Page 124 of The Sainted Duchess
“There are no sides,” Violet said. “Only a sister who is hurt and a brother who would like to fix that pain.”
Maria’s eyes shone, but she blinked them clear. “When I am ready, I will tell him.”
“Tell me first,” Violet said softly.
“Both of you shall have to wait,” she sighed again.
“Fine then,” Violet replied. “But this evening, we shall go out for a walk. I expect you to be ready for it.”
Peter found Nicholas in the study three mornings later, still wearing yesterday’s coat, the curtains drawn against a gray London noon.
Stephen was sitting at the desk, though it no longer looked as if he’d done anything there for hours. The untouched breakfast tray had gone cold; a half-empty decanter stood guard beside a ledger he hadn’t opened.
“You look abysmal,” Peter said, setting down the paper he’d brought. “I mean that in friendship, not criticism.”
“I’ve slept,” Stephen blinked up, eyes bleary.
“Liar.” Peter moved closer. “You look as though you’ve been drafted into the wars. Have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That explains the charming hollow under your cheekbone.” Peter lowered himself into the opposite chair. Stephen almost rolled his eyes at how dramatic that was. “You haven’t left this room since Tuesday, have you?”
“I went riding yesterday,” Stephen said, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“Did you, though?”
Stephen’s silence answered for him. It was a lie, of course. He had not mustered the energy to do much at all since Maria had left.
Peter sighed.
“She hasn’t written?”
“No.” Stephen leaned back. “And I hope she doesn’t. I’ve caused enough damage.”
“You could go to her,” Peter watched him for a moment.
Stephen’s mouth twitched.
“And say what? That I regret telling her the truth? That I’d rather she live chained to my grief than free of me?”
“You could start with I miss you. That would not be the worst thing to say to your wife, perhaps,” Peter said. “You could end with I was wrong.”
“I wasn’t wrong.” The words came too quickly. “I meant every syllable of that vow. I made it with full understanding, and I’ve lived by it all these years. Breaking it because I’m lonely, that would make me no better than him.”
“Your father’s ghost isn’t sitting here, Stephen. You are.”
“He sits everywhere I do,” Stephen said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
He pushed to his feet, pacing to the fire. The flames had burned low, leaving little more than a red breath of coals.
“I thought the vow was strength,” he went on. “That by ending the line, I ended his reach. But it’s only another chain, isn’t it? One I built myself.”
“Then break it.”
Stephen turned, shoulders tight. “And betray the girl who died because I couldn’t save her? The one he sold off like land? The vow was for her, Peter.”
“And Maria is not her,” Peter said. “Your sister’s pain doesn’t vanish if you suffer longer. It doesn’t reverse itself because you’ve denied happiness.”
