Emmaline didn’t stop to explain. Rounding the banister, she flew down the stairs and through the house, reaching the front door just as Geoffrey was turning Margarete away.
“I need to speak with him,” Margarete pleaded. “Please. Can you just let him know I’m here, at the very least.”
“I’m sorry, Madam, but Lord Worthington has been up all night in his study and is in no condition to entertain visitors,” Geoffrey was saying, but Emmaline pushed her way in front of him.
Both Margarete and Geoffrey looked at her with surprise.
Emmaline stood tall—or as tall as a fourteen-year-old girl could stand—poised and ready to strike, but for a second she wasn’t sure just how to begin. Her anger had flared up so suddenly inside of her that she wasn’t sure which direction to channel it.
“Why?” Emmaline asked after a few uncomfortable seconds.
“If I may,” Geoffrey interrupted. “I’m not sure it’s appropriate for you to be speaking with—”
“I’ll speak to whoever I want,” Emmaline snapped. She had no patience for manners or protocol. This was her opportunity to confront the woman who’d preyed upon her family. She wasn’t about to let the butler deny her that satisfaction.
“Very well, miss,” Geoffrey conceded, stepping aside.
“It’s Emmaline? Isn’t it?” Margarete asked.
Emmaline’s skin crawled as her name was spoken.
“I need to speak with your father,” Margarete said.
“Why would I ever let you in to see my father?” Emmaline asked. “So you can torment him more than you already have? So that you can try to steal him away from my mother? You’ve done nothing but harm my our family ever since you’ve come into my father’s life.”
You broke his heart. The silent accusation came to her mind, but she held it back.
“Worthington told you?” Margarete asked.
Emmaline nodded, their eyes locked.
“Yes,” Margarete said, struggling visibly to speak. “Yes, I did that. I did all those things. And I’m not proud of it.”
“Then why come back?” Emmaline asked. “How could you show you face here again after all that you’ve done?”
“Because things have gotten out of hand,” Margarete said. “Maybe I shouldn’t be here now and maybe it’s too late, but… I want to try to make things right.”
Emmaline realized for the first time that Margarete’s eyes were red from crying and she held a handkerchief in her hand. Though Margarete was trying to appear strong, Emmaline could see fresh tears fighting to fall. She got the impression this wasn’t the first time she’d been crying that morning.
“Please,” Margarete said. “I need to talk to Terrin.”
“The best thing you could do right now is leave,” Emmaline said. “Leave us alone and never talk to my father again.”
“I wish it were that easy,” Margarete sighed. She fumbled for a moment, looking eagerly over Emmaline’s head into the estate. “Did your father ever tell you about how we first met?” she asked.
“I know everything I need to know about you,” Emmaline said.
“Then I don’t think you have the whole story,” Margarete said. “But perhaps this isn’t the time either. I know you would like to blame me for all that has happened, but I had no intention of hurting you or your family.”
“Then how do you explain blackmailing my father?” Emmaline asked.
Margarete looked surprised. “How do you know about that?”
Emmaline stared her down. She felt no need to recount what her father had written in his diary. That was one advantage Emmaline possessed over Margarete, she understood her father’s deepest thoughts.
“I needed a way out,” Margarete said when it was clear Emmaline wouldn’t say. She wrung the damp handkerchief in her hands. “It was the only way I knew I could sever ties with your father and ensure my escape from this city. Your father and I have a history, Emmaline. I realize that’s not something you want to hear, but it’s true. However it happened, your father and I grew close—until one night your father told me that he loved me.
“We both of us lost sense of ourselves, I think,” she mused. “As much as we wanted for more, it was all only ever an illusion. A passing fantasy that neither of us deserved. When I realized that we couldn’t indulge it any longer I knew that I had to break things off with your father. And so I did, and I did it in a way that I thought would make the goodbye the easiest for both of us.
“I thought that he would have let me go—that the hurt would make it easier for him to send me away. But so much has happened now that I never intended to happen. Your father…” She choked up again, clutching her chest as she fought to speak past the lump in her throat. “Your father tried to silence me. He sent a man to put me away, to see that I never caused him trouble again. He murdered my friend to get to me.”
Emmaline felt her anger rebuked in an instant. If she had been addled before after reading her father’s diary she was completely bewildered by Margarete’s declaration.
Her father, a murderer?
She didn’t want to believe it, but then her father had surprised her already with acts she’d never thought possible. Given the circumstance, Emmaline found it difficult to rise to his defense. But, despite her hesitation, something about it didn’t sit right. Even for her father that was too far.
“I don’t believe it,” Emmaline said.
“Neither do I,” Margarete said. “Which is why I’m here. I need to find out from your father what has happened, and how to stop this before we destroy everything I love.”
Emmaline looked into Margarete’s eyes feeling completely unraveled. Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing could be believed. It felt as though she had nothing to stand on. Could her father really have done those things? His diary hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. But could she be certain he would have written about it if he had?
She prayed silently that it wasn’t true. If it was, then her father had become something entirely new and terrifying.
“All I wanted was my freedom,” Margarete continued. “That was all. The freedom to find my own happiness and leave your father to rediscover his. I didn’t know then what that would cost all of us.”
Emmaline steeped in her confusion. Margarete’s words had muddied the waters thoroughly. It seemed nothing was so black and white as she craved. Without a scapegoat, her anger turned inward leaving her feeling sick and exhausted again.
“Come in,” she heard herself say.
Emmaline turned and retreated into the estate, passing under Geoffrey’s inquisitive eye as she led Margarete to her father’s study. Margarete’s words had unarmed her and set something stirring inside. In the span of a few short weeks Emmaline had seen her world built up and washed away as suddenly as the sandcastles she’d constructed on the seashore. Nothing was left but bare sand.
How would she ever build again?
At the door Emmaline could see the blurred figure of her father pacing behind the distorted glass. She knocked lightly, and the figure stopped. Approaching the door, her father pulled back the latch and opened it to them. His tired eyes fell on Emmaline, his dull look of confusion mirroring Emmaline’s. It aged him, and Emmaline felt her already jumbled feelings twist inside. But then he looked over her to see Margarete and his eyes went wide.
“Margarete,” he said in surprise, glancing back at Emmaline. “What… why are you here?”
“We need to talk, Terrin,” Margarete said.
When the door was closed, Emmaline turned and began her slow trudge back to her room. She felt horrible. Detached. Frustrated. Confused. She couldn’t list all the feelings she was wrestling with.
“Are you alright, miss?” Geoffrey asked, stepping forward and falling into step at her side.
Emmaline frowned, realizing just how short she’d been with him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be so… unpleasant. I don’t think I’m quite myself anymore.”
&n
bsp; “Apology accepted,” Geoffrey smiled. “Though given the circumstance I’m quite sure it is unnecessary. It’s been a difficult morning.” He followed her to the bottom of the stairs. “Do you know, I thought that was rather a brave thing you just did,” he added.
“Really?”
He nodded. “I’m not sure if you’ve felt it or not, miss, but the rhythm of the house has been rather… amiss. I’ve felt it for weeks now. If this leads to things returning to normal, then I would count us fortunate. Of course, we never quite know what effect we truly have. Time will tell, I suppose. All misfortunes have a way of working themselves out in the end.”
Emmaline nodded as she turned up the stairs and left Geoffrey on the ground floor. Every step was laborious as she lifted her heavy feet in front of each other. What was she was to do now? Geoffrey was right, the rhythm of the house was all off. How would they right it? Was it even possible to?
As she reached the top of the stairs her brow furrowed with another troubling thought. She wasn’t sure she even wanted normal anymore.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Pleading
WORTHINGTON CLOSED THE DOOR TO the study, hesitating without looking at Margarete.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.
“I’ll stand,” Margarete said.
He nodded and shuffled behind his desk, leaving Margarete to stand in the center of the room. He still wouldn’t look at her. Nor would he sit. Staring hard at something on his desk, he fumbled beside his chair with seemingly nothing.
Margarete watched him with strained curiosity.
“I was afraid I’d never see you again,” Worthington said finally, breaking the silence.
Margarete eyed him with uncertainty. This was not at all the state she thought she’d find him in. After all, isn’t this what he’d hoped would happen? She’d lost all her will to run, enclosed about by regret for what had happened and fear for what still might. He’d won, yet he looked as though the man had been undone at the seams. There was no pride to defend. No bitterness born. Gone was the regal strength he’d sought to embody, replaced by this weak husk of a man.
But that did not excuse him. The sight of Worthington had disarmed her some, but she could not be tempted away from her purpose by compassion. Not after what he’d done to Charlotte.
“Did you leave me any other choice?” she asked. “How could you? How could you go so far just to hurt me? I understand you wanting to keep me silent, but why go after them? How could you stoop so low as to attack my family? Have you truly lost yourself so much? Are you really so desperate?”
Worthington’s face skewed with confusion. “Who harmed who?” he asked.
“Don’t play games with me,” Margarete warned. “It won’t work. You and I know each other better than most. All I want is the truth.”
“I swear on my life,” Worthington said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I did no such thing to anyone.”
Unbelievable, Margarete thought, that even now he’d be so intent on hiding his guilt.
“The man you hired came for me last night,” she explained. “And when he couldn’t find me he satisfied his lust by attacking the matron of the house. He murdered her, Terrin, in cold blood.”
Worthington fell back into his chair, his eyes wide as he processed what Margarete was saying. She watched him run a hand over his brow, pushing back his hair and muttering something to himself. He seemed so hollow, worn through as deeply as she’d been by the past few days.
“How could you do it?” Margarete persisted.
“I didn’t,” he said, his gaze again wandering away from her. “At least, I didn’t intend to. It wasn’t me that ordered those men to attack you. You must understand, Margarete, I would never do such a thing. We both know I have my list of flaws but I would never call for someone’s death.”
“Not even to save your own skin?”
“Not even then,” Worthington insisted.
He looked at her when he said it and Margarete felt herself wanting to believe him.
“I fear that Dempwolf has overstepped his bounds,” he continued. “When you threatened me you threatened each of my business relations—most dangerous, of course, being Dempwolf. He is liable to do anything to save his name and keep his place in the meritocracy. Clearly he’s gone further than I intended.
“But, I am at fault,” Worthington concluded, a hint of his old demeanor coming through his weariness. “I’m the one to blame for all of this. If it wasn’t for my own selfishness, then this wouldn’t have gotten so out of hand. By one means or another I’ve harmed everyone close to me. I had only meant to retrieve the letters and…”
His eyes were breaking as he looked at her, and Margarete sensed the real reason he’d refused to let go.
“Would it have been so hard to let me go?” Margarete said. “I would have gladly taken my misery with me.”
“I’m not sure that I was thinking,” Worthington mused. He reached for something on his desk Margarete couldn’t see and clasped it tightly in his hand. “I only meant to keep you near. When you told me that you intended to leave the city I panicked. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, and the thought that I might never see you again was too much for…” He faltered with his words. “It was too much,” he concluded.
“So you’d drag me under with you rather than see me free to live a life on my own?” Margarete asked.
“I suppose I was still holding onto the hope that things might work out for the best,” Worthington said.
“Letting me go would have been best for both of us,” Margarete said. “What we have, Terrin, is sick. It repulses me to think of where we are, all tangled up in this web of lies and deceptions. To be bound by promises neither of us will ever be able to fulfill for one another. This would surely be our end, and I was trying to save us by leaving. But if I can’t save us both, then the least I can do is save myself,” she said resolutely. “Call off Dempwolf and his man and you can have your bloody letters.”
Worthington looked away and Margarete saw the conflict breaking in him.
“I know you’d like to think so, but I’m no longer your butterfly. You can’t keep me trapped in your hands any longer,” she insisted. “If you ever truly loved me, let me go.”
Worthington released a heavy breath, biting his cheek as he pondered her words.
“You’re right. I’ve acted like a monster,” Worthington said, clenching his jaw and fist even tighter. “I didn’t see I was hurting you. I didn’t want to see.” He straightened up at his desk. “I will see to it you safe passage out of Hatteras, on one of my ships. They can take you as far as you need to go, wherever you decide to go. And that will be the end of it. You have my word. You’ll be free to start a life of your own.”
“And what about Dempwolf?” Margarete asked.
“I will have him call off his search. If the letters are recovered, then he can have no reason to pursue you further,” Worthington assured her. He fetched a fresh page and a pen from a drawer to begin work on the missive immediately. “However, I don’t believe he’ll be satisfied until the letters are in hand,” Worthington warned.
“If I have your word, then he can collect the letters himself,” Margarete said.
She believed Terrin’s word, and that meant the real weight of responsibility for Charlotte’s death rested on Dempwolf. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she thought of coming face-to-face with the man again. Not that she was afraid of what he might do to her, but of what she might do to him.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Worthington said. “Dempwolf has proved he’s a dangerous man. It would be better if I approached him, I think.”
“No,” Margarete insisted. “I want this. The man is responsible for Charlotte’s death. He deserves to feel the consequences.”
Worthington looked at her curiously, but finally nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll have him retrieve the letters this afternoon. Shall I have him m
eet you at the brothel?
“No!” Margarete said. She didn’t want him near any of the other girls. “There’s an abandoned theater on the northern side of the Basin District. Just south of the bridge. Have him meet me there at noon. If he brings my compensation, then I’ll deliver the letters.”
Worthington looked as though he wanted to object, but if he did, he held his tongue. “I’ll see that it’s arranged,” he said.
“Thank you.”
They stood for a moment in the stillness of the waking house. With their business done they had nothing more to discuss. Their clock had wound down and Margarete felt her business with Worthington finally at its conclusion.
“I suppose this is it then,” Worthington said, disappointment mounting in his voice.
“I suppose it is,” Margarete said.
“With any luck you won’t ever have to see me again.”
“Perhaps,” Margarete said, swallowing hard. “But then, when have either of us had an affinity with luck?”
Worthington managed a weak chuckle, his head tilting forward as he struggled with his many emotions. “Only once,” he said.
Worthington’s head hung low. The gravity of the moment had settled on him with such force that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to bear it. He closed his eyes, but despite his efforts the tears he’d fought to hold back managed to escape. They fell heavily onto the blank page beneath him, ruining the note he’d intended to write.
He had lost her. Despite all he’d done to keep her close she’d finally found her escape. And, as he watched her go, the lies he’d told himself to mask the effects of his actions were laid bare. He felt himself a fool for ever having entertained them. Margarete was right. She’d been right all along.
If only he’d heard her sooner.
He clasped his hand tightly, the butterfly hairpin he held pressing deep into his palm. It was such a small comfort, the sensation. Yet, at a time like this, it was remarkable what a profound effect it had on him. Opening his hand he stared at the ornate hairpin and the impression it had left in his palm.
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