I don’t sleep that night. Alistair and I don’t say another word to each other, not in the back of the limousine he insisted we take, not after the driver drops us off at the front entrance of the mansion.

He’s just drunk, I tell myself. He’s drunk, and I’m sure that staying this long with his family has taken its toll on him as well.

He’s not really like this, he’s just like this right now.

I spend hours lying awake, trying to convince myself of it. I remind myself of the time he took me to Coney Island for my birthday, of the carriage ride around Central Park, of when he proposed six months ago at a restaurant high above Manhattan with a thousand-dollar bottle of champagne.

But even though I know there were good times that weren’t about money, I can’t think of any right now. Every time I try my brain slips to him, shaking the glass, snapping his fingers. Smashing it on the floor like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

And I think I know what he’ll say tomorrow, sober, when I try to talk to him about it.

Darling, I’m so sorry, I thought you’d enjoy a night out at a pub, just the two of us.

I just love you so much I can’t stand the thought of you coming here alone and talking to someone else.

I know I behaved a bit badly, you have as well, you know.

When the sun comes up, my stomach is still in knots.

* * *

I don’t want to leave my suite that morning. If I could, I’d avoid Alistair forever, avoid his family, just go back home to New York and wait for all this awfulness to blow over.

But I can’t. No matter how awful he was last night, my parents did raise me right and I can’t just stay at someone else’s house and completely ignore them. I’m here as a guest of the Winsteads, and whatever it is they think of me, I have to be polite.

Alistair doesn’t, though. He’s not at breakfast, he’s nowhere to be found midmorning. Elizabeth kicks my ass at tennis and he doesn’t even show up to tell her how much better she is than me.

He’s not at lunch. Not at tea. I’m starting to wonder if he’s dead, or if maybe he’s gone back to New York without telling me and simply left me here alone with his family. If he had, and they all knew, someone would tell me, right?

I’m not sure they would. His mother and sister don’t say a word to me if they don’t think it’s necessary. I’m sure Elizabeth only deigned to play tennis with me this morning because she knew she could kick my ass, and she enjoyed it.

“It’s so lovely that you try,” she told me once our match was over.

I have no response.

Finally, before dinner, dressed in my last dinner outfit before I have to start repeating dresses, I find Eunice in the hall outside his suite and ask her if he’s been out of his room all day.

“I believe he’s in the study right now, Miss,” she says, ducking her head slightly. “He’s been in there for some time.”

I blink.

“Oh, thank you,” I say. “I didn’t realize he’d... never mind. Thanks, Eunice.”

She looks amused at the double thank-you, and I turn, walking down the hallway.

I don’t know what I’m about to say. I’m nervous, so nervous I’m sweating, and I’ve spent my day practicing a thousand things that I could say but I’m not sure which is the right one.

Is it please don’t embarrass me anymore?

Is it we need to have a serious discussion about our future?

Is it I barely recognize you like this?

I stand in front of the study door, stock-still. I don’t move for a whole minute, then two, memorizing the wood grain pattern because I have a sick, heavy feeling in my stomach.

It’s the feeling that talking might not be working. Alistair keeps saying one thing and then doing another, and at what point do I stop caring what he says?

I hate it. I hate the thought that talking might not work, because what then? I’ve come into adulthood with the idea that reasonable discussions are how grownups fix things between themselves, and if that’s not true, I’m not sure what is.

One more conversation, I tell myself. Just give him that.

I knock on the study door. Silence. Eunice must have been wrong, but I knock one more time, just in case. I’ve come this far, I can’t back down now.

Within, there’s a distinct shuffling sound. A whisper, and then — clear as day — there’s a giggle.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I turn the knob on the door but it’s locked.

“Sorry, a moment,” Alistair’s voice calls out.

There’s another long pause, and I wish desperately for x-ray vision. I feel like an idiot and an asshole standing out here in the hallway. Finally, after ages, the knob is unlocked and the door opens to Alistair, already dressed for dinner, an annoyed expression on his face.

He rearranges it the moment he sees it’s me.

“Françoise,” he says, his pale eyes giving me a quick up-and-down. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Behind him, someone stands from a chair and walks toward us.

Bridget, and right away I know that I should be suspicious and jealous and maybe even angry that they were locked in the study together, but I can’t summon up any of those feelings. At best, I’m mildly annoyed.

“Hi, Françoise,” she says, tilting her head prettily to one side. “Alistair was just showing me some of his old family albums. I’ve been bothering Lizzie to show me for months, but she’s just never gotten around to it.”

Sure, I think. I have no idea whether she’s lying or not, but I’m having a hard time caring right now.

Bridget smirks. Her mouth makes a shape that she probably thinks is attractive, but looks like a bill, and she wipes below her lower lip with one thumb.

“Do you mind if Alistair and I talk alone?” I ask in a tone of voice that indicates I don’t care whether or not she minds.

“Of course,” she says, turning to Alistair. “See you at cocktails?”

He smiles at her, but it’s hollow. His mind is somewhere else, and Bridget leaves. I shut the study door behind myself and cross my arms over my chest.

“I don’t know what you’re being so unreasonable about, we were simply looking over old photographs and didn’t want the maid coming in,” he says.

I’m taken by surprise, because I’ve been rehearsing something completely different to say to him, something about last night, about taking me into considerations sometimes when he does things.

“What?” I ask.

He’s suddenly uncertain, flicks his eyes over me again.

“I can tell when you’re angry about something,” he says, but his voice is considerably less assured than it was even a moment ago. “And you’ve got no right.”

I stare at him, caught off-guard. This is strangely unlike him, to go on the offensive when I want to talk. Usually he at least waits until I tell him what I want to say before dismissing me.

“I came here about last night,” I say, slowly.

Alistair pushes his floppy hair off his forehead, looks at me appraisingly. Then he sighs.

“Yes, I apologize for drinking too much,” he says. “I was having a lovely night and I suppose I just wanted to keep it going with you.”

I raise one eyebrow.

“We haven’t gone on a proper date in ages, Françoise,” he says. “Just the two of us, alone. In New York we’ve always been with friends, your family, and of course here my parents and Lizzie are always around. I just wanted to get out of the house with you, alone, spend time together like we used to.”

I’m honestly surprised. It’s almost exactly what I thought he’d say, and I’m not usually that good at predicting him. It’s still bullshit, though.

Alistair studies my face. I’ve never been any good at hiding my emotions, but I have no idea what he’s finding there, so I have no idea what prompts him to go on.

“And I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out you’ve not been behaving well either,” he says, his voice suddenly softer, but with a sharp edge. “Sneaking out at night and going to pub? Chatting up the barman when you’re out alone, by yourself?”

I swallow, look away. It sounds so awful when he puts it like that.

“I haven’t done a single thing wrong,” I whisper, tears quaking in my eyes.

I’m angry. Furious, because who does he think he is? He was just in here, alone, door locked, with Bridget and I know she wants his balls.

But he’s also right. I did that, and I kept telling myself how it wasn’t that bad which is the surest sign possible that I knew I was doing something bad.

“No?” he asks. “That bloke really does work at a flower shop, then?”

“You smashed a glass on the floor!”

“I pay for you to come here, stay with my family, in my home—”

“I haven’t done shit and you know it, Alistair—”

“—Only for you to sneak around behind my back—”

“—You rescheduled flights without telling me, you act like I’m your pet for fuck’s sake—”

“—And lie to my face about it?”

“You were just in here with Bridget with the door locked!”

Now I’m crying, hard, stomach roiling, hands balled into fists at my sides. I was right about what he’d say and I completely hate it. He’s done the same thing he always does, take my words and explain why they’re wrong. Why he’s right, he’s noble, he’s a good man for putting up with my constant bullshit.

Only this is worse than usual, the lens that’s suddenly letting me see all the times he’s done this. It’s a pattern, repeating, and I have a horrible, crystal-clear moment of clarity.

This is going to be my life. Constantly apologizing for what he’s done.

I stand there, tears rolling down my face, feet planted on the floor. I’m just staring at him, his hands in his pockets, looking smug and comfortable as always.

And I don’t know what to do. I’m tired of talking to him, I’m tired of trying to make myself heard. Every time I try I just end up apologizing, and I know I’m not perfect, but I’m also pretty sure that I’m not entirely at fault.

I wonder how much he’ll get his way. I wonder how much I’ll give in to this tactic, whether I’ll end up moving to England, living here, being miserable. I wonder if I’ll finally acquiesce to getting rid of my career and being a housewife who runs the estate.

“Darling,” he says, and there’s tenderness in his voice but I don’t think it’s real. I’m not falling for it. “I do wish you’d just let me make you happy.”

I can’t even talk to him, I realize. Not even that one small thing.

I clear my throat.

“I don’t feel well,” I say. “Could you please tell everyone that I won’t be at cocktails or dinner?”

“Françoise,” he says, as I turn and head for the door.

I don’t answer.

“Frankie,” he says, in the same tone of voice he’d use to talk about dog shit or raw sewage.

The door shuts behind me. He doesn’t follow.

* * *

I spend an hour just crying. I lay on the huge canopy bed, fit for a princess, and I sob it out. Angry, sad, furious, heartbroken, scared, uncertain — it’s all there, even as I can hear the faint sounds of people downstairs drinking, clinking their glasses together, laughing.

But by the end of it, by the time I’m sitting upright, mascara and eyeliner smearing the pillows, hiccupping, I’m pretty sure of one thing.

I can’t do this. I can’t marry him.

I think maybe I should have realized it a long time ago. I wonder why I didn’t decline our second date after he ordered for me without asking at the first. Sure, at the time it seemed somehow gallant and chivalrous even if it was also kind of annoying, but I ignored it.

Because he was charming, and British, and fun, and he showed me a life I’d never really imagined existed.

But he hasn’t changed. People don’t change, not really, not who they are deep down inside underneath the façade they show to the outside world. Alistair’s always going to be Alistair, and everything’s always going to be my fault.

I sit on the bed for a long time. Probably past when dinner ends, past when everyone retires to bed or the game room or whatever they’re doing right now. Bridget’s probably got her claws in him, dragging him off to somewhere else so she can ooh and ahh and fawn over his stupid, smug face.

I’m not talking to him again. I can’t. There’s no point, so instead I sit at the desk in my suite and pull out the stationary set that’s in a drawer because of course the mansion has stationary and they provide it to all their guests.

First, I write a stiffly polite, cordial note to his parents. I thank them for the stay, compliment their home, and apologize for my hasty departure. I’m sure they’ll be pissed anyway, but it’s not like I care too much at this point.

Alistair’s letter I start and re-start five different times. I keep trying to explain myself, keep trying to use different words to explain why I’m writing him and not talking to him, why I chose to do things this way and not another.

Finally, on the sixth draft, I remind myself: I can’t make him understand. I don’t think it matters at all what I say, he’ll see me as an American floozy who ran away instead of fixing herself.

Alistair,

I finally understand that this isn’t going to work. I’m heading back home to New York.

Don’t worry about calling the venue and all the wedding vendors, I’ll do it.

Sorry.

Frankie

I stare at it for a long time, but I can’t think of anything better to say. I know that I probably owe him some kind of explanation, a reason for just calling off the wedding, something, but I can’t bring myself to write it all down at the moment.

Quickly, I take off the ring, shove it into the envelope with the letter. I leave them both on the desk, even though I know it’s cowardly, but I don’t want to tell anyone I’m leaving. I just want to be gone and deal with the consequences of it later.

I lug two big suitcases down the stairs by myself, and by the time any of the household staff rush to my aid I’m already out the door and dragging them across the lawn to the garage. Rupert’s there, and though he can clearly tell I’ve been crying, he’s very professional about it as he helps me load them into the trunk of the Toyota.

“Going on a holiday, Miss?” he asks.

He gives me a significant look. I swallow, trying to hold back a fresh wave of tears.

“Right,” I manage to get out.

There’s a long, long pause. Rupert’s been nearly the only friend I’ve had in the house, and I’m suddenly aware that I might be doing him wrong right now.

“I’ll leave it at the Brougham train station in the morning,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, Rupert.”

He puts one gloved hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

“My condolences, Miss Strauss,” he says, and he actually sounds warm and sincere.

I breathe deep, afraid I’m going to start crying again, but I manage to hold it in.

“Thanks,” I say. “And thanks for everything, Rupert. Good luck.”

“Safe travels,” he says.

Rupert retreats into his apartment.

I drive out of the garage and away from the manor, down the long gravel driveway and to the main road. My heart is thumping the whole time, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.

What if this is the wrong choice?

What if this is the worst decision I’ve ever made?

I could stop now, go back, throw away the notes and they’d never know.

At the end of the long driveway, I brake. There are no cars coming down the road but I stay there, stopped, for a long time anyway.

Suddenly, I don’t know what my future holds. Suddenly, instead of getting married in a couple months I’m single again, at the mercy of online dating and random hookups and meeting men at bars. It’s not too late to change my mind.

I ease off the brake. Turn onto the road. Head toward town, and without realizing what I’m doing, I know where I’m going.

There’s one person who makes me not want to leave this country right this second, one person who gives me second thoughts about catching the train to Manchester tonight.

* * *

But when I push open the Hound’s Ears door to the jingle of bells, it’s not Liam who turns his head toward me. It’s some woman I’ve never seen before, clearly older, hair a color that’s either platinum blonde or gray — I honestly can’t tell.

I stop short in the doorway, and she looks me up and down as a few of the regulars nod at me, go back to their beers. For a moment I’m thrown off-balance, because I’ve never come in here and not found him. I guess he gets days off, though.

“Drink?” she asks as I walk toward the bar, unwinding my scarf from my neck. The men sitting at bar stools are clearly eavesdropping and trying to look like they’re not, and even Malcolm and Giles are quietly drinking and pretending to have a conversation instead of arguing over that damn church bell.

“Actually, is Liam working tonight?” I ask, trying to sound as light as I can. Not like I’m about to say goodbye to him, probably forever.

My heart squeezes at the thought. Through all of this, somehow that part hadn’t occurred to me. The last time ever part.

Her expression doesn’t change as she checks me out, her eyes ice-blue in a broad face that, if I’m being honest, has seen better days.

“Liam doesn’t work here any longer, love,” she finally says, her voice like a scratched record, leaning her elbows on the bar. “I’m afraid your future husband saw to that.”

My stomach belly flops. I swallow.

“Alistair?” I ask, my voice weak.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move a muscle. She just glares.

I guess I’m right.

“How?” I ask, though I’ve got a pretty good idea. The woman’s mouth just flattens into a line, and I can feel the flush working its way up my cheeks.

It’s my fault. I did this. I came here, and I ruined the life of the only person I actually liked.

“The Winsteads have quite a bit more money than anyone else for a hundred miles,” she says. “They’re rather good at getting their way.”

For the second time in an hour, I think I’m going to cry, only this time I’m not mad. I’m fucking devastated: that Liam’s not here, that it’s my fault he’s not.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. One tear falls down my cheek, and I grind my teeth together, trying to force myself to stop crying. “I’m so sorry, do you have his number or anything? It’s just, I’m leaving really soon, and I wanted to say goodbye.”

“I think you’ve done enough to that poor boy,” the woman says.

“Sheila,” interjects Arthur, one of the men who’s somehow always there with a pint in front of him. “Come on.”

She steps back and folds her arms across her chest.

“I’ll give her his address if you don’t,” the man next to Arthur says.

“Don’t get involved.”

“Come on, the Little Lord’s not Frankie’s fault,” he says.

“It’s her fault he had anything to do with Liam.”

Arthur sighs, reaches into his pocket.

“She didn’t know,” he says, and starts going through his phone.

Sheila glares for another moment, then sighs, and starts writing something below the bar. After a long moment she tears a leaf from a notebook and shoves it across the bar.

“There it is,” she says, and levels a finger at me. “Try not to fuck that poor boy up more than he’s already been fucked.”

“Atta girl, Sheila,” Arthur says.

The piece of paper has an address. I grab it before Sheila can change her mind.

“Thank you!” I shout over my shoulder, already heading for the door.

Sheila grumbles something, but I don’t hear it.