Jonathan lifted his hands in a futile gesture. “I must forgive him, don’t I? I must—”
“No, you don’t,” she said. “Not unless it’s a true emotion. I don’t think he’ll stay after this. I think he’ll face his judgement one way or another, now that he understands he’s dead. Was he ever a man to avoid accountability when it finally came?”
“It never came for him,” Jonathan groused.
“It’s coming now.”
In this space, she could feel Jonathan’s anger. A thousand sleights, a million moments that bred distance rather than affection. And yet, for all that, she felt his love burn bright. The inevitable love of a son for his father.
“I forgive you, Father. I know you tried. In your own way, you tried your best.”
And from somewhere in the room came Susanne’s voice. “I forgive you, Father. If Giselle can forgive you, then I can too.”
Then his wife’s voice cut hard and clear. “But I don’t! Harold, you were awful. You lied to me. You promised me things! And you were horrible and mean!”
She felt the words hit the old viscount like heavy blows. They punched into this place of growing light and weighted it down with dark fury. Giselle also felt the old viscount accept it. He took that weight into himself and bore it like the aristocrat he was.
“Stiff upper lip, Father?” Jonathan asked.
“Yes,” the ghost answered. “Tell her I’m sorry. I truly am. But she’s right. I don’t deserve her forgiveness.”
Giselle shook her head and echoed her father’s words. “No one deserves forgiveness. Nevertheless, God grants it to all of us.”
That’s what she believed, at least.
“I’m ready,” the ghost said. “Tell them that I really do love them.”
Giselle nodded. “I will.”
And then she felt her hold on the ghost release. Or perhaps he slipped away from her. Either way, the ice in her veinsgrew warmer. Where there’d been pinpricks of pain, now came soothing heat. A sweet caress of relief while the ghost grew bright in her eyes.
Brighter, lighter, and soon blinding.
And with it came a flood of love. Of forgiveness. Of everything good she believed God to be.
Then the old viscount was gone.
And so was she, because she passed out a second later.
Chapter Thirteen
Jonathan held Giselle’scold hand. He gripped it tight while his mind spun on everything he had seen and felt. His father loved him. He’d felt it so strongly that the knowledge shook him to his core.
He’d never felt that love before. Not so viscerally, as if it were planted in his bones. And he would never forget it.
He also swore to make sure his own children knew the depth of his love without suffering a haunting. He should have expected that his father would be as much a pain in the ass in death as he was in life. But hopefully, it was all done. He had watched his father pass on to the afterlife, and then he had felt Giselle collapse into his arms.
That had been after midnight last night. Now it was morning, and Giselle was still on the bed, her body cool, but not cold. And he gripped her fingers and prayed that he had a chance to tell her how much he loved her.
What a fool he’d been! How could he have ever doubted that she really saw ghosts? She was a miracle, plain and simple. And he would always stand in awe of her skill. While he had felt attacked by his father’s confusion, she had stood strong and clear. While he had struggled to separate his father’s feelings from his own, she had created a buffer between them, a space where he could find himself again.
And when his father had said he could see Giselle’s love, Jonathan had felt it, too. After everything that had happened, she still loved him. He could only hope he lived up to such love. Indeed, he vowed that he would, if only she woke up.
“I love you, Giselle. Please, please wake up and be my countess.”
He said the words into their joined hands. He said the words to her face, to her body. And he swore that he’d never let anyone get between them again.
“Please, Giselle—”
