1
Cynthia was well and truly vexed. She strode along the hallway, ignoring the pleasant swish of her cotton petticoats as they swirled around her calves. The warm sunlight streaming through the window did not match her black mood. Neither did the sweet hyacinth blooms or the lazy buzz of a bumblebee droning outside the open window.
‘The very nerve of that man! To sack my maid without even bothering to consult me,’ Cynthia muttered, building up steam for the tirade that had been brewing for ten years. Ten years of keeping her mouth shut. Ten years of being the dutiful wife her husband required. Ten years carving off pieces of herself until she was the shining example of feminine perfection everyone expected.
No more. I will not continue to live this way.
Hubert taking control of household decisions, theonedomain where she held a smidge of autonomy, was beyond the pale. She was going to confront him this time. She would not back down. She would not be dismissed. She would not crumble under the pressure of expectation.
It was time her husband explained himself. And not just about the maid.
Much was broken between them. Mistresses were one thing, and to be expected, but the rest was untenable. Days – sometimes weeks – where he disappeared, only to return reeking of stale gin and cheap perfume. Hushed meetings with his solicitors resulting in such a foul temper, Cynthia kept to her wing of their Mayfair home to avoid becoming an easy target for his ire. Refusing to acknowledge her unless they were at a public event. And now this. Dismissing her favourite maid without so much as consulting Cynthia.
She had done her best to paint a smile on her lips. She put on her social armour right along with her shift, corset, stays, and fashionable gowns. Swanning about at all the desirable events with the beau monde, she strove to prove nothing was amiss. All was well in her perfect society marriage.
But something changed when she called for her maid that morning, only to have Mrs Higgins, the housekeeper, arrive instead. With crimson cheeks and a lowered gaze, she told Cynthia Lily had been dismissed.
Not only had Hubert made her a fool; her husband hurt Cynthia with his actions. Lily was an excellent maid. Cynthia had grown very fond of the girl. She would have been confused and dismayed at being dismissed without Cynthia saying a word in her defence. Hubert could be cruel with his petty vendettas, but Cynthia hadn’t done anything to displease him of late. Even if she had, Lily shouldn’t suffer for it.
His behaviour was abominable, and she was finally ready to confront him.
Her righteous anger felt glorious, pumping adrenaline-soaked blood through her system at a remarkable pace as she pushed open the door to his study.
But he wasn’t sitting at his desk.
He wasn’t reviewing letters of business.
He wasn’t even debauching some trussed-up light skirt as Cynthia dreaded.
He was sprawled face down on the thick Aubusson rug. Blood pooled around him like a large crimson lake.
Something broke in Cynthia as lightning cracked in the cloudless blue sky. Which was odd, given that it was mid-summer in London and hardly a stormy season.
But she couldn’t think about the weather just now. She needed to concentrate. On her husband. Who was very much dead.
A scream tore from her throat as she rushed to his side. Crouching down, heedless of the blood, she touched his cheek. Ice-cold.
Time ceased to operate normally. Everything inside her froze. Conversely, the world around her sped up in a dizzy blur.
The butler hurried into the room, took one look at Lord Hubert Burrows, and swiftly tossed up his accounts in the potted palm by the door.
He was followed by two footmen. One went white as a sheet and collapsed. The other looked from Cynthia to her husband and back again. His eyes grew wide, and he held his hands in front of him, like a horse trainer attempting to calm a wild mare.
It took Cynthia a moment to realise she was the wild mare.
‘I am quite well.’ Which was absurd. She was anything but well. Yet she kept saying it. ‘I am quite well. Quite well.’ She repeated the words until they lost all meaning and became nothing but sound.
The room kept filling with people. More footmen. Various maids shrieking and causing all manner of fuss. Mrs Higgins, who ushered the hysterical maids out and came back with a tray of tea, forcing the hot cup into Cynthia’s shaking hand. A constable whose moustache twitched like the tail of an irritated cat. Another bobby insisting Cynthia sit when she really wanted to run. Far, and fast, and forever with the wind pulling at her hair and the rain washing her clean in cold rivers.
A summer storm raged outside the window. Thunder boomed, loud enough to rattle the glass. Black clouds covered the bright sun, causing another round of shrieking from the maids.
Haze descended, and Cynthia found herself lost in a mire of racing thoughts, shouting voices, insistent hands pulling her in different directions, and an odd keening sound that only stopped when she took in ragged breaths.
Eventually, the low, calm rumble of a familiar voice cut through the chaos.
‘Cynthia, darling…’
Cynthia blinked, and everyone disappeared.
