Page 88 of Temptations of a Wallflower
When the last page was nothing but blackened ash, she stirred the embers with a poker. Making certain that it was gone, destroyed. Everything was destroyed now.
The fire died out. The room fell into darkness, and then, hours later, turned the color of ash as the sun began to rise.
Sarah sat beside the now cold fireplace, watching it all through dry, gritty eyes. She had barely moved during the course of the night, not even to put on slippers to warm her chilled feet. She moved through cold treacle.
The maid came in to build the fire, and she squeaked in surprise to find Sarah already up. The girl glanced at the bed—it was pristine. A far cry from the usual heap of bedclothes that signaled another night of passion.
“Don’t bother,” Sarah said to the maid as the servant bent to stoke the fire.
“But it’s dreadful cold today, my lady.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sarah answered numbly.
“Shall I get the curtains?” the girl asked hopefully.
“Do or don’t.”
The maid left, though she looked uncertain as to whether or not she ought to go, with her duties not fully discharged.
Glancing at the mantel clock, Sarah noted that breakfast would likely be served soon. She dressed herself in a simple, front-fastening gown. Gazing at herself in the pier glass, she saw without interest the heavy dark circles under her eyes, the pale and drawn cast to her features. She looked sickly. But not bodily unwell. What ailed her went far beyond a cold or the ague.
What kind of night had Jeremy passed? Had he slept well, or poorly, or, as she had done, not at all? He must have thought of her—a million unkind, bitter things for which she couldn’t fault him. She’d done him a devastating wrong. The kind of wrong from which there was no recovery. How could there be?
Like a wraith, she drifted down to the breakfast room. She froze when she saw Jeremy already seated, reading a newspaper. No one else was in attendance for the meal.
He stood stiffly when he saw her standing in the doorway. Gave her a little cold bow, which pierced her frozen heart.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” she answered, barely able to get the words past her lips.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked as if by rote.
“No.”
“Nor I,” he said after a moment. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but he kept silent.
This was awful. How could she pretend to eat with him so close by, with the room full of mistrust and hurt?
“I’ll leave,” he said. “Not much appetite this morning.”
“You stay,” she said quickly. “I’ll go.”
Without another word, she turned and fled from the breakfast room. Back up to the bedchamber, where icy nausea knotted her stomach. She walked quickly to her portable writing desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. The quill trembled in her hand as she wrote, and sand scattered across the floor as she dusted the letter. In her missive, she requested an immediate reply.
A footman was summoned, and he took the letter without realizing the import of what it contained.
Sarah waited all morning, barely stirring from the settee. Jeremy did not come to see her.
Sometime around noon, Lady Hutton came to visit. “Beef tea always revives me,” she proposed, setting herself down beside Sarah.
“Thank you for the suggestion, but no,” Sarah replied, setting aside the book she couldn’t seem to read. The same paragraph had swum before her eyes for the past fifteen minutes.
The older woman reached out and took Sarah’s hand. “If there’s anything you wish to discuss, I make for an excellent confidante.”
Heat prickled Sarah’s eyes. The one person with whom she truly wanted to talk was the source of heragony. She and Jeremy seemed to have exhausted their supply of words—and perhaps more.
“Your offer is most appreciated,” Sarah answered sincerely, “but everything will work itself out.” She did not believe herself, yet vapid palliatives were all she could seem to speak.
