Page 97 of Murder on Cold Street
At her own front door, Mrs. Sullivan turned around and waved to Charlotte, still in the carriage, and Lord Ingram, who stood by the carriage door, having helped Mrs. Sullivan descend a moment earlier. They both inclined their heads.
When he climbed back inside, he did not immediately approach Charlotte—not with the carriage curtains still open.
The coach left the curb. He closed one curtain. And Charlotte’s heart leaped again.
But she did not let herself get carried away. “What was marriage like for you?”
He stilled, obviously not having expected that question. “You observed it, didn’t you?”
“I have made my observations, yes. But I’ve never heard your thoughts on the matter, except once, shortly after your honeymoon.”
“Ah, when I was still in thrall to the wondrous newness of it all—and even recommended marriage to you, of all people.” He had been reaching toward the other curtain, but now he dropped his hand to his seat. “Why are you asking the questionnow?”
She had delved too deeply into Mrs. Sullivan’s marriage today. Yet with regard to his, she had often felt as if she stood on the street in front of a shuttered house, not getting any glimpses inside except on the rarest of occasions, when a window was accidentally left open.
“I have—” She stopped, surprised by how reluctant she was to make this confession. “I have long wished to know. But it’s only recently that you’ve become forthcoming.”
His brow lifted, as if he, too, was taken aback by her admission. His thumb slid back and forth across the dark velvet of the carriage seat.
It was an intrusive question. He would be within his rights not to answer. And yet, as seconds dripped past, she felt her stomach tighten at the prospect of his refusal.
“In those years when my wife and I were estranged, I thought very little of our marriage,” he said quietly. “What was the point? The mistake had already been made. The situation was permanent. My main concern was for the children, who needed to be shielded from the worst aspects of a marriage gone bitter.
“But after Lady Ingram left, after I learned the full extent of what she did while we still lived under the same roof...” He looked at her. “You can probably guess where my mind went.”
She exhaled, relieved that he chose to trust her, after all. And she did indeed know where his mind had gone. “To your own culpability in the matter.”
“To how much damage I’d inadvertently inflicted upon her.” He turned his face to the window. “For a long time, I saw myself as herknight in shining armor. But given that her parents allowed her no choice except to marry a rich man, to her I was but her buyer and everything that happened between us, a transaction. Even after the rupture of our marriage, when I no longer demanded her affection, she remained dependent on my support, entirely aware that I was seen as a saint, and she, a heartless opportunist.”
Silence. But in the silence she heard something else. A tentativeness approaching nerves.
“What is it?” she asked.
He turned back to face her, but his gaze was in the vicinity of her knees. He raised it slowly, as if with difficulty. “Have I—have I ever inflicted damage on you?”
She stared at him—the question was entirely unforeseen.Hadhe inflicted damage upon her?
“No,” she said after a minute. “You were an education in humanity, not a source of damage.”
He blinked—and laughed. “I waswhat?”
“I’d always thought that a quintessential aspect of being human—possibly the most quintessential aspect—lay in dealing with what one wanted but could not have. For years I believed I would not have that problem, because all I wanted was independence and I saw a clear path to it.
“Then you asked for Lady Ingram’s hand and married her. And I became human. Now I, too, wanted something I couldn’t have. It was... an instruction in pain. But that was merely the pain of being alive and being human.”
They passed a street lamp, and its light traveled across the wonder and compassion on his face. She remembered that she had never brought up the subject before with anyone, least of all him.
She looked out the window at the approach of another lamppost. “I should ask the same question of you—perhaps I should have asked it long ago. Have I inflicted damage onyou?”
He laughed softly. “I used to believe so. I had a great fear ofbeing wrong, especially before others. And more than anyone else, you pointed out my errors. It took me years to learn that the burning sensation I used to feel was not my soul being crushed, but simply the abrasion of my overweening pride.”
Silence. A silence like snowfall, pure and crystalline.
She pulled down the remaining carriage curtains and patted the spot next to her.
He placed his hand over his heart. “My, a Christmas miracle.”
And came to sit beside her.
