Chapter Twenty-Two #3
She shook her head as a harsh sob escaped her. “I did such a terrible thing. I thought I was protecting him and Christian. But instead, I broke them. How can I live with that?”
Abigail’s throat grew thick all over again. How could she answer such a weighted question? She reached out and touched Eloise’s arm, the only comfort she could offer against the unbearable weight of choices and secrets that spanned decades.
“Let me help you pack some things.”
Eloise shook her head and braced her hand on the railing. “I’ll pack myself. I don’t need help.” Her gaze met Abigail’s, edged with quiet determination. “Go find Lucien. Tell him I need a moment alone.”
Once alone, Abigail took a heavy woolen blanket from the hall bench, tucking it around her shoulders before retrieving the lantern from the table.
The flame sputtered, then steadied, as she stepped out onto the porch.
Halfway to the crooked gate, she paused, the restless energy from the evening still thrumming in the air, prickling at her skin.
By the time she reached the dock, moonlight and shadow cloaked the swamp in a shifting veil of silver and black. The channel stretched before her, black and glassy. Mr. Moreau stood at the end of the dock, staring into the distance, arms locked across his chest.
Gathering the blanket tighter, she stepped onto the worn boards and crossed over to him. She came to a stop at his side, the lantern’s glow painting his profile in soft gold.
He glanced behind her. “Is everything… settled?”
She couldn’t help a soft huff. “No. Nothing is. Not for Eloise. Not for any of us.”
He grimaced. “Maybe I ought not have asked it like that. Is she alright? I should go to her.”
“She asked for a moment alone. I wasn’t sure if you wanted one too.”
He twisted his head, his gaze burning into her. “Not particularly. I’m glad to have your company.”
The warmth in his voice contrasted with the chill rolling off the water. Abigail’s fingers tightened around the blanket, the lantern trembling in her grasp. “Today has felt like a lifetime.”
“Longer.”
She nodded, letting the word settle between them.
He sighed. “I’m not looking forward to New Orleans.” He chewed on his cheek for a moment before fully facing her. “They are going to have questions. Hard ones. Hell, I’ve got questions.”
“About Eloise and Thorne?”
His jaw flexed. “About all of it. About what this means for them. For her. For… us.” He shook his head, a low sigh leaving him. “God help me, I thought I had prepared myself for anything tonight. I was wrong.”
Us. Surely, he didn’t mean… Abigail swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat. Of course not. He meant his household. Him and Eloise.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s all such a tangle. So many lives were upended by this. Thorne. Eloise. Samantha and Christian. You.” He shook his head and tossed a pebble out into the water, the splash echoing between them.
She lifted her eyes to meet his. “And you.”
He gave a strained, humorless huff. “I imagine I am the least of the casualties in all this.”
“That is not true.” She held his gaze. “She’s been part of your family for decades. You’re losing someone you love and hold close. That matters.”
His jaw worked as if chewing over some impossible thought, hands restless at his sides. She stayed silent, letting him have space, noting every tight line in his shoulders, every flicker of vulnerability in his gaze.
Finally, he blew out a slow exhale. “These sorts of things, they never end cleanly, do they?”
“No, I don’t think so. But perhaps even a hard ending is better than none at all. It clears the way for something new to begin. Perhaps moving forward will be easier now.”
He glanced toward the water, the lantern’s light flickering across his stoic features. “I’m not certain it ever gets easier. I do my best, carrying the pieces the best I can.”
She studied him, her heart tightening at the quiet strain in his voice. He was no longer talking about Eloise and Thorne. “Maybe ease isn’t the goal then. Maybe it’s simply making the choice to keep going when most would have given up.”
For a long moment, he said nothing, only stared at the slow ripple of the current. When he finally spoke, his voice came low, almost lost to the sounds of the swamp. “I do keep going. I simply no longer know what toward.”
A spot of dried blood marred the skin at his throat, a testament to how close he’d come to being run through by Thorne’s blade. She lifted her hand and brushed her thumb against it. He swallowed, the rigid tension in his jaw softening beneath her touch.
She began to lower her hand, but he caught it with his, lifted her palm until she cupped his jaw.
He held her there, his eyes closed, and took several long breaths before closing the space between them.
They stood silent, their foreheads touching, the heat of their breath mingling.
She drew in a slow inhale, savoring the fragile closeness.
Finally, his eyes opened, and he dropped her hand.
“I’m sorry. I just needed to feel something real. Something that matters.”