Chapter 22
Ernestine threw herself down on the bed and sobbed.
She sobbed and sobbed. The cries tore her apart. When would it stop? It was supposed to stop. She had told him that she could not marry him, that she was going to Italy, that she could not allow this torrent of emotion to take her over, so why wouldn’t it stop?
It was as if, somehow, he had opened a terrible floodgate, and now nothing could be done. She needed it to stop.
Oh, dear God in heaven. The pain was never-ending. The grief. The black hell that kept trying to swallow her up was what she had forced away all these years since her parents’ death.
She laid upon the bed as hot tears slicked down her cheeks. Her aunt and her cousin had tried to stop her as she stumbled into the house, tried to reason with her, but she had said that she needed to be alone.
Alone.
That was how she felt safest. Alone. All her life, since her mother and father had been taken from her, she’d been alone. Never truly allowing anyone in. She’d kept herself alone.
It didn’t matter how very much she wished she could love and be with other people as she saw so many others do.
There was something in her that simply wouldn’t allow it, like a band that snapped her back every time she got too far, a leash that held her tightly.
And no matter what she did, how she railed against it, she could not break free of it.
She pressed her face into her pillow, desperately wishing things were different, desperately wishing she could be like Clementine, Juliet, and Araminta, who wanted to go to Italy because it was beautiful, because they loved grapes and sunshine and tiled floors and cats sitting in the warm rays, and blue fountains and beautiful pottery.
How she wished that was why she longed to go too. Oh, yes, it was true that was part of it, but there was no way that she could escape it now. All she wanted was to keep herself alone, safe, cut off, with her armor on, armor she had put on and never once had truly taken off.
“It won’t work, you know?”
She tensed on the bed. “Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice trembling.
“No one you need to fear.”
It was a male voice, deep and strong.
She jumped off the bed like a scalded cat, raced to the fireplace, and grabbed the poker.
“Show yourself,” she demanded.
And out of the shadows slipped a man. He was all in black, and much to her astonishment, he wore a mask, a black scarf of a mask that went over his eyes.
Of course he was wearing a mask. There was a masked ball this night. Everyone would be wearing masks.
But in the slits, she could see two obsidian irises that blended with his pupils.
He looked devilish. His jaw was hard, his lips firm, his body strong under the black linen shirt and breaches. His black boots shone like mourning jet.
“What are you doing here?” she called.
“Have you heard of the Fates?” he asked.
“What an absurd question. Of course, I have.”
“Well, not everyone reads as much as you do, Miss Foxley,” he said.
She lifted the poker. “And how do you know that I read so much, sir? Who are you? I still demand to know your name.”
“You’re not going to know my name,” he said. “It’s not in your best interest to do so. I am here because I am like the Fates. A weaver of worlds.”
“That is incredibly dramatic.”
“So am I. And now, you must understand, you cannot avoid your fate.”
Her arm lowered, the grip on the poker falling. “I see,” she said. “Then why have you come?”
He tilted his head to the side. “I have come to tell you that you cannot avoid the fate of loving the Earl of Seaborough.”
Her heart slammed in her ribs, and she dropped the poker to her side. Somehow, she knew this man wasn’t going to lunge at her. He was too still. To assured. “How do you know?”
“Because the Fates have decreed it so,” he said mischievously.
She narrowed her gaze. “What the devil does that mean?”
He smiled. “Well, there are three Fates, are there not?”
She nodded slowly.
“I am one of them and there are two others.” He laughed softly. “We also have an apprentice, just so you know. But the Fates have decreed you and Seaborough are…fated.” He shrugged those broad shoulders. “You and the earl ought to be one, and it cannot be avoided.”
“You speak in riddles, sir. This is ridiculous.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Life is ridiculous, but you of all people, who have lost everything before, already know that. Like I know that.”
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“One who pulls a string here and there.” He motioned to her bed with his square jaw. “Look to the box on the bed.”
And much to her amazement, she spotted a black velvet box wrapped in a ribbon of crimson hue. “What is it?” she asked.
“Open it,” he said.
She snorted, feeling strangely alive in his presence. Feeling understood. “And if it is a snake inside?”
He laughed again. “Oh, I am not that sort of Fate today. I do not cut the thread. There is nothing dangerous to you in the box.”
“It’s certainly something the gods would have done,” she whispered.
“You are not mistaken.”
She couldn’t resist. Slowly, poker still in hand, she crossed to the box and pulled the ribbon free, then slipped the lid off the top.
It was a beautiful gown of black and crimson, beaded in rubies and onyx, and on top of it was a mask.
“You can be anyone that you want to be tonight,” he said firmly, his voice rich with compassion.
“You can be anyone you want to be for the rest of your life. You simply have to choose to put that mask on,” he said.
“You’re already wearing one. Pick the one you want.
I had to. A long time ago, I had to choose to leave the pain behind and step into something new.
Pain and grief are close companions, but they can never ever be your friends.
Do not hold them close anymore, Ernestine.
Go,” he urged. “Be free. Be whoever you want to be. Put the gown on, put the mask on. Head out into the ball this night and choose the life you actually want. Not the only one you think you are allowed to have.”
She stared down at the mask and at the gown, questions lingering on her lips, but before she could say a single one of them, she lifted her gaze to the window and curtains and realized he was already gone.
Her fingers hesitated over the silk and she wondered if she could do that. Could she be whoever she wanted to be?
It seemed far too simple. It wasn’t true, was it? But then she lifted the mask up and brought it to her face, and it felt just right.
Some men, when in a complete rage, got absolutely upside down drunk. Not Victor. Victor stood in the duke’s gymnasium and was pounding a hessian bag of flour. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to turn everything into white powder, but he couldn’t stop himself.
He hit and he hit and he hit again.
“Try something that hits back.”
He snapped around and spotted Viscount Skyburn. His friend with silvery blonde hair, wild eyes, and a mischievous grin stood with his shoulders back and slightly cocked to the side, with that devil-may-care air that all society loved and yet was simultaneously wary of.
“I don’t want company,” Victor growled.
“You may not want it, but that’s what you’re going to get,” Skyburn returned with undue brightness. “Men in your situation should not be left to their own devices.”
“And what situation is that?” he demanded.
Skyburn cocked his head to the side. “Being rejected by the woman they love.”
“Oh, you know that’s happened, do you?”
Skyburn examined his already perfectly groomed nails. “Yes, I do. It’s all over your face, plus I saw you stampede in from the forest after following her in. That was not the look of love affirmed.”
He ground his teeth. He was going to be lucky if he had teeth at all after all of this. “Fine, then. Come on. You want to be knocked down? Let’s go.”
Victor crossed to his friend, lifted his fists, and started in, ready to pummel, but Viscount Skyburn was faster than most and had an agility that would astonish even the most fleet of fellows.
Skyburn danced quickly away. “That’s it. Come on. Charge at me like the bull you are.”
Seaborough let out a growl of frustration. “Stand still,” he said.
“See? You can only hit a bag of flour. You can’t hit me,” Skyburn said, as he danced away again and then managed to land a punch right into Victor’s kidney.
Victor let out a hiss of fury. “It’s only because I’m in such a state.”
“You’re right,” Skyburn said, and he bounced some more, light on his toes.
Victor knew that he was in no condition to be fighting Viscount Skyburn, but at the same time, he wanted to be hit. Maybe if he got hit hard enough times, the pain that was now inside him would go away.
He would finally be able to breathe again and he could stop thinking about her and the way that she had…
“How could she do it?” he suddenly bit out as he launched a harsh roundhouse punch towards Skyburn.
“Do what exactly?” Skyburn said, darting to the side.
“Run away from us, me, England,” he said.
“In that order?” Skyburn queried.
“Yes, actually,” Victor returned.
Skyburn bobbed left and right and then let out a jab that nearly slammed into Victor’s nose, but Victor twisted away just in time.
“Ladies are most curious. I don’t try to reason with them,” Skyburn said jauntily.
“But truthfully, men aren’t much better.
I don’t think humans were made very well, if you must know.
We’re always doing things that make no sense.
The very best thing for all of us would be to take long walks, drink plenty of water, get a good deal of sunshine, and stop fighting with each other, but we don’t do that, do we?
You drink copious amounts of wine, sit inside, get little sunlight, and fight all the time. ”
“I cannot argue with that,” Victor said, feinting left, then driving a fist right into Skyburn’s middle.
Skyburn let out a whoosh of breath. “Damn it,” he said. “I held still too long.”
“Not like you,” Victor tsked.
“We all have our own troubles,” Skyburn said, twisting around.
“I see. Have you fallen in love?”
“God, no,” Skyburn said, a look of sheer distaste crossing his handsome face. “Not yet, and not if I can help it. I told you, that’s a noose, and you already put it on your head and someone’s pulled it.”
“Thanks,” Victor replied. “What a lovely image.”
“But it’s accurate, isn’t it?” Skyburn pointed out as he kept his fists loose and at his cheekbones. “Or perhaps you could be clever and take the noose off.”
“I can’t,” he admitted as his chest tightened again. “I’ve fallen in love with her.”
“What does that have to do with marrying her or being with her?”
“A great deal,” Victor said. “I want her to be my wife.”
“Want, want, want,” Skyburn said. “What does she want?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” Skyburn replied, and with far less merriment than a moment before, as they circled each other. “If you love her so well, surely you can tell. Or is it yourself that you love? You love being a knight and hero rescuing her.”
Victor lowered his fists for a moment. “What did you say?”
And just as he did that, Skyburn landed a jab right to his nose. The pain snapped his head back and whooshed through him.
Blood gushed from his nose.
“Bloody hell, man,” Victor yelped, holding his head back and whipping a handkerchief out from his pocket.
“It’s a gusher,” Skyburn said cheerfully.
“Yes, it is.”
The fight was done.
There would be no going on like this. He pressed the linen to his nose.
Skyburn clapped his hand on Victor’s shoulder. “No one wants to be fixed, old boy, and you were definitely trying to fix her, save her, all of that.”
Victor scowled. “Why does it have to be so separate?” he said. “Why can’t I love her and want to help her at the same time?”
“All right, fine.” Skyburn folded his arms across his muscled chest. “You want to help her, you want to love her, but you know what you really have to do?”
“What?” he demanded.
“Let her make her own mistakes. Let her go to Italy. Let her run away. It’s the only way.”
“That can’t be true,” Victor protested. “What if someone hurts her? What if…?”
“What if a million things,” Skyburn said. “What if she dies of the plague tomorrow?”
“Don’t say things like that,” he snapped.
“It’s true,” Skyburn countered. “So let it play out and stop trying to force your hand. If she really loves you, she’ll come back to you.”
“You mean I’m just supposed to let her go?” he said softly.
“I think you’re supposed to understand that you too can be loved just for being yourself. You don’t have to help her, and you don’t have to fix her. You don’t have to make the world better for her to love you. Do you understand, old boy?”
And with that, Skyburn clapped him on the back again and said, “Now, if you can understand that, you should go and get her, but if you can’t, you should leave her be.”