Page 63 of The Dove
Bertram’s trial had ended days ago, with him being found guilty of all the crimes leveled against him—including her attempted murder. Her appearance in court, with a white sling cradling her injured arm, had only aided Cunningham’s case and the testimony of the women he had harmed. He’d been sentenced to execution by hanging … a public event taking place just that morning.
She had attended the execution in her black mourning clothes, a veiled hat covering her face—though she’d still felt the eyes of the other spectators on her, watching, assessing. The narrative concerning her ruination had changed in light of Bertram’s crimes becoming public knowledge, and now, instead of scorning her, they pitied her, seeing her as some tragic creature brought low by the deeds of her brother.
In truth, she had preferred the scorn, abhorring this feeling of being looked upon as if she were some sort of wounded animal.
She’d ignored their pitying glances and open stares, lingering at the back of the crowd and watching as her brother was trotted out before the masses and allowed his last words. He had made a cake of himself, as she’d known he would, proclaiming that he’d been wrongly accused and harshly judged, and that the Earl of Hartmoor had succeeded in a malicious vendetta against him. None of it could save him in the end, and he was brought forward, the noose fit around his neck.
Daphne had watched every second of his death, refusing to so much as blink as the lever was pulled and Bertram fell through the trapdoor, his body jerking and writhing on the end of the rope. His neck did not break, and so he suffered right up until the very end, the violence of his end fitting with the pain he’d inflicted on others.
Hehad been there, too … even though she had not seen his face. She’d seen the carriage on the street overlooking the event, the curtains drawn tight enough that she could not peek inside. However, the Hartmoor coat of arms on the door had given him away, and so she’d stared after the conveyance, watching it disappear into the busy traffic the moment Bertram had gone still, slumping in the noose, dead.
She supposed he had stayed to view the execution. Now, he would return to Scotland, for he had no other reason to remain here.
She had not laid eyes upon him since the morning she’d awakened after being shot … since she had confessed her love for him only to have him walk away, leaving her in a puddle of her own tears.
From that moment on, she’d seen no one save the maids who cared for her—one of whom had been Clarice, sent for from her home on Half-Moon Street. The physician had come several times to inspect her wound and declare she was healing quite well. He did mention the possibility of damaged nerves, but as the injury had occurred in her left arm and not her dominant right, he did not foresee that it would hold her back very much. The fingers had been a bit sluggish, but with practice, she’d gotten them to cooperate. Not as strong as it had once been, her left hand functioned well enough for her to lift and grasp things, which satisfied her. She could have died or lost her entire limb … limited movement seemed a paltry thing compared to the other possibilities. She’d even begun practicing the harp again, and liked to think it helped to improve the dexterity of her hand.
She had not been able to leave her bed for a week, but once she had, it was to discover that the Callahan brood had vacated Fairchild House altogether. Not a trace of them remained, and not one of them had even come to say good-bye. Adam’s doing, she supposed. If they saw her, she might coerce them into helping change his mind. He knew her well.
The only thing he’d left behind had been an envelope on the desk in the study, which contained the deed to Fairchild House.
It had been placed in her name, free and clear.
She’d cried for hours upon finding it, both angry at him for such a gift and grateful.
Since then, her days had passed with excruciating slowness, her heart languishing even as her body healed. She missed him with an ache that would not abate … the melody of the pianoforte echoing through the house, the sounds of his footsteps on the stairs, the rough rasp of his voice in her ear right before he threw her down and ravaged her body.
Would it always hurt so much, being in the places he’d been and finding them empty? Would her heart always yearn for him, even when she knew he did not feel the same way?
How could he, if he’d found it so easy to walk away now that all had been said and done? Bertram was gone, the Fairchild legacy in tatters, and Olivia had been avenged, her secret safe, and Serena protected. She served no more use to him … as disposable as a pile of rubbish.
With a sigh, she glanced up as the butler entered the room, pulling her out of her wandering thoughts. When she raised her eyebrows in silent question, he cleared his throat and motioned toward the drawing room door.
“The Honourable Mr. Robert Stanley,” he declared.
She hardly had time to recover from the shock of hearing that name before the man himself stood before her, his hair tousled by the wind, the collar of his greatcoat sitting askew. He was as handsome as ever, looking like something out of a romantic novel … the perfect white knight arriving to save her from her loneliness and despair.
And she could not conjure an ounce of joy at the sight of him.
Still, she forced a smile, dismissing the butler with a wave. “Robert. This is … quite a surprise.”
He returned her smile, coming forward to take her hand and kiss it. “Indeed. I had thought to give you a few days given the circumstances, but … well, I did not think this could wait.”
She frowned, inclining her head. “What could not wait?”
Pointing toward a nearby sofa, he motioned for her to sit. She acquiesced, her curiosity piqued. He did not seem to be pressed by any urgency, despite the fact that they had not spoken since the night of his marriage proposal. Truly, she had not given it any thought since Adam had threatened to murder him if she said yes. She wondered if that threat proved an idle one now that he no longer claimed her as his own.
“First, I want you to know how sorry I am,” he began, turning his body so that he faced her, one leg bent on the sofa cushion. “For my ignorance concerning the things Bertram had done. If I’d known …”
“There was nothing you could have done,” she insisted. “I allowed myself the same guilt at one time, but I came to realize that none of it was my fault. Bertram made choices that put him in a position to hurt others … and has paid for it with his life.”
Robert nodded, as if he’d expected to hear that. “Then I am not sorry that he has met his end.”
She gave him a weak smile. “Neither am I.”
Nodding again, he cleared his throat and sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Secondly, I wanted to tell you … Hartmoor paid me a visit a fortnight ago.”
Her breath caught and held, her throat and lungs burning as she struggled to draw breath, to make her mind work. The mention of his name had thrown her into a muddle, and now, she could hardly breathe past the tears clogging her airway.
