“But . . .” Lucy frowned, groping for the words. “How could you forgive such an offense?”
“Ha. Because I loved her, that’s why.” Papa tapped the globe, skewering Africa with his finger. “And because I realized that even the finest of women is only human and can make a mistake.”
“How . . . ?”
“She was a woman, not an ideal.” Papa sighed now. He looked old, standing there in his nightshirt and cap, but at the same time stern and commanding. “People make mistakes. Ideals don’t. Think that’s the first lesson that must be learned in any marriage.”
“Simon has murdered.” Lucy drew a deep, shuddering breath. No matter what Papa thought, their cases were very different. “And he plans on doing it again. He’s going to duel a dear friend, a man who looks up to him, and Simon will probably kill him. I know he’s not an ideal, Papa, but how do you expect me to forgive that?” How could he expect her to live with a man so bent on destruction?
“I don’t.” Papa spun the globe a final time and stumped to the door. “Well past your bedtime, gel. And mine. Get some rest.”
Lucy stared after him, uncertain, tired, and confused.
“But remember this.” He turned at the door to spear her with a look. “I might not expect you to forgive, but God does. Says so right in your Bible. Think on that.”
IT HAD ALWAYS BEEN INEVITABLE, really, that Lucy should leave him, Simon mused. The only surprise was how long it had taken her to go. He ought to be thankful he’d had the few weeks of their marriage together, the days of happy companionship and the nights of sweet lovemaking. He carefully poured himself a tumbler of brandy. Carefully, because it was his second or perhaps third, and because his hands had begun to shake like a palsied old man.
But that was a lie.
His hands had been shaking ever since Lucy had left yesterday afternoon. He trembled as if he had the ague, as if all the demons inside him had decided to make themselves physically felt. Demons of rage, demons of pain, demons of self-pity, and demons of love. They shook and rattled his frame, demanding acknowledgment. He’d lost the ability to contain them anymore, and they had free rein of his soul now.
He grimaced to himself and swallowed a gulp of the amber liquor. It burned his throat all the way down. He probably wouldn’t be able to hold his sword on the day of the duel. Wouldn’t that be a surprise for Fletcher? To find him standing there, shaking and trembling, his sword fallen to his feet, useless. Christian would merely have to gut him and go home for breakfast. Hardly worth his time, when you thought about it. And Simon had nothing—nothing at all—to do between now and the duel on the morrow’s dawn.
He picked up his glass and wandered from his study. The hall was dark and cold, even if it was only afternoon. Couldn’t anyone keep enough fires lit to warm him? He had so many servants; he was a viscount, after all, and he’d be ashamed to have less than fifty souls toiling over his every whim, night and day. He thought to bellow for Newton, but the butler had been hiding the entire day. Coward. He turned down the hall, his footsteps echoing in his big, lonely house. What had made him think for even a second that he and an angel could ever be united? That he’d be able to hide from her the rage in his heart or the stain on his soul?
Madness, pure madness.
Simon reached the doors to his conservatory and paused. Even from without he could smell them. Roses. So serene, so perfect. As a young boy, he’d been mesmerized by the swirl of velvet petals that led to a secret center, hidden and shy, at the flower’s heart. The thing about roses was that even when not in bloom, they required constant care. The leaves must be inspected for blight, mildew, and parasites. The soil must be carefully tended, weeded, and improved. The plant itself should be cut back in autumn, sometimes quite savagely, in order that it might bloom again in the spring. A demanding, selfish flower, the rose, but one that rewarded with spectacular beauty when well cared for.
He had a sudden memory of himself, young and unmade, sneaking into the rose garden to hide from his tutor. The gardener, Burns, tending to the roses, not noticing the boy stealing behind. Only, of course, the gardener must have noticed. Simon smirked. The old man had merely pretended not to know the boy was in the garden, ducking his studies. In that way both could coexist in the place they loved best without any to blame should they be discovered.
He laid his hand on the door feeling the cedar wood, imported specially when he’d had this adult refuge made. Even as a grown man he went to the rose garden to hide.
Simon pushed open the door, and the humid air caressed his face. He could feel the sweat start along his hairline as he took a gulp of brandy. Newton had made sure the greenhouse was tidied again within an hour of Christian’s departure. One would never know that there had been a fight here. He moved farther in and waited for the smell of loam and the sweet perfume of the roses to bring back his serenity. To return his soul to his body and make him whole again—less a demon and more a man. They did not.
Simon stared at the long row of benches, at the neatly ordered pots, at the plants, some mere thorny sticks, some flamboyantly in bloom. The colors assaulted his eyes, every shade of white and pink and red and all the imaginable hues in between: flesh pink, cold white, black crimson, and a rose the exact shade of Lucy’s lips. It was a dazzling display that had taken him most of his adult life to collect, a masterpiece of horticulture.
He looked up to where the glass ceiling came to a perfect angle overhead, protecting the delicate plants within and keeping the chill London wind without. He looked down to the carefully laid bricks beneath his feet, arranged in a herringbone pattern, orderly and neat. The greenhouse was exactly as he’d envisioned it ten years before, when he’d had it built. It was in every way the culmination of all his dreams of refuge, of peace. It was perfect.
Except that Lucy was not here.
There would never again be peace for him. Simon tossed back the rest of the brandy, raised his tumbler high, and threw it to the bricks. Glass shattered across the path.
THE DARK CLOUDS HANGING LOW in the sky threatened rain or maybe even snow. Lucy shivered and chafed her hands together. She should’ve worn mittens. Hoarfrost had delicately entombed the garden this morning, delineating each dead leaf, each frozen stem with white fur. She touched a withered apple and watched the frost melt in a perfect circle under the warmth from her fingertip. The apple beneath was still dead.
It was really too chill to be outside, but she was restless today, and the house felt confining. She’d tried sitting inside, working on a sketch of a country kitchen still life: big earthen bowl, brown eggs, and Mrs. Brodie’s freshly baked bread. The eggs had turned misshapen under her fingers, and her charcoal had broken against the paper, making a messy blotch.