Page 64 of The Duke's All That
“What was that?” the duchess asked blearily, peering about. When she spied Cora she smiled. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I must have fallen asleep. But what have you got there?”
“As if you don’t know,” Cora teased with a grin, even as she removed the embroidery from the duchess’s lap and packed it away.
The dowager caught sight of the periodical as Cora and Iain settled near her—that same paper that Iain was eyeing so hungrily. She frowned in confusion. “So strange. Didn’t we just receive an issue a fortnight ago?”
Which was just what Iain had been wondering. Cora, however, merely smiled. “We did. But this is apparently a special issue. S. L. Keys, it is rumored, is finishing off her series.”
At once a sharp ringing started up in Iain’s ears. He lurched forward in his seat. “What do you mean, finishing her series?” he demanded.
His reaction should have shocked Cora. But she only smiled wider, holding the periodical up as if it were the greatest treasure.
“Yes,” she murmured. “It seems Josephine’s story is about to come to a close and they printed off a special edition to say farewell.” Then, with a raised brow, she held the paper out to him. “Would you like to do the honors, Iain?”
He did not need to be asked twice, taking the paper, gazing down at it hungrily. There it was, on the front page, Seraphina’s pen name, and the notice that her serial would be coming to an end. He scanned the short notice a bit desperately, certain it must tell the reason, or if not that, at least tell if she would write something new. But no, there was nothing but a quick, simple announcement. Panic flared in his gut that he would lose this last connection to her.
But Cora and his grandmother were waiting for him to begin reading. Clearing the thickness from his throat, he began.
He ached to hurry through the prose, desperate to read every word she had penned. But knowing he might never read another from her hand, he soaked in each and every line, seeing her in the strength of her heroine, hearing her voice in his head when Josephine spoke. So invested was he in it, he did not even know if he continued to read aloud, the picture in his head as brilliant as any live play before him.
And then he came to the twist, that ever-necessary plot device of the gothic tale, and his breath left him entirely.There, on the page, Josephine had learned that her long-lost lover, Drummond, was not the villain she had believed him to be. And she had gone off in search of him, to claim her happily-ever-after. He turned the page, desperate to learn if she had been reunited with him.
And found only a blank page.
Staring in disbelief, he worked at the page with his fingers, trying to see if they had been stuck together. But there was nothing, just a gaping emptiness.
“What happened to Josephine and Drummond?” he cried, glancing up, only to find Cora and Gran gone—and Seraphina standing there before him.
He blinked, certain his eyes must be playing tricks on him. But no, she remained solid and wonderful.
“I rather think,” she said thickly, “that how the story ends is entirely up to you.”
“Seraphina,” he breathed, lurching to his feet.
She smiled, but it was a nervous thing, more nervous than anything he had ever seen from her. “Hello, Iain. Phineas is having a nice visit with your cousin and grandmother. Do you mind if we talk?”
He shook his head, still not able to comprehend that she was here. “Am I dreaming?” he muttered to himself.
She stepped forward until she was right in front of him. And then she cupped his cheek with her palm. “Not dreaming,” she said, the words broken, tears pooling in her clear eyes and making the blue so much bluer.
But wait. Tears? His Seraphina did not cry. As if to make a liar of him, a single tear broke free, tracking down her cheek. Unable to stop himself, he raised a hand, dragging his thumb across its path.
She gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “I listened to whatyou told me that last day in Edinburgh,” she whispered, “and gave up a bit of my burden to my sisters. And now it seems I am a watering pot.”
Her expression altered, the small bit of lightheartedness replaced by a solemn nervousness. “And I would share it with you if you’ll let me. And we may see how you feel about me after it is done.”
She waited for what felt an eternity for him to respond. Yet he stared at her as if she were a ghost.
But then, finally, he motioned her to the sofa.
She settled herself, smoothing out her skirts. Her hands were trembling violently, which he seemed to notice at the same moment. The warmth of his long fingers as he took her hands in his seeped into her bones, soothing her as nothing else could.
“Seraphina,” he said, his voice deep and oh so dear. “You dinnae have to tell me anything if you dinnae wish to.”
“I know,” she replied quietly. “But that’s just the thing, you see. Idowant to tell you. I want to share all of my secrets and burdens with you. You used to know me better than anyone. But I—we—are different people now. And I would have you know who I have become.”
He sat silent, waiting. But the silence wasn’t awkward. No, she found she felt a strength in his quiet presence. Drawing in a steadying breath, she began. She told him everything, of the asylum and the horrors she faced, of how she endured being chained, of the beatings and the cold and the fear. She explained how when her father finally brought her back to him, she stole her sisters away. And then shetold him of selling her body to survive, and fighting tooth and nail to put food in her sisters’ bellies, but that she would endure it all over again to make certain the ones she loved were protected.
He did not say a word through the whole ordeal. His face, however, darkened with each word, until by the end he looked as if he was ready and willing to rain hellfire down on the entire world. It was only when she fell silent, exhausted beyond belief, that he finally spoke. And his words were like a cleansing balm to her heart.
