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“They sit there all alone otherwise,” the man says soberly.
Nate and I make our way out to the cemetery and walk the rows of weathered headstones. The man at the museum gave us a map of the deceased, and we soon find Robert Tulley’s empty grave. I stare at the eerie blank space where the date of death should be.
“My mother left me,” I say.
Which is an awkward way to start a conversation, but the instinct to do so erupts from my mouth without permission.
“Sometimes she’ll send a birthday postcard or something,” I continue. “Mostly, though, she disappeared. Dropped me off at my dad’s doorstep when I was two and fled without a backward look. I don’t know where she is or what she’s doing. When she dies, I might not even know.”
“That’s brutal.” Nate’s voice is low, somber. “I’m sorry.”
“I guess what I’m trying to say is it’s weird how context changes the story. History talks about Robert in these mysterious, tragic terms. But what about the people who knew him? The ones leftbehind. Did they feel abandoned? Discarded? Or if he left for love, why did he let his family forever grieve his loss without closure?”
Nate watches me with that inscrutable expression of his. “You’re passionate about all this.”
I shrug, hoping the heat flaming my face doesn’t appear as obvious in the cooling late-afternoon air.
“Who doesn’t love a good story? It’s romantic, isn’t it? Love and death and tragedy-torn families. Beats Instagram and reality TV or whatever bullshit.”
Nate cracks a half smile that quickens my pulse. “Can’t argue that.”
We walk toward the next row, where I stop in front of another headstone. Lawrence is here as well. The youngest brother, whom the duchess described in her diary as a spoiled, petulant child. The books that mention Lawrence before he became the patriarch of the Tulley family labeled him an unserious, uncurious boy with no remarkable qualities. A boy who managed to be so unlike his brothers.
“If Robert hadn’t disappeared and William hadn’t died,” I say, “Lawrence wouldn’t have inherited the family’s land and titles. He wouldn’t have produced the descendants who humiliated the Tulley name and drove the estate into ruin. It’s tragic.”
“It’s a very British story,” Nate says wryly.
“I take it you aren’t a monarchist.”
He slides a dry glance at me. “No.”
I step away from Lawrence’s grave. As we continue exploring, Nate shoves his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans, his long legs moving in easy strides. He’s got this completely unfazed aura to him. Unfettered. More than that, he gives off the vibe that he might take off at any moment. He’s here with me now, but only because he chooses to be. Nothing or no one can capture him unless he lets them.
“Shall we head off then?” He glances at me.
“Sure, let’s— ” My gaze snags on a flash of color among thegreenery. “Actually, wait. Just one more thing,” I tell him before dashing off.
I steal a handful of pink and orange flowers from a nearby bush and carry them to the grave of the duchess. Bending down, I carefully lay them on the weathered stone. I don’t know what propels me. Maybe the fact that she lost so much. That we spent the afternoon combing through her private words. It feels wrong to trample through the family’s dead without some gesture of appreciation.
As I stand with muddy prints on the knees of my jeans, Nate holds out a dark red flower I hadn’t noticed him pick.
My heartbeat accelerates.
“What’s this for?” I squeak, trying to talk through the surprised lump in my throat.
“Reminds me of your hair.” He twirls the short stem between his long, callused fingers. “And I felt like it.”
I bite my lip. Hard.
This is the guy who doesn’tdo romance.
Our fingers brush as I accept the flower from him, and my pulse kicks up another notch. Avoiding his eyes, I duck my head and smell the delicate petals.
“Abbey,” he starts. Voice low.
I swallow. “Hmm?”
The distance between us has closed by inches, and when I look up, his face is hovering over me with dark come-hither bedroom eyes. The intensity is almost too much. I’m so hypnotized, in fact, that I barely notice we’re getting closer and that my eyelids are drifting shut, until my phone buzzes in my pocket with such insistence that someone had better be dying.
