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He ran the back of his hand across his eyes and prayed for the strength to do what he had to do.
But try as he might, he could not rid himself of the anger that had been simmering since his parting from his uncle. It seemed it wasn’t enough for Cyril to ruin Hugo and see him banished. Now, Cyril had stolen Charity from him after helping ensure she’d been made destitute.
Through the actions of Cyril’s own father. And with Hugo’s own father as an accomplice.
For a moment Hugo could only stare at the grand edifice, the assembly hall Emily had said Charity had been taken to for some grand entertainment.
“With Cyril Adams?” Hugo had asked her, barely able to focus on her face due to his swimming vision.
“Yes, Mr Adams will be there,” she’d said as he’d stumbled down the steps, ignoring her cries that he didn’t seem to understand; suggesting he was feverish, that perhaps he should rest rather than hunt down Charity in such a state.
Hunt down Charity? Was she suggesting that in only one year his beloved could have switched allegiance so that Hugo was hunting her down rather than seeking her out?
He staggered a little and a gentleman assisting a lady from the carriage that had drawn up by the front steps sent him a disapproving look before shepherding his companion indoors.
The warmth that hit him as a pair of footmen opened the double doors onto the disorienting spectacle was like a furnace when he was already burning up.
It took a few moments to see straight. The room seemed to be swimming in and out of focus.
He was surprised at how quiet everything was when there were so many people here. Then he realised someone was on stage, speaking. He glanced up at the gentleman, a distinguished-looking man who seemed to have the crowd in thrall, and who stood beside a drawing which, he realised with a start was of Charity.
Hugo tried to attend to what he was saying but he caught only the words “my daughter” which seemed to create something of a sensation. He could sense the emotion around him but he couldn’t understand anything, least of all why the gentleman should be standing on stage surrounded by paintings Hugo had drawn.
He shook his head, for of course he was dreaming, and then saw the man hold out his arm to indicate someone, at which point the crowd parted and he could see, as clearly as if she stood in a halo of sunshine, his beloved Charity.
She looked like a goddess in a sheath of white silk adorned with blue velvet ribbons and his heart swelled as he saw her smile.
But she wasn’t smiling at him, he now saw. She was smiling at Cyril who was raising her hand to his lips.
For a moment Hugo felt suspended above reality.
Everything was a dream. It had to be.
Until a waft of cool air from the doors opening behind him brought him face to face with this cruel world, and pain like he’d never felt before seared his heart. Swaying as his hopes fragmented into a million shards, he realised the futility of his life from here on towards meaningless eternity. He reached out for something to balance him but there was nothing. He was as alone as he’d been before he met Charity.
And ever would be, now that he’d discovered his love had been in vain.
Frozen to the spot, swaying as his vision coalesced into hues of scarlet and black, he confronted his options.
He could either quietly leave and never see Charity again, ceding her to Cyril, the man who had won. Again.
That would be the path of nobility. He’d make no fuss. He’d sink into quiet obscurity, just as he’d lived his whole life. In his father and cousin’s shadow. A disappointment. The boy who simply wasn’t up to scratch.
Or he could make his feelings quite clear and direct, before walking out of Charity’s life.
Leaving her the option to follow if she chose.
He drew his shoulders back. The crowd had broken into applause but were quiet now. Hugo had no idea what the man on stage was saying, and he didn’t care.
All he cared about was navigating to where Cyril stood with his bland, unctuous expression, thinking he could possess Charity. Thinking he could walk roughshod over Hugo as he had all his life.
Hugo managed to cross the carpeted expanse without falling over. That was one small victory.
“Cyril.”
The moment his cousin turned, Hugo raised his fist and clipped him across the jaw.
The satisfaction of seeing the horror on Cyril’s expression was short-lived, swallowed up as it was by the sound of his Charity’s scream.
