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‘Cressida was a fragile, damaged individual,’ Agathe said gently. ‘Her death was not your fault. And,’ she continued firmly, ‘Rachel is not Cressida. She’s strong, and she knows her own mind.’
‘She’s leaving me.’
‘What...?’
‘Not properly,’ he amended as he scrubbed his eyes. ‘We’ll remain married. But she wants us to live separate lives.’
‘Ah.’ Agathe nodded slowly. ‘I was afraid of something like this.’
‘Were you?’ Mateo dropped his fists from his eyes to look at his mother, the weariness and memory etched into every line of her face.
‘It’s not easy to love someone who doesn’t love you back quite as much, or even at all.’
It took Mateo a moment to make sense of his mother’s meaning. ‘Do you mean Father...?’
‘The Karavitis men are strong and stubborn. They don’t want to need anybody.’
‘But you had such a successful marriage.’
‘There are different definitions of success. I choose to believe in one that is about love and happiness, as well as duty and service.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mateo said after a moment. ‘I never knew.’
‘We were happy, in our way,’ Agathe said. ‘I learned to be happy. But I want more for you...and for Rachel.’
‘So do I,’ Mateo said, his voice throbbing with the strength of his feeling. ‘That’s why...’
‘Oh, Mateo. Do you honestly think she’d be happy without you?’
‘She doesn’t know—’
‘Then tell her,’ Agathe urged, her voice full of sorrow and love. ‘For heaven’s sake, tell her.’
* * *
He found her in the gardens. The fog had finally lifted, and the day was crisp and clear, the sun surprisingly warm as it shone down on the rain-washed gardens.
Mateo had gone to her suite of rooms first, and everything in him had lurched at the sight of several blank-faced members of staff moving her things out.
‘Where are you putting those?’ he’d demanded hoarsely, and someone had told him Queen Rachel was intending to reside in the south wing, about as far from him as possible. He felt both angry and lost, and yet he couldn’t blame her.
So he’d left her rooms and gone to the south wing, but she wasn’t there either, and when Francesca had told him, a look of naked pity on her face, that Rachel had wanted some fresh air, he’d come out here, and now he’d found her, in a small octagonal-shaped rose garden, the branches now pruned back and bare.
‘Rachel.’ His voice sounded hoarse and he cleared his throat. ‘Rachel,’ he said again, and she looked up.
‘Mateo.’
‘You’re having your things moved.’ It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t manage anything else right then.
‘I told you I would.’
‘I know.’ He took a step towards her. She was sitting on a stone bench by a fountain that had filled with autumn leaves. Her hair was back in a plait and she was wearing a forest-green turtleneck in soft, snug cashmere and a grey skirt. She looked every inch the Queen, every bit his wife, and so wonderfully beautiful. His. She had to be his.
‘I don’t want you to,’ he said and she started to shake her head. ‘Please. Hear me out. I heard everything you said last night, and I’ve been thinking about nothing else since. But now...now I want a turn to tell you about what I’ve been thinking.’
A guarded expression came over her face, and she nodded. ‘All right.’
Mateo moved to sit down next to her on the bench. ‘You told me how your parents shaped how you felt about yourself. Well, in a fashion, mine did as well. I knew I was loved—I never doubted that. But I didn’t feel important.’
