“What is to happen now?” She wrung her hands.
“It’s over.”
Viola’s eyes flew to his. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “I have resigned my position. Liverpool has accepted.”
“But—But why?”
“It’s making the party too vulnerable. There is too much at stake in the upcoming elections.”
Josephine had said the same.
Viola felt all the blood drain from her face. It was worse than she’d feared. “I’ll talk to Liverpool myself. I’ll write a counterstatement that you can read in the Commons. We’ll publish it in all the papers, and we’ll make the publishing company publish it. In the worst case, we can sue them?—”
“No.”
She drew away from him in disbelief. “No? You won’t fight for your reputation? Your career? You’ll just stand by and watch it crash and burn?”
“There is nothing to be gained from fighting this.” The silence that weighed between them was heavier than lead. “It’s done, Viola. I will not be standing in this election.”
The whole dreadfulness of it was too much. He’d had a brilliant career, with brilliant prospects, and then she went and ruined it all. Ruined his life like she ruined so many things, with a thoroughness that was breathtaking.
She should never have come to London. She should have stayed in the Highlands, and none of this would have happened. And more than that, she should have never married him, even if it had been an accident and not her fault; she should have never gone to Westwood Hall; she should have never accepted Lady Regina’s invitation; she should have never taken that walk to the ruin and met him and fallen in love with him. It was all a terrible mistake.
Her knees gave way, and she sank slowly to the ground before him.
“It’s all my fault.” She wrapped her arms around his legs and burst into noisy tears. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He froze. Certainly, he must be mortified by this outburst, for he said nothing at first. Then, gently, “Get up, Viola.” Or perhaps he said, “Let go, Viola,” for she held him entirely immobile, her arms wrapped around his legs, her forehead pressed against his shin as she wept.
“I am a curse in your life. I make a mess of everything I touch. I am so terribly sorry.”
Sebastian gently disentangled himself. “That is enough now. Compose yourself.” His voice was not unkind, but it was not warm either. “Remember, you are with child. Our child. That is the only thing that matters now.”
He was right. Surely it was not good for the child that she wept like this. She fumbled for a handkerchief, but of course found none. Sebastian held his out to her, and she took it and blew into it noisily.
“What happens now?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You are to remove to Westwood Hall with immediate effect.”
As he spoke, she heard the servants on the stairs, carrying trunks.
She grew still. “Already? Tonight? Right now?”
He gave a curt nod. “There is no time to lose.”
The butler appeared in the doorway. “Everything is ready, sir.”
So that was to be her punishment. He was banishing her.
She supposed she deserved it. Dazed, she rose from the sofa. He walked her out of the house, handed her up into the carriage. The door closed. Through the window she watched him exchange a word with the coachman, his face unreadable, and she thought: he is not even saying goodbye.
Then the door was wrenched open, and he hauled himself inside onto the seat across from hers, rapping against the roof. “With haste.”
Outside, a crowd of onlookers had gathered, pressing around the carriage, shouting questions.
“Mr Fane, is your career finished?”
