The hand I held was warm no longer.
Cold and brittle, the fingers struggled for release, and the rings scratched, cutting at my palm.
I let it go, and as I did so wanted it again.
“Why do you stare at me?” she whispered.
“What have I done to you?
Your face has changed.”
I tried to think what else I had to give.
She had the property, the money, and the jewels.
She had my mind, my body, and my heart.
There was only my name, and that she bore already.
Nothing remained.
Unless it should be fear. I took the candle from her hand and placed it on the ledge, above the stairs.
I put my hands about her throat, encircling it; and now she could not move, but watched me, her eyes wide.
And it was as though I held a frightened bird in my two hands, which, with added pressure, would flutter awhile, and die, and with release would fly away to freedom.
“Never leave me,” I said, “swear it, never, never.”
She tried to move her lips in answer, but could not do so, because of the pressure of my hands.
I loosened my grasp.
She backed away from me, her fingers to her throat.
There were two red weals where my hands had been, on either side of the pearl collar.
“Will you marry me now?” I said to her.
She gave no answer, but walked backwards from me, down the corridor, her eyes upon my face, her fingers still to her throat.
I saw my own shadow on the wall, a monstrous thing, without shape or substance.
I saw her disappear under the archway.
I heard the door shut, and the key turn in the lock.
I went to my room, and catching sight of my reflection in the mirror paused, and stared.
Surely it was Ambrose who stood there, with the sweat upon his forehead, the face drained of all color?
Then I moved and was myself again; with stooping shoulders, limbs that were clumsy and too long, hesitant, untutored, the Philip who had indulged in schoolboy folly. Rachel had told the Kendalls to forgive me, and forget.
I flung open the window, but there was no moon tonight and it was raining hard.
The wind blew the curtain, and ruffling the almanac upon the mantelpiece brought it to the floor.
I stooped to pick it up, and tearing off the page crumpled it, and flung it in the fire.
The end of my birthday.
All Fools Day was over.
23
In the morning when I sat to breakfast, looking out upon the blustering windy day with eyes that saw nothing, Seecombe came into the dining room with a note upon the salver.
My heart jumped at the sight of it.
It might be that she asked me to call upon her in her room. But it was not from Rachel.
The handwriting was larger, rounder.
The note was from Louise.
“Mr. Kendall’s groom has just brought this, sir,” said Seecombe, “he is waiting for an answer.”
I read it through.
“Dear Philip, I have been so much distressed by what occurred last night.
I think I understand what you felt, more so than my father.
Please remember I am your friend, and always will be.
I have to go to town this morning.
If you want someone to talk to, I could meet you outside the church a little before noon.
Louise.”
I put the note in my pocket and asked Seecombe to bring me a piece of paper and a pen.
My first instinct, as always at the suggestion of any encounter with no matter whom, but more especially upon this morning, was to scribble a word of thanks, and then refuse.
When Seecombe brought the pen and paper, though, I had decided otherwise.
A sleepless night, an agony of loneliness made me of a sudden yearn for company.