Fiona (17 page)

When we finally get
to the tiny hospital in Beasley, we find Charlie sitting in the waiting room, his head in his hands.

“What happened?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I don't know. I woke up and she was screaming, and there was all this blood—so much blood!” He buries his head back in his hands. “She didn't want me in the hospital room. She kicked me out. No one's talking to me. I don't know—I don't know what's happening.”

He's losing it, driven mad by worry and fear. He looks up and sees Poppy, as if noticing her for the first time, and I watch as he struggles to gain control over himself. “It's fine,” he says to her. “It's going to be fine. These things happen.”

Poppy nods and, letting go of my hand and reaching for his, sits beside him. I sit down in the empty seat on his other side,
Albert next to me, and the four of us wait in that blank space in silence, all of us trapped in our own thoughts.

I've managed to banish that ugly voice from my mind, and now all I'm left with is worry. Because despite everything I feel for Charlie, despite everything I think about Blair, he loves that baby. He's got to be hurting so much right now, and it kills me that there's nothing I can do to help.

Finally, a doctor comes out into the waiting room. He's young, probably just out of school. Which may explain why he looks so nervous as Charlie springs up from his chair.

“How is she?” Charlie all but shouts.

“She's fine,” the doctor says, but there's a strangeness in his voice. A tone that tells me something's off.

“And the baby?”

The doctor hesitates, as if trying to choose his words carefully. Then, instead of speaking at all, he just shakes his head.

Charlie's expression falls, utterly and completely, and my heart breaks. I want to pull him to me, to wipe that mess of hurt and pain off his face, but I can't move. And he doesn't need me right now. He needs her.

“What happens now?” he asks, sounding so lost despite the courage in his tone. “What does Blair need?”

The doctor shakes his head again, clicking his pen open
and closed in an erratic rhythm. “She's perfectly fine. She can go home now.”

“Already? She has to be in shock, or pain, or . . . something.”

“She's just fine,” the doctor repeats. “You can take her home now. In fact, that would be best for her. If you'll excuse me,” he says, giving us an apologetic look before moving past us to the nurses' station, where he starts filling out some paperwork.

Charlie watches the doctor for a few seconds, stunned, before he walks back to find Blair. I put my hand on Poppy's shoulder, and she pivots to hug me tightly. She's crying, and I feel my T-shirt soak up her tears. “What about the nursery?” she asks in sobbing gasps.

I bend down to look her in the eye. “Hey, it's going to be okay. Charlie—and Blair—we'll get through it, okay?”

I hug her close to me again, and she nods. “I'm just so tired of having to get through things,” she whispers, and I have to blink back sudden tears.

Because Poppy's lost yet another member of her family. And there's nothing I can do to help her either.

• • •

Albert drives all of us home. I'm up front with him; Poppy, Charlie, and a very quiet Blair sit in the back. Charlie is in the middle, a protective arm around his fiancée. No one talks. No one wants to disturb the grief-filled silence that's settled all around us.

When we get back to the castle, Charlie helps Blair out, handling her gingerly. She looks pale in the early morning mist, and there are dark circles under her eyes. She leans heavily on Charlie's arm but doesn't look at any of us. The two of them make their way up the stairs, leaving us below.

I don't remember that it's Christmas until my eyes land on the evergreen garlands lining the stair railing.

Mabel marches up to Poppy and me, her hair neat as always under her white cap, her eyes flashing with anger. “Poppy, go to bed at once,” she says, then turns to me. “You've exhausted and upset her, taking her out to the hospital in the middle of the night,” she spits.

“It was a family emergency,” I say, staring her down. “She needed to be there, whether you understand that or not.”

She lifts her chin defiantly at me. “If you think I don't care about this family, you're sorely mistaken.”

“Poppy, go on upstairs,” I say sweetly, ignoring Mabel. “Get some sleep.”

Hardly able to keep her eyes open, Poppy nods and trudges up the stairs. I turn back to Mabel. “Enough,” I say, my voice full of warning.

Mabel huffs, but retreats back toward the kitchen.

Soon I'm back in my room, trying to sleep that awful night and the morning away.

Over the next week,
it's as if a shroud has fallen over the house. Poppy can hardly muster a smile. Even the chipper kitchen girls seem less chatty.

The door to Charlie's office is closed most mornings, but I think he's really spending most of his time in his room with Blair, who hasn't left it since that night. Mabel sends all her meals up there.

I can't imagine the pain of losing a child that you wanted so much, so I don't blame Blair for becoming a recluse. But now I can't stop thinking about that doctor. Something about his behavior was so strange. Was he just nervous because he had to tell a father that his child didn't survive?

Or was I right all along to doubt Blair's pregnancy? And was the doctor somehow involved in the lie? Charlie had just
proposed to her. If she were going to pretend to lose the baby, of course she would have chosen that moment to do it.

She couldn't be that cruel, could she? Then again . . . would Charlie have taken her back if she hadn't been pregnant?

And what will he do now that she's lost the baby, the only thing that was tying him to her?

But of course I know exactly what he'll do. He'll marry her, just like he promised he would. He wouldn't abandon her, especially not when she's just lost a baby. Their baby. Like I told him, he's not the type of guy who hurts people. Not on purpose, anyway.

He doesn't mean to hurt me, but he does anyway.

The garbled whispers are back, keeping me awake, with my head full of thoughts. The circles beneath my eyes grow darker, and most days I feel like I'm drifting through the house in a dream. Nothing feels quite real anymore.

Then, on New Year's Eve day, after a week of mourning, Blair reappears at breakfast, sitting at the head of the table in a peach silk dressing gown when I come in. I stop in the doorway, watching her as she butters her toast and smiles at Poppy. Poppy, clearly overjoyed to have her back, chatters about all the latest gossip from her friends and the jump she and Copperfield managed yesterday.

“Hi,” I say to Blair, and she finally looks at me. I mean to
sound welcoming and kind, but I can tell my voice comes out guarded.

She smiles blandly at me as I take my seat next to Poppy. “Good morning,” she says, then turns away. “Oh, Charles, I forgot to tell you: Lady Thorne called me yesterday. It's almost time for the charity ball for the children's hospital in Beasley. She wanted to confirm some details. I'd almost forgotten that we'd agreed to host it, but the invitations are out. So I told her everything would be arranged.”

“Are you sure you're up for that?” Charlie asks softly.

“Of course,” she says lightly, looking down at her plate. “It's for charity. Besides, Mabs will help me, like she always helped your mum.”

She still doesn't look at him, so she doesn't see him flinch at her casual mention of his mother. Suddenly, I want to hit her, despite everything she's just been through, and my hands shake with that wanting as I try to butter my own toast. Maybe I'm not a good person, or maybe just not when it comes to her. Not when it comes to protecting
him
.

“And anyway, this house could use a party,” Blair continues, still oblivious.

“Could I come?” Poppy asks, looking hopefully at Charlie.

He nods hesitantly. And then his eyes shift to mine for the first time since I entered the room. I want to tell him everything
that I'm thinking, but mostly that I'm so sorry. He must see it in my eyes, because he nods slightly and then turns his attention back to Blair as she starts listing everything they'll need to do to prepare for the ball.

• • •

That afternoon, I need fresh air and space to think. Even though it's bitterly cold outside, I pull on my thickest coat and head out for a walk.

I'm nearly to the hedge maze when I run into Charlie coming the opposite way, back to the house. “Hi,” I say uncertainly. He's wearing a heavy gray coat and a green scarf that makes his eyes almost achingly bright. It's hard to look directly at him.

“Hello,” he says. “Are you out on a walk?”

I nod.

“It's a good day for it,” he says, sounding almost as awkward and stilted as I feel. “It's warmer in the woods than out in the open.”

I can't help but shiver as I look over his shoulder at the line of tall fir trees beyond. I'm certainly not going back into the woods again. Even though I know it was just my imagination running on overdrive that day of the storm, I don't need to face that darkness again.

I look back at him, but he's looking past me, and I turn to see what's caught his eye. Mabel is standing at the back door
of the castle, looking out at us. Even though I can't see them clearly, I can feel her dark eyes watching us, burning into us, like those of a wraith.

Charlie grabs my hand, and I whip my head back around to face him. He pulls me into the hedge maze, his hand as hot as fire on mine. What is he doing?

“Have you done the maze before?” he asks, dropping my hand as soon as we're hidden from view. His tone is casual, as if nothing happened. Is he not going to mention why we just ran from Mabel? Why he acted as though she caught us doing something wrong?

“No,” I say faintly. He's stopped, and I realize after a long moment that he wants me to pick which way to go. I go left.

“Have you made any New Year's resolutions?” he asks as he follows me.

I can hardly focus on the maze, as I randomly turn at intersections. “I don't usually make resolutions.”

“Why not?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.

Because there's only one resolution that really matters to me every year: Don't inherit my mother's disease. And since I can't control that, resolutions seem pointless.

But I can't tell him that, so instead I say, “Because most New Year's resolutions end up abandoned by the end of January. Why put all that pressure on yourself?”

We've come to a dead end, and I stop, turning toward him. “I'm sorry,” I say, looking up at him. “I'm so sorry about the baby.”

“Thank you,” he says softly.

I should keep walking past him. Pretend to find my way through this maze alone. But I can't move.

Until he steps closer to me, and I step backward, pressing myself into the dense row of hedges at my back.

He stops, and I don't think either of us is breathing.

“What are your New Year's resolutions?” I choke out.

His eyes trace a path from the top of my forehead down to my lips. “To stop wanting things I know I can't have,” he whispers.

My lips part in surprise, but before I can say anything, he turns and walks off, leaving me lost in this stupid maze. My knees are shaking too much to follow, and I sink down to the ground, trying to catch my breath.

He's engaged
, I tell myself.
He's just lost a baby
.

I don't care. I don't think I can ever stop wanting him.

I have to try. Or I might lose control of my mind. I can't torment myself like this.

I just don't know how to stop it.

• • •

I go to bed early, before midnight marks the New Year, sleeping as soundly as I can in this house. I'm up hours before the sun
the next morning, determined to eat breakfast before anyone comes down to the dining room. I'm just passing through the kitchen when I see Mabel, hurrying around with a bushel of burning tree branches under her arm.

“What are you doing?” I call out in alarm. The whole downstairs is filling with smoke, choking with its sticky sweet scent, and I cough violently in its wake. Is she trying to set the house on fire?

I'm looking around for water and am reaching for a pitcher on the counter when she stops me, sneering. She looks me up and down, and I wonder if she's going to mention anything about yesterday, when she saw Charlie and me steal away.

“It's the
saining
,” she says finally. “A New Year's tradition to cleanse the house. You fill the house with smoke from the juniper branches and then throw open the windows to let the fresh New Year air in.” She frowns down at the branches. “I didn't do it last year, and look what happened. We need all the luck we can get.”

She looks up, as if suddenly remembering to whom she's talking, and scowls before pushing past me.

I can't help but remember the time I watched her sink down into the darkness of the room below the tower, the room with the tree. Does she truly believe in this magic? That this ritual actually exerts power over this house?

What secrets does this strange woman hold?

Next Friday,
it's the day of the ball, and the whole household is scurrying around like it's preparing for an invasion.

Poppy is supposed to be working on a paper for English class, due after the holiday break ends this coming Monday. The assignment is to write about her favorite book, so of course she chose
David Copperfield
. But she can barely get through a single sentence without looking up and asking me if I think the dress she picked out will be pretty enough, if there will be anyone her age at the ball, what is she supposed to do if a boy asks her to dance?

I finally leave the room, hoping that without me to distract her, she can get at least a little work done, but I don't have much confidence.

I can't blame her. I'm not even going to the ball, but I
can't focus on anything else either. I can't stop thinking about Charlie, how he'll be dancing with Blair all night. He'll hold her close and kiss her in front of everybody and be the loving, devoted husband-to-be that she wants him to be.

When guests start arriving, I shut myself up in my room with a stack of books from the library, hoping at least one of them will be able to distract me. But before I can choose one, there's a frantic knock on my door.

I open it to find Poppy, standing there in her pale blue dress, her blond hair expertly curled and pinned up by Blair's stylist.

“You have to come with me!” she insists before I can ask her what she's doing here.

“What?” I say with a laugh. She stares at me, her eyebrows raised, and my laughter fades. “Wait, you can't be serious?”

“I don't know anyone down there, and Charlie and Blair are going to be too busy to pay attention to me.” She pauses. “Please?”

“Poppy, I don't know anyone down there either. And I'm an employee here—I'm not invited.” No one ever told me not to come, of course, but Blair certainly didn't invite me either. Regardless, it's pretty clear that I'm not wanted down there.

By anyone except the very stubborn eleven-year-old girl
standing in front of me. “
I'm
inviting you,” she declares, shrugging. “Please?”

She looks so nervous and worried that I know I won't be able to stand my ground on this one. I can just pop down with her and then disappear when she inevitably finds someone else to chat with. “Fine,” I say. I run a hand through my hair to smooth it, and gesture her out the door.

“You can't go like that,” she says, her expression a cross between concerned and bewildered.

I look down at my gray pants and forest green sweater. Right.

“You need a dress,” she says, rolling her eyes dramatically, perfectly playing the role of a typical tween. She opens the door to my closet and starts rummaging through it until she finds what she's looking for.

“This'll do,” she says triumphantly as she pulls out the dark plum cocktail dress I bought in town that day with her and Blair. “Put it on, quick!” she says, hurrying out the door and closing it behind her.

The thought of putting on this dress and walking down among all those people, as if I belong, makes a fluttering feeling rise in my stomach. Still, I pull the dress over my head and fumble with the zipper. I look at my face for a moment in the
mirror, and before I can change my mind, I swipe on some blush and a bit of lip gloss. And then, because I'm getting into the spirit of things, I twist my hair back into a quick chignon, securing it with an army of bobby pins. It looks a little less messy that way, at least. I slip on the low black heels Poppy insisted I buy on that same shopping trip and try not to stumble as I fling the door open.

“Much better,” Poppy says, and I almost roll my eyes at her to see how she likes it. Instead I just bite the inside of my lip and follow her down the stairs to the second floor, where we wind our way out of the medieval part of the castle and into the wing built in the seventeenth century, when the Moffats decided they needed a grand ballroom.

A grand ballroom that is currently packed with strangers. No wonder Poppy didn't feel like facing this crowd alone.

All the women are in long, formal dresses, some with poufy ball-gown skirts. I'm definitely underdressed in my knee-length skirt, but I there's nothing I can do about it now, so I straighten my shoulders and move forward into the room.
I'm just here for Poppy
, I tell myself over and over. I shouldn't care what anyone else thinks of me. But as soon as I enter the room, I start looking for Charlie. Will he see me? What will he think?

But instead of Charlie, I spot Blair. She's holding court near the center of the room, just before the dance floor. She's
wearing a voluminous, billowing gray ball gown, the color of an approaching storm, which I only get peeks at through the crowd.

And then I see Charlie, standing right beside her.

I watch as his eyes go wide and his lips part just slightly as he notices me and takes me in. I exhale a shaky breath through my teeth and try to break my gaze from his, but find that I can't. And I can't disguise the pain—the aching need—that courses through me. He sees it all, as he always does.

The crowd closes in around us, and we're hidden from one another again. I turn to Poppy, who's now happily talking and laughing with a girl who looks to be around her age. “I'm just going to step outside for some air,” I say, and Poppy smiles and nods, now apparently quite content to be left alone.

I push myself as politely as possible through the swell of people blocking the way until I've almost made it back to the entrance, but before I get there, I feel a hand on my arm. I know that it's him before I even turn around.

“Dance with me,” Charlie says.

I want to refuse. I want to slip my arm from his and escape out that doorway and out of this castle into the cold winter air I need so desperately, but I can't think straight with his hand on me, when he's wearing a tuxedo that's tailored so perfectly. So I let him lead me out to the dance floor. The band is playing
Waltz no. 2 by Shostakovich, an epic and beautiful piece. The couples around us are a mix of old and young, some of them dancing the proper steps, some of them just swaying together to the rhythm. I try to focus on them as Charlie puts his hand on the small of my back, drawing me in until my body is pressed against his. My breath comes in shallow gasps. We're much too close, I know it. I look at the other couples, trying to tell if they're pressed as closely together as we are, while Charlie takes my arms and wraps them around his shoulders. Suddenly my focus is on him alone. We start moving together to the music, and I close my eyes. One of his hands stays pressed to the small of my back, and the other slides up into my hair, scattering a few of my bobby pins until my curls threaten to break free. My chest is pressed to his, so close that I can feel his heartbeat, racing just as fast as mine. I cling to his shoulders, pressing him even tighter to me.

Why doesn't he seem to care who sees us? Where is Blair? Shouldn't she be running over here to separate us? Why hasn't everyone else around us stopped to stare?

“Fiona,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”

I take a breath and lift my chin. I know my eyes are full of my desperation, and his gaze is only reflecting all of that right back at me.

There's no denying it now, not after his confession on New
Year's Eve, and now this. He wants me just as much as I want him. I should feel elated, but it's as if my body doesn't have the room right now for any more emotion.

We sway together for a few moments, our eyes locked. With every breath, I'm fighting the urge to press my lips to his. I can't kiss him. Not here in the middle of the ballroom.

Then his eyes drop to my lips, and I have to tighten my grasp on him to keep from stumbling on my shaky legs. We're torturing each other.

I bury my head in the crook of his neck, nuzzling there. At least now we can't see each other—or each other's lips. I breathe into his neck, now feeling as if I might cry. Because this is it. This is the one moment we'll have, I know it. It has to be. After this song, he will go back to Blair, and I will go back to being just a governess. And then all I'll be left with is the memory of how it feels to be pressed here against him, to feel his heartbeat, to know how perfectly my body fits into his.

I press my lips to his neck again, just above his collar. One kiss. One soft kiss. I feel his fingers tighten on my back, on my neck, and I know he felt it.

The music fades, and I stumble to a stop.

It's over. I have to let it be over.

I push my hands against his chest to break free of his embrace, and, before he can react, I am threading a path
through the crowd until I'm finally out in the corridor again. I find an out-of-the-way spot where I can catch my breath before retreating back to my room.

Before I can, though, I look up to see a tall figure right in front of me. Gareth, standing in my way.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say quickly, wondering if he saw me dancing with Charlie. “Just not really my type of crowd.”

“Fair enough,” he says. He's dressed up, I realize. Not in a tux, but in a button-down shirt and slacks, a huge change from the rough flannel shirts and jeans that he usually wears.

He catches me looking curiously at his clothes and laughs. “Mabel asked all the staff to dress up for the night. The whole house has to look the part, apparently.” He smiles at me again, more gently this time. “You look nice.”

“I'm not really dressed up enough for
this
, though,” I say, looking down at my dress and gesturing toward the ballroom. Mabel didn't tell me to dress up, probably assuming—or maybe hoping—that I would stay up in my room all night.

“Fee,” he says, stepping closer. His easy, flirtatious tone is back, and he bends down to whisper in my ear, “You're the only girl worth looking at in this entire party.”

I shiver. It feels wrong to hear someone else's whisper. I'm
just about to step back, to end this stupid flirtation, when I see a figure approaching us out of the corner of my eye.

Gareth must hear the catch in my breath, because he turns around to see Charlie there.

“Gareth,” Charlie says with a nod. His voice is polite enough, but then his eyes fasten on mine with a flash of intensity.

I watch Gareth look from Charlie to me and back again, and his entire body tenses up. “I should go check on the horses,” he says, his voice low, almost angry-sounding. I can't even look at him before he walks away.

I can't look at anything but Charlie.

My lips are still buzzing, as if I can still feel the warm skin of his neck on them.

“Gareth was just joking around with me,” I say, though I don't know why I'm explaining myself.

“Yeah, well, I don't like his kind of joking.” He steps closer to me. “I don't like him near you.” His words are harsh, but his tone is full of hurt.

I step closer to him, anger making me bold. There's no space between us now. “Why?” I ask, challenging him.

He clenches his jaw. “Let's go to the library,” he says sternly. “You need to play me a song.”

“What?” I ask, confused. “Why?”

He leans down so that his lips are right next to my ear as he whispers, “Because I want to tell you a secret.”

“No,” I say, drawing back, suddenly near tears. Angry tears—not the tears of pain that I've been crying these last few days. “No more games. You want to tell me something, then just tell me.”

“Fiona.” He says my name like it's a prayer.

I close my eyes. Because if I look at him for one more second, I'm either going to slap him or throw my arms around him and press my lips to his, and there are too many people in this corridor for me to do either of those things.

The feel of his hand on my cheek shocks my eyes back open. He says my name again, and this time it sounds like salvation on his lips. And then he's leaning toward me, his mouth nearing mine, and I'm pushing myself up on my tiptoes to meet him, and—

“What are you doing out here?” Blair's voice cuts between us like a blade.

I watch in horror as Charlie steps back from me, a mask of bored nonchalance falling over his face. “Nothing,” he says, turning toward her.

She smiles at him. Smiles, as if she didn't see us mere inches from each other, about to collide. I fall back onto my heels, my shoes clacking on the stone floor.

“Well, come on, then,” she says to him. “There are about a
million people waiting to meet you.” She holds out her hand, and, after only a moment of hesitation, he takes it, linking his arm with hers and leading her back to the ballroom.

“Have a good night, Fee,” she calls over her shoulder, her face flashing with a grotesque smile, a pointed, victorious grin, before she glides on with her fiancé securely in place.

He doesn't look back at me. Not even once.

I stare at the space where he just was, feeling like I've been drenched by a bucket of ice water.

I'm done. I'm so done. I'm not staying here anymore. I won't stand by and watch him choose her again and again. I won't let him get my hopes up anymore, only to dash them right back down again, even if he claims he doesn't mean to. Even if he's trying not to. I can't bear it anymore.

The guests in the corridor are watching me as angry tears finally start falling down my cheeks. I don't even care. Those people can't make me feel any more foolish than I already feel.

I turn away from them, toward the wall, and realize that I've been standing under the portrait of the Grey Lady. The goddamned Grey Lady.

I feel like I'm going to throw up. I spin back around and run for the staircase as best as I can in these stupid heels, the corridor now silent as everyone watches me run away like a madwoman.

I run through the maze of rooms to the servants' staircase, where I take the spinning steps two at a time, tripping and pitching forward with every footfall. I don't care. I just need to get up to my room, pack my things, and get the hell out of this place before my heart can break any more. Before my
mind
can break any more.