A Curse of the Heart

Loving Gabriel had created a new wound. And she had the suspicion he would not be able to heal it.

“I must go,” she said, trying not to look at him for fear of melting under his sinful gaze, suddenly grateful for the solid table standing between them. “Would you mind sending for your carriage? And I will need my cloak.”

He gave an exasperated sigh. “Then I shall accompany you.”

“No!” The word came out as a shriek. “I’ll be fine. Mrs. James will be there and Mr. Pearce. I … I would like to rest in my quarters. I would like to be alone.” She felt weak and nauseous and being alone was a feeling she knew how to deal with, a feeling she lived with daily.

Gabriel cursed and muttered to himself. “Then let Higson accompany you. He can repair the basement door while you rest.” His voice sounded strained, but she could not worry about that.

She agreed and waited for him to leave the room. She waited until the sound of his boots echoed down the hallway and then exhaled, releasing years of suppressed pain, hugged her stom

ach and let the tears fall.

Chapter 16

Rebecca felt exhausted and emotional, yet the rhythmical rocking of the carriage did little to soothe her spirit.

A hint of cedar hung in the air. The smell reminded her of Gabriel’s skin, of his hair and his mouth, and the carriage felt like a dark void: cold and empty without him in it.

As they rumbled out of Hanover Square, she forced her gaze to her lap, knowing that to see Gabriel’s solemn face would tear at her heart, and she could not think about that, not today.

It was almost eleven o’clock when they rolled into Coventry Street, the high sun visible as the street bustled with activity. Dogs chased after their master’s heels. Ladies strolled in groups displaying their pretty parasols, a man dodging them as he navigated the crowd while balancing paper parcels on his head, the world blissfully unaware of the sadness consuming her.

When they pulled up outside her house, Higson jumped down and advised her to wait in the carriage while he went inside to find the housekeeper.

Visitors eager to experience the wonders of Egypt queued at the front door. The proprietor wearing nothing but a nightgown and a damp silk cloak was not on the list of recommended attractions.

Higson returned with a pale blue pelisse and matching parasol and waited while Rebecca made herself look more respectable before escorting her into the house.

“I’ll go and see about the basement door,” he said seeing her safely to the third floor. “And I’ll report back before I leave.”

Rebecca nodded.

Clutching the folded parasol like a weapon, she walked towards the parlour door. Holding her breath, she anticipated seeing the damaged portrait for the first time. Wincing, for fear one glance would scorch her eyes.

But the painting was not on the chair as Gabriel had mentioned.

“Higson.” She called out to the coachman, and he plodded back up the stairs and crossed the landing to stand in front of her. Upon closer inspection, his thick side-whiskers made his face seem fuller, friendlier than she expected. His warm countenance so opposed to his coarse, hulking frame. “Last night, you were with Mr. Stone when he checked the building.”

“Aye, I was, miss.”

“He told me the damaged painting had been left on the chair,” she said pointing to where she expected to find the memory of her mother torn to tatters.

Higson lifted his chin, gesturing to the empty chair. “Mr. Stone. He moved it. He didn’t want to cause any more distress than was necessary.”

“I see.”

It was a thoughtful gesture. Whoever left it there wanted her to see it in all its wicked glory, shredded and maimed, the soul stripped right out of it.

“He put it behind the chair,” Higson said holding out a meaty finger to direct her gaze.

Rebecca shook her head when she noticed the corners of the gilt frame poking out at the sides. She stared at the decorative edges, fear growing in her chest as she anticipated the pain she knew would follow.

“It feels as though my mother’s memory has been desecrated. It feels as though she has died all over again.” She hadn’t meant to say the words aloud. Higson glanced behind to see if she was talking to someone else. “How could anyone be so cruel?”

“If you don’t mind me saying, miss. All the precious things are in our head. Memories, that’s what counts. There’s no need for objects when your memory serves you well enough.”

Rebecca stared at him, his words filtering through all the madness. “Memories are painful, Higson, and objects have a way of making us feel connected to the person.”