Chapter 18 #2
“My childhood was somewhat different,” she admitted, a faint, thoughtful smile touching her lips. “Sweet, though perhaps not adorned with the same tender gestures as the ones you describe.”
“What was it like for you?” Heath asked, his voice gentle, inviting her to continue.
She exhaled, shifting her gaze toward him. “My mother, for example. She always said Fanny was the true jewel of the family.”
Heath hummed, tilting his head slightly. “And what of you?”
Blanche huffed a quiet laugh. “I was tolerated, I believe. But my father… he understood me, or at least, he did not attempt to shape me into someone I was not. He let me be. He bought me books, encouraged my curiosities. In a way, I think he knew I would never be as polished as Fanny, but he never seemed to mind.”
Heath watched her carefully, an unreadable softness flickering behind his gaze. “Sounds like a man with sense.”
She smirked, shaking her head. “He is. He used to take us to Richmond Park when we were children. It was always an event—planned meticulously, filled with stories and laughter.”
Heath chuckled, leaning back slightly. “Richmond is quite far from London. I find Hyde Park more intriguing, especially when you are there.”
Blanche paused, narrowing her eyes in mock suspicion. “What are you implying, exactly?”
Heath smirked, the gleam of mischief returning to his features. “Only that I recall a particular walk with you there, not too long ago. You were rather captivated that day, if memory serves.”
Blanche scoffed, but the warmth blooming on her cheeks betrayed her. “I believe that was merely the result of excellent scenery.”
“Ah,” Heath mused, resting his chin against his hand. “I see. So it was the trees, and not my company, that left such an impression on you?”
Blanche rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched at the edges. “You are insufferable.”
Heath exhaled a chuckle, letting the teasing linger a moment longer before his expression shifted—subtle, measured.
“And your father?” His voice was quieter now, his tone less playful, more careful. “You have not heard from him?” The warmth in the air dulled slightly, the atmosphere faltering.
Blanche’s fingers curled over the piano, her gaze drifting downward. “No. But he will return. I know it.”
Heath hesitated. He did not contradict her, but neither did he agree. Instead, his silence pressed into the space between them, heavy, unspoken, and Blanche felt it.
Felt the doubt—felt the cautious restraint in his response, felt the unspoken truth he was choosing not to say.
Her throat tightened. “He will return,” she repeated, sharper this time, as if saying it aloud might make it so.
Heath exhaled, slow, deliberate. “Perhaps.”
Blanche stiffened.
The quiet restraint in his voice felt far worse than a direct challenge—it carried doubt, the kind that dug beneath her skin, the kind she refused to entertain.
“He has not abandoned us,” she said, more forcefully than intended. “You do not know him as I do.”
Heath studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I’m just saying that he has not written, Blanche. No letter. No message. Nothing in all this time…”
Blanche swallowed, her fingers curling against her palm. “That does not mean—”
“It means something. You have to understand that,” Heath interrupted, his tone still measured but sharper now.
“Understand what, according to you?”
“Understand that a man does not simply disappear without a word—not if he is honorable, not if he values his family.”
Something inside Blanche snapped.
She rose swiftly, the chair pushing back against the wooden floor with a quiet scrape. “And what would you know of honor?”
Heath’s jaw tensed. The shift in his posture was subtle, but unmistakable—the easy warmth he had carried earlier hardened.
“Enough to recognize when a man does not uphold it.”
Blanche narrowed her eyes, her pulse hammering against her ribs. “You see everything through the eyes of a rake—cynical, dismissive. But my father is not like the men you surround yourself with.”
Heath exhaled sharply, standing now, his movements deliberate, composed—but the rigid set of his shoulders betrayed him. “I am not saying he does not love you, only that the world is rarely as kind as you imagine it to be.”
“It is not imagination,” Blanche snapped. “It is certain.”
“Then I hope you are right,” Heath murmured, but his voice held no conviction. Blanche knew it, and it infuriated her.
She followed him as he strode toward the entrance hall, her steps quick, her words relentless. “You assume the worst, always. You believe abandonment is inevitable because it is what suits you!”
Heath turned sharply, his gaze flashing with something unreadable. “I believe in reality, Blanche. Not illusions.” The finality in his tone sent a chill through her.
Before she could speak again, before she could argue, before she could demand that he take back his cold certainty, Heath reached for his coat, pulling it over his shoulders with practiced ease.
Blanche inhaled sharply. “Where are you going?”
“Out.” It was the only answer he gave before stepping outside, the door swinging open, the night swallowing him whole.
Leaving behind a heavy silence—one that settled into the room, unyielding and absolute, becoming Blanche’s only companion in his absence.