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Ewan did as asked. Throughout, he felt as though his heart burst in his throat. When she turned round to beam and thank him, Marta’s eyebrows immediately shot low. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there, Ewan?” she asked. “I can see it reflected in your eyes. Something is off.”
Ewan buzzed his lips. “You’re always attempting to read me, dear cousin. I request you to turn your sights inward. Focus a bit on your own peculiar and significant ailments.”
“As though that sort of inward turn would push Baldwin to do what needs to be done,” Marta returned.
“Give him a bit more time. It’s a tricky situation,” Ewan returned.
“But it’s not as though your mother will allow it. She seems continually on the verge of plotting my unfortunate wedding day.”
“She’s already discussed the floral arrangements with Tatiana,” Ewan said with a dry smile.
Marta snapped her foot against the hardwood floor and cast her eyes back towards the hallway. “How dreadful it all is. Perhaps I’ve caused enough damage here. Perhaps I’d better return to Austria.”
“Perhaps we all should go,” Ewan blurted, conscious of his own failures.
Down in the carriage, Ewan’s thoughts stirred in wild circles. Marta spoke seemingly endlessly as she and Ewan had grown incredibly close, and she found him the only person willing and able to carry her burden. Now, with his own cross to bear, he wasn’t an apt listener. Marta didn’t seem privy to this idea and continued, her lips spitting with rage.
Once at the ball, Ewan watched the night begin as it always did. He felt as though he watched the act of a play, the script already written and the movements rehearsed. When Marta seemed overwhelmed with the Duke, Ewan stepped in to dance with her; they bantered as they tapped their feet beneath them. The banter was standard, funny, nothing really that Ewan could have recalled later on. Then, the Duke stepped back in, demanded a dance—Marta fluttered a laugh and agreed, knowing that it was generally required of her to perform such duties. And on and on the evening went. All the while, Baldwin’s eyes seemed to follow all of them. They were like black holes.
Penelope Sussell was in attendance, a fact that hardly bothered Ewan at all. She seemed to regret the fact that this didn’t bother him. She shot towards him, gripped his elbow, and said, “Ewan, darling, I do hope that I haven’t injured you too greatly. You know that I respect you a great deal, that I want you in my life in some capacity. I just couldn’t find…”
At that moment, another man, broader, taller than Ewan himself, appeared beside Penelope. It was rather clear what had happened; again, Ewan admired the fact that his heart did not leapwith resentment.
“My name is Ewan Thompson,” he said to the man, his hand extended. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine!” the man returned. His voice was several octaves deeper than Ewan’s; it seemed; almost gutteral. “My name is Max Brash.”
“Max Brash. Now, what do you know, Penny? This man has fewer syllables to his entire name than you do in your first. Is that where the attraction comes from? A balance of your names?”
Penelope’s cheeks burned red. “Ewan, I don’t imagine that this is easy for you…”
“Actually, Penelope, I must tell you … I’ve thought of you little since you sent that remarkably daft letter. I wish you and BaxMrash all the happiness in the world.” He flashed them a smile and turned on his heel, grateful to leap out from the direct and powerful gaze of Penelope.
It had never been perfect. It had never been what he wanted.
But what was this affair with Laura, then? It was certainly not perfect. He felt the baby, just a smudge in the bottom of her belly, as this enormous weight, latching him to some sort of future he couldn’t comprehend. He hurried directly towards the drink table and knocked back not one, but three glasses of wine in a span of only a few minutes. He squeezed his eyes closed and huffed. This: this was how he would live through the evening. He would drink himself nearly to death, then collapse back at home. Memory of it all would catch up to him tomorrow morning, but at the moment, tomorrow morning was someone else’s problem.
He grabbed another drink and beelined for Baldwin, who stood off to the side, his hands shoved in his pockets.
“It doesn’t do you good to stare at your beautiful love all night,” Ewan said. His words sloshed together, an indication of his newfound drunkenness.
“I want to make sure he doesn’t take her anywhere,” Baldwin returned, his eyes stormy. “I know he’s the sort to whip women into dark corners and have his way with them.”
“Marta will never allow it,” Ewan returned. “And she’s nearly as tall as I am. Imagine anyone trying to force Marta to do anything against her will. She’d destroy them. She’s only a few days from destroying you, as you still haven’t done anything about your affair.”
Baldwin’s face flushed. “It’s not an affair. It’s something much deeper with its own variety of problems.”
Ewan wanted to chortle, to choke on the lacklustre nature of Marta and Baldwin’s problems. Instead, he turned back towards the drink table and asked, “I’m going for another. Would you like one?”
Baldwin seemed too lost in his own thoughts to even regard this question as answerable. He muttered to himself, his eyes still directed towards the man across the ballroom, the man who whispered into the ear of his love.
“I suppose not,” Ewan said. He shot towards the table, grabbed yet another glass, and dropped his head back. He felt like a lake, collecting the rain. He wanted to feel nothing at all.
**
The hours dripped past. Ewan supposed they always did at events like these. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an actually decent time, beyond the time several weeks ago when he’d thought that, perhaps, in some reality, he and Penelope could have been happy together. That reality being this one had proved itself untrue. However, the euphoria of the possibility had pleased him.
Now, there was no possibility. There was only the baby. There was only his love for Laura, the servant from Austria whose vocabulary in the English world was still rather seriously lacking. Pregnancy was a word she’d had to look up. Baby, apparently, was the same everywhere.
