“It might help if you stopped looking for her in brothels and gaming hells and tried a more respectable place.” Her words were tart, but her delivery was somewhat marred by the huge yawn that split her face.
Jasper jumped up. “Let me see you home so that you can get some proper rest and continue raking me over the coals tomorrow.”
Sadly, Emeline wasn’t even up to making a token protest. She let Jasper pull her from the chair and escort her outside the few steps to her own door. There he bussed her on the cheek in the same manner he’d used since she was four and turned away.
“Jasper,” she called softly.
He stopped and glanced at her over his shoulder with his beautiful turquoise eyes. His body was tall and lanky in the moonlight, his long, comical face full of tragedy.
Her heartstrings pulled. He’d been Reynaud’s best friend. She’d known him all her life. “I do love you.”
“I know, Emmie, I know. That’s the terrible part.” His face was wry.
She wasn’t sure what to say to that.
He gave a one-fingered wave and then the night swallowed him up.
Emeline climbed the stairs to her own house, wishing she knew what to do about Jasper. She’d barely made it inside when she was descended upon by Tante Cristelle and Melisande.
“Whatever are you doing here?” Emeline asked in tired astonishment at the sight of her friend.
“I came to return your book of fairy tales,” Melisande said prosaically. “But when I got here, Mr. Hartley’s butler was informing your aunt that something was amiss. I decided to stay and keep her company until we had word. But we were never told exactly what had happened.”
So Emeline had to recount the adventure over tea and buns while Tante Cristelle made many interruptions. At the end, she was even more exhausted than she’d been before.
Which Melisande, with her knowing eyes, must’ve seen. “I think you need your bed as soon as you’ve finished that tea.”
Emeline looked into her cooling teacup and only nodded.
She sensed more than saw Melisande and Tante Cristelle exchange worried glances over her head.
“In a moment,” Emeline said, just to stay in control.
Melisande sighed and gestured to the table at Emeline’s elbow. “I put your book of fairy tales there.”
Emeline looked and saw the dusty little book. It still held fond memories of Reynaud, but it no longer seemed so important. “Whatever did you bring it back for?”
“I thought you didn’t want me to translate it?” her friend asked.
Emeline set aside her tea. “I think the fairy-tale book was a link to Reynaud for me. Something to make me sure I wouldn’t forget him. But now it’s not quite so important to have a tangible reminder of him.” She met her oldest friend’s eyes. “It’s not as if I’ll ever forget him, is it?”
Melisande was silent, looking at her with sad eyes.
Emeline reached for the book. She smoothed the tattered cover and then looked up. “Keep it for me, will you?”
“What?”
Emeline smiled and held the book out to her best friend. “Translate it. Maybe you’ll find in it the thing I couldn’t.”
Melisande knitted her brows, but she took the book, holding it on her lap between both hands. “If you think it best.”
“I do.” Emeline yawned hugely and not at all politely. “Goodness. And now it’s to bed for me.”
Melisande accompanied her into the hallway, murmuring a good night before turning to the door.
Emeline started up the stairs and then had a sudden thought, perhaps brought on by the delirium of exhaustion. “Melisande.”
Her friend glanced up from donning her shawl by the door. “Yes?”
“Do you think you can watch after Jasper for me?”
Melisande, that sturdy, unflappable lady, actually gaped in astonishment. “What?”
“I know it’s a strange request, and I’m half out of my mind with weariness right now, but I worry about Jasper.” Emeline smiled at her best friend. “Will you look after him?”
By this time, Melisande had recovered. “Of course, dear.”
“Oh, good.” Emeline nodded and started back up the stairs, a weight off her mind.
Behind her, she heard Melisande call a farewell, and she must’ve murmured something in response, but she could only think of one thing.
She needed to sleep.
“DO YOU THINK Mr. Thornton really was the traitor?” Rebecca asked later that night.
She was sleepy, almost dozing in front of the fire. Samuel had risen from his bed to have a belated cold supper with her, and then they’d retired here. She should be asleep; she was so exhausted after the adventures of the day, but somehow something seemed to be missing.
Across from her, Samuel held up a goblet of brandy and looked through the glass into the fire. “I think so.” His face was battered, new bruises atop old ones that had barely begun to heal, but it was dear to her nonetheless.
She blinked fuzzily. “But you’re not absolutely sure.”
He shook his head decisively and drained the glass. “Thornton is a born liar. It’s impossible to tell whether he really had nothing to do with the massacre or not. He may not know himself—liars have a way of coming to believe their own lies. I doubt we’ll ever be absolutely certain.”
“But”—Rebecca stifled a yawn—“you came halfway around the world to find the truth, to put the massacre to rest. Doesn’t it bother you that Thornton might not be the traitor?”
“No. Not anymore.”
“I don’t understand.”
A smile flickered across his face. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I can never erase Spinner’s Falls entirely from my mind. It’s not possible for me.”
“But that’s awful! How—”
He held up a hand to halt her worried protest. “But what I’ve learned is that I can live with the memory. That the memory is part of me.”
She stared at him worriedly. “That sounds terrible, Samuel. To live with that all your life.”
“It’s not so bad,” he said softly. “I’ve already lived six years fighting with my memories. I think if anything, it’ll be better now that I know the memories are part of who I am.”
She sighed. “I don’t understand, but if you’re at peace, I’m glad.”
“I am.”
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Rebecca began to half doze. A log popped in the fire, and she remembered that there was something else to discuss with her brother before she fell asleep.