as soon as the words left her mouth.
If she lingered, she knew she would not be able to let go.
Isabel's mouth twitched. "Why do you say that?" she said softly, and Constance knew she did not expect an answer, not really. "It's of no use now."
Constance clasped her hands tight together to stop them shaking. "I thought you ought to know," she said simply. There was nothing else to say.
Isabel looked for a moment as if she might reply - a fleeting moment, but it was there.
Then she jerked her head and spun on her heel.
"Ellyn," she said sharply, and opened the door.
Ellyn huffed a sigh and stood up from where she'd been leaning against the wall, following Isabel outside.
Constance stayed frozen where she was until they were both gone, then rapped out, "Margery, will you close the door?
" She would have done it herself, but she didn't think she was able to move.
There was a dull roar in her ears, like the distant warning of a storm.
Her head throbbed; her eyes burned. She couldn’t breathe.
All at once, her knees gave out from under her, and she did not fall so much as crumble to the floor.
Her breath came in ragged, cut-off gasps, and black spots danced before her eyes: she didn't know if she was about to cry, or to faint. She didn't know which she would prefer.
"Aunt Constance!" She had not heard the door close, but Margery was crouching down at her side, her voice suffused with a childlike tremor.
Constance hoped, vaguely, that Margery had bolted the door; she did not want anyone walking in and finding her like this.
"Aunt Constance, are you sick? Should I fetch Uncle Peter? "
"No," Constance managed, her tone harsh and uneven.
Peter would know of this soon enough, but she could not bear either his pity or his judgment just then.
She pressed her palms flat against the floor and tried to draw a deeper breath.
Margery sounded almost frantic: she had never seen Constance like this before.
Likely she'd never seen any adult like this before.
Constance breathed hard again, and this second breath was easier.
It gave her enough to say, "I'm all right, Margery.
But you had better go home." Seeing her aunt collapse was enough for one day; she didn't need to see her bursting into tears as well.
"And Margery - don't speak of this to your mother.
" She could only imagine what Matilda would think if her daughter came home carrying tales of seeing her collapse to the floor in a heap.
Likely she would be at the door within minutes, and if there was anyone whose interference Constance wanted less than Peter's then, it was her sister's.
She felt Margery's hand on her back, patting hesitantly. "But - are you certain -"
"Margery," Constance said. Breathing was growing difficult again. Her throat ached with sobs that wanted to claw their way out through her mouth. "Go. Please."
There was a moment's hesitation, and Constance feared that her niece would be stubborn and refuse to leave. But then she got to her feet, and Constance heard the sound of her going out and closing the door softly behind her. Constance was alone.
She curled in on herself, arms wrapped tight around her aching stomach.
There was no point in fighting her tears anymore; the moment she stopped, they began to flow down her cheeks in earnest. She made a horrible sound, like a tree just before it fell, and pressed her forehead to her knees.
Everything hurt, and she couldn't catch her breath.
Offers which I had erred in making.
Did Isabel believe that? Did it matter? Would it make the slightest bit of difference if she didn't?
She was right: they'd both been fooling themselves. At least Isabel had seen disaster looming and tried to stop it, but Constance had prevented her. And now . . .
A sob burst free from her chest, followed by another, then another.
She gave herself over to tears, letting them rattle through her body until she was wrung-out and spent.
Still, she did not move from her spot on the floor - she could not bring herself to.
She lay there in the gathering dark, knowing nothing but the burning, ceaseless ache in her breast, wishing that she could fall asleep there just for the sake of a brief respite from her pain.