Page 83 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
Before I could assure her that I wouldn’t accuse anyone without proof, she continued, her voice as thin and frail as her figure, like a woman twice her age. “Your grandparents wouldn’t let us adopt you after your parents died. They didn’t want us anywhere near you. Our money was good enough, butweweren’t.”
Tears stung the backs of my eyes, but I didn’t let them spill. I felt compelled to defend my paternal grandparents. They’d just lost their only child in a terrible accident, and his daughter was all they had left. They didn’t want to lose me, too. And knowing Uncle Ronald as I did now, he would have found some way to diminish their influence in my life. “They only took enough money for my upbringing and education. Nothing more. They didn’t want?—”
“What about what I wanted?” she snapped. “Nobodyeverasked me. Not my parents, not your mother, my husband, or your grandparents. Why domyfeelings not matter?”
That was the heart of her pain, the reason for her melancholy, which led to her becoming addicted to the cocaine-laced tonic. It wasn’t my investigation into the death of her friends’ gamekeeper that caused us to reach this point. It was a lifetime of feeling inferior. Whether others had genuinely put her down, or whether it was her innate lack of self-confidence that imagined it so, I didn’t know. Indeed, it didn’t really matter. She felt that way, and that had plunged her into the depths of despair.
“Your feelings matter to me, Aunt.” I reached for her, but she slapped my hand away.
“You holdthemin such high regard.” Her words were a little slurred, and her train of thought difficult to follow.
“My grandparents?”
“Higher regard than you hold your uncle and me. So selfish, just like your mother. She and Ronald were supposed to marry, but she changed her mind. He could have made it difficult for her. He could have insisted the arrangement go ahead, but he let her go because he wanted her to be happy. He settled for me instead.” She tapped bony fingers hard against her chest. “The stupid sister. The dull one. The ugly one.”
“You are none of those, Aunt. You are beautiful, inside and out.” I went to circle my arms around her, but she pushed me away with surprising strength. I lost my balance and stumbled into the wall.
She spun around and raced along the corridor to her room. She did not look back and slammed the door behind her.
I tasted the salty tear as it slid onto my lips. I wasn’t sure when I’d started to cry, but I couldn’t stop. My heart hurt. My throat ached and my head felt woolly. I couldn’t think.
Instinct took over. It was the only explanation for what I did next.
I ran down the stairs to the foyer. Philip, the night porter, said something to me. I didn’t hear his words as I opened the door myself and ran outside.
Later, I tried to remember how the air had felt on my skin. Was it cold? Damp? I had no jacket or coat, just my silk evening dress, yet I felt nothing but a driving force that propelled me along Piccadilly, past the Circus, toward Soho. I pushed open the black door between the confectionery and tobacco shops, and raced up the stairs. I knocked on another door without hesitation.
It seemed to take an age before it opened. Harry stood there in trousers and an undervest. “Cleo! What is it? What’s wrong?”
I buried my face in my hands and burst into great, gulping, ugly sobs.
His arms came around me and drew me against his body. The thud of his heart against my cheek wasn’t as steady as I expected it to be, but he was warm and solid and wonderful.
I didn’t know how long we stood on his threshold, me sobbing into his chest. It could have been seconds or several minutes. As my crying eased, my mind began to finally clear, and I realized the full implications of where I’d gone in my moment of greatest need, and why.
Harry drew away. He took my face in his hands and tilted it up. His thumbs wiped my damp cheeks and his worried gaze searched mine. “What happened, Cleo?”
“Not out here. Let’s go inside.”
He hesitated. Swallowed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea given your state. And mine.”
“I don’t care, Harry. I don’t care.”
Still, he hesitated.
Very well. If it had to happen on the threshold in full view of his neighbors, if they cared to look, then so be it. I cupped his face as he cupped mine and drew it down to my level. I stood on my toes and kissed him.
It was neither fierce nor hungry; it was full of longing. Releasing my emotions after suppressing them for months was cathartic. It allowed for a flood of new feelings to take their place, and they filled me more completely than anything ever had.
Harry pulled away. His breaths were ragged, his eyes shining feverishly in the dim light from the stairwell. He let me go and tucked his hands behind his back. “You’re upset, Cleo. You’re not thinking properly. We should talk about this when you feel more yourself.”
“I am myself, Harry, and I am thinking properly.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, only to lower them to his sides again, then tuck them behind his back once more. He didn’t know what to do with them. “Cleo… I can’t do this if you mean to go on as we were. I’ve tried being just a friend, being patient with you…” He shook his head. “I can’t anymore. Not now. Not after that kiss. Either we move forward or…” He swallowed. “Or we don’t see each other anymore.”
I stepped closer and reached around behind him. I took his hands in mine and looked up at him. He blinked rapidly down at me. “Since I cannot imagine my life without you in it, Harry, it seems the decision is made. We move forward. Together.”
His fingers twined with mine behind his back. A slow smile teased his lips, causing his dimples to make a sudden appearance before disappearing again. I wanted to capture that smile and bring the dimples back.
