You find Craven pacing in the library, half drunk on brandy and the past.
At the sight of him, you are furious with longing, and just plain furious. Leave it to this man to flee his responsibilities and run from his desires at the very moment that both require him.
“Put the brandy down, man. It is time for action, not self-sorrow.”
He laughs unkindly, and drinks deeply while squinting into the gathering moonlight, feeling sorry for himself.
“You know not my sorrow, woman,” he growls.
That’s it. You’ve had enough. You slap the brandy from his hand and the smirk from his jaw. He looks at you in shock.
“I do hope your full attention is now on the matter at hand, rather than on your own self-pity,” you say coolly.
“Th-thank you,” Craven stammers.
“You must be strong now, for your son. But first, you must tell me what the devil is going on. We’re a team now, damn it. The beast will out, so out it. Now.”
Craven looks at you longingly, imploringly, the barest sheen of tears in his eyes. Oh, hell. You kiss him deeply, softly, and lightly trace the line of his gently hardening member with the palm of your hand, just for encouragement.
A confession issues forth from his lush mouth. He speaks like a poet, tearing pages out of his own journals. He speaks like spilling ink.
“Blanche was beautiful, and I loved her, even if I only married her for her money. She only married me for my name. I was a lord with a decrepit family home, and she was a wealthy Swiss chocolatier’s daughter raised in England. She had all the trappings of the ton with absolutely no title, and I had all the trappings with none of the wealth. ‘We are both outsiders,’ she told me, ‘but come inside, and we can climb as one.’
“I was young and foolish enough to believe her. I fancied myself a writer in those days, which meant I had to marry for money in order to provide for my family. Can you imagine my mother, the Dowager Dragon as you call her, living out the rest of her days, fed only by the hand of charity?”
You stifle a chortle. Indeed, you cannot. He continues.
“Even though we were happy for a time, that all changed when the twins were born. She was unfaithful far before then, of course, but I never disillusioned myself to think I was her only love. Still, that she felt the need to make her indiscretions so flagrant and cunning struck me as particularly cruel. On our honeymoon, on the shores of Lake Geneva, we struck up friendly conversation with a company of fellow poets. She took a particular liking to the most obnoxious—and published—of them all. She enjoyed telling me of his conquests, in the bedroom and on the page. She enjoyed making me feel inferior.
“When the twins were born, she left me for him, for a time. She could not bear the screaming of the babes, but she could more than bear the endless prattling of the poet. When she finally parted ways from his company and returned to me, her entire manner had changed. Her passions were wilder, her angers more ferocious. She focused fresh waves of hatred on the children, insisting that they needed to be ‘dealt with’ or ‘seen to.’ I did not like the way she looked at them, and I tried to be home whenever I could. I tried to make us a family in manner as well as name.”
Your eyes widen as Craven muffles a sob in your midsection.
“If I’d been less of a fool, Helena would still be alive. Alexander would be happy, and you—you would not be here.”
“You do not wish me here?”
“I wish it more than anything in the world. But I know that if you stay, I will damn you. The way I have damned everyone around me.”
He lifts his eyes to hold your gaze and continues, speaking simply. “This is for you, my love,” he says and hands you a small, smooth, polished-ash box.
“What is this?” you ask quizzically and take it from him.
“A new beginning,” he says, casting his eyes downward. A diamond dewdrop of a tear slides down his plush lashes and shatters on the box.
You remove the lid to find a letter of recommendation on his finest stationery commending your governessing skills as well as full first-class passage to America. Your mind is scrambling to work out what this means when he speaks again.
“Of course, I will give you all the money you need, any amount at all, for whatever it is you choose to do. A woman of your skills and drive will most likely wish to work, even if she does not need to. Hence the recommendation. But if you do not wish to work, and perhaps want only to travel, that is just as well. I can pay to—”
“Pay me to leave you?” you interrupt, your broken heart lodged in your throat.
“No, love, I—” he stammers. “This is not payment. It is the best way I can think of for you to be free.”
“What if I do not wish to be free?” You allow your tears to fall like daggers. “Do you not love me?”
“Of course I love you, woman! I love you more than life and breath and reason! I love you more than wind and air and—”
“Then why send me away?” you say, your voice trembling.
“Because I am terrible for you. I am a monster, and you are an angel—” He is unable to finish, interrupted by you snorting and rolling your eyes. “A fallen angel, fine. But still, you are more angel than I.”
There’s a lot to take in here…and a decision to be made.
Do you wish to heal this tortured soul with your love—and some loving? Turn to .
Or do you wish to take him up on his kind offer and leave? Turn to .