Viola’s head whipped up in disbelief. Did he really just ask that? How could a man be so obtuse?
Pain coiled around her heart and squeezed it like an iron fist. It was an old, familiar feeling. “You really are incredible. You have forgotten! Let me jog your memory then.
“‘Mr Fane desires no further correspondence on this subject. He advises Lady Viola to proceed as though the recent unfortunate circumstance had not occurred and conduct her life henceforth as she sees fit.’—Does that not sound familiar?” Her words rang coldly through the church. “But maybe not, for you had your secretary write that infernal letter.” She had never forgotten the words that had burned themselves into her mind.
Sebastian’s eyes flew to her face. “You recall those words?”
“Every single word,” she hissed.
A hand went to his neck. “I did dictate it to my secretary. I was too—I couldn’t—It may not have conveyed precisely what I intended.”
That really was the last straw.
“Oh? Then what, precisely, did you intend?”
He knitted his brow together in a frown. “I wanted to grant you the freedom you demanded, but that did not mean that was what I truly wanted.”
She stared. “You did not?”
He shook his head, clearly frustrated. “I don’t understand. That is what you wanted, was it not? Each letter you wrote demanded it. I could not grant you a divorce. Yet neither did I want you to be trapped in a life with a man you did not choose.”
She shook her head. “That is not what I mean at all.”
“Must I spell it out, truly?” His voice lashed out. “You loved another man. I was a substitute. You demanded freedom. I gave it to you. I let you go. Why is that not enough?” His voice cracked. “You choose George, even now. Very well, if that is your wish. Atone and mourn for him as much as you want. I certainly shall not join you in this lifelong quest of self-flagellation. But Viola.” His eyes seared into hers, and for a moment she saw the agony in them that was tearing at him. “For how much longer must I measure up to a dead war hero? It is a war I cannot win.”
Oh.
She had never seen him like this. Never heard that rawness in his voice. The vulnerability flitting through his eyes, even for a fraction of a second, before he shuttered them and the stiff mask came down, shielding him from everything, the entire world, particularly from herself.
For the first time, she realised how she must have hurt him too. Possibly deeper than she’d ever allowed herself to imagine.
She had abandoned him first.
“I ran because I felt guilty about George, that is true,” she heard herself say, slowly. “But, Sebastian, you felt guilty too, did you not? So maybe that is part of the reason you did not come after me. You stayed away because of George.”
He gave a curt nod. “It certainly was relevant.”
“I think… I think I understand a little better now.” She got up, took a few steps, sat down again, fiddled with the strings of her bonnet, and looked at him with wide eyes. “You thought this entire time I wanted George.” Even now, he thought she chose George, even when he was dead. It was as if his ghost were haunting him. She had not known that had been burdening him all this time, though of course, it would have. It did not excuse things, but it helped her put everything in perspective. She’d believed all this time that he’d prioritised his reputation and career, and that he did not want to be tied down emotionally to anyone. Least of all to her.
Was it possible…could she have been wrong?
He frowned and lifted a hand. “I would say the fact that I found you here affirms it. It is the answer to the question I posed earlier.”
George’s shrine. The sweetish smell of gently wilted roses assailed her nose.
Viola’s shoulders sagged. “It’s not true at all.”
Sebastian heaved a sigh and dropped onto the bench next to her.
There was silence. Then, he dragged a hand over his face. “Confound it, Viola. I no longer know what is true.”
Viola’s sigh echoed in the church.
Here they were, a married couple of nearly nine years, grown adults, so entirely different in personality and character, and both so thoroughly clueless. Trying to find their way back to each other, yet not knowing how.
“No,” Viola said ruefully. “What a muddle, don’t you agree? It is as though every time I say A, you understand B. Then you say B and I understand A. We are both horrifically bad at communicating with each other. It is as if we both speak a different language.” It was as if they were both speaking theirtruth, yet still not fully meeting. The irony was that both were masters at wielding words. She of the written word, he of the spoken. But when it came to communicating with each other, their talents failed them utterly.
Why was that?
