Page 104 of Beyond the Grave
"Death, yes; horror, no. I'm sorry you had to see that."
"Poor Marguerite, to see her brother die in such a ghastly manner."
"I would like to tell you that she'll recover, but her mind was already delicate. I'm not sure how she'll cope with this."
I sighed. Then I frowned. "I didn't know you had a gun."
"We were confronting a man who put another into Bedlam using force and trickery. I thought a weapon might be useful."
"Why didn't you use it?"
"There was no opportunity. If I had, he might have shot you. Or anyone." His eyes banked with deeper, blacker shadows as he looked at me. "I couldn't risk it."
He couldn't riskmebeing injured. Of all the people in that room, I was the only one he cared about. It was both thrilling and intoxicating, yet troubling too to think that he might sacrifice other lives if it meant saving mine.
"If only you'd pulled your gun out before he drew his," I said.
He sipped his tea and looked at the flames.
"You could have, couldn't you? Either before or after, when his attention was on one of the others. He wouldn't have noticed you until it was too late."
Still he didn't answer, and I knew I was correct. Lincoln had deliberately not shown his hand, perhaps so as not to startle Edgecombe into shooting one of us. But perhaps also so he could calmly and very deliberately talk the man into seeing the hopelessness of the situation and his future.
"You intended for him to kill himself," I said quietly. "Didn't you?"
He slowly lowered the cup to the table. "The man hated his life. He wanted it to end. Added to which, he would have gone to prison. Buchanan and Harcourt would have seen to it."
A lump made swallowing difficult. Tears pricked my eyes. Perhaps he was right and the future he so coldly mapped out for Edgecombe was the one he would most likely have had. And perhaps Edgecombe would never have been willing to make the best of the situation. But Lincoln should not have encouraged him to end his life. He should not have played any sort of hand in Edgecombe's decision.
"I have told you, do not romanticize me," he said, standing. "I'm the man known as Death by the people who know me best."
"Not by me."
He bent and touched my hair, brushing the damp locks off my cheek and tucking them behind my ear. "Perhaps you're a fool."
"Perhaps I am."
He lowered his hand, before I could catch it, and walked away.
The dowager Lady Harcourtarrived two days later when I was in the midst of packing a trunk for my journey to France. Lincoln and I weren't set to leave for another two days, but I decided to get an early start. I had to do something or go mad from waiting to experience so many firsts—first time outside of England, first time on a boat, first glimpse of the sea, first time alone with Lincoln for several days.
I wasn't sure if Julia was a welcome distraction or not. On the one hand, I didn't want to suffer through her remarks, which had become snider and snider over the past few weeks, but on the other, I wanted to know how her family was faring after the recent tragedy.
Lincoln took the decision away from me. "You'll act as mistress of Lichfield and have tea with us in the parlor," he told me. While I was recovering from my shock he opened the door to greet her.
"Lincoln," Julia said, kissing his cheek and laying her hand on his shoulder. "I'm so pleased to see you've recovered after that trying experience."
"There was nothing for me to recover from," he said, stepping away.
Julia lowered her hand and caught sight of me, standing back near the staircase. "Charlie," she said with bland indifference.
"Lady Harcourt," I said, unable to call her by her first name when she hadn't asked me to. Some things were so deeply ingrained into one's habits that they could not be expunged, even with a large dose of spite.
Lincoln turned his back on her and arched his brows at me. His eyeballs angled toward the parlor, and I understood what he wanted me to do.
"Come and join us for tea," I said with a smile.
"Not me, I'm afraid," Lincoln said. "I have work to do."
