Chapter 9 - The Proposal Cordelia Refused
Cordelia did not speak until they were inside the carriage.
Edmund sat beside Mrs. Finch in another vehicle, protected by two men.
Beatrice sat opposite her.
Julian sat beside Cordelia.
Nobody moved.
Finally Cordelia asked, “Why?”
Beatrice looked at the floor.
“I thought I was protecting him.”
“From me?”
“From uncertainty.”
“You signed a document declaring me immoral.”
“I did not know those words were in the final petition.”
“You signed.”
“Vale said guardianship would allow me to secure Edmund’s inheritance.”
“He has no inheritance.”
“He may.”
Cordelia stared.
“What does that mean?”
Beatrice closed her eyes.
“Marian’s father left money.”
“You told me it was gone.”
“It was invested.”
“With Vale?”
“Yes.”
Cordelia laughed once.
There were no tears yet.
She was too angry.
“Is there any part of our family finances he does not own?”
Beatrice whispered, “I was desperate.”
“You were always desperate.”
“I know.”
“And everyone else paid for it.”
Beatrice did not defend herself.
That almost made it worse.
At Ravensworth, Westcott worked through the night.
The foreclosure was temporarily delayed because of evidence concerning Cordelia’s trust.
The guardianship petition was harder.
Technically, Cordelia was not Edmund’s mother.
She had no formal legal appointment.
Marian’s dying request had been verbal.
Beatrice was the nearest older relative with property.
Or had been, before Thornwood’s financial collapse became public.
“We can fight,” Westcott said.
“Can Vale take him immediately?” Cordelia asked.
“No. Not lawfully.”
“That was not my question.”
Westcott hesitated.
“Vale himself cannot. Beatrice could request temporary custody.”
Cordelia looked at her aunt.
“You will not.”
Beatrice’s eyes filled.
“No.”
“Say it.”
“I will not take Edmund from you.”
Cordelia believed her.
She wished belief erased signatures.
It did not.
That evening, Julian found Cordelia in the garden.
She stood beside a stone fountain watching moonlight tremble across black water.
“You have not eaten.”
“I am not hungry.”
“That has never convinced anyone.”
“I am not asking anyone to be convinced.”
He stood beside her.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then Julian said, “My proposal was wrong.”
Cordelia looked at him.
“The proposal itself?”
“The way I made it.”
She said nothing.
“I saw a problem,” he continued, “and offered what seemed like the strongest solution.”
“That is what powerful men do.”
“Yes.”
“You turned marriage into another legal instrument.”
“Yes.”
“At least you are learning quickly.”
He almost smiled.
“I am not withdrawing how I feel.”
Cordelia’s heart shifted.
“You never said how you feel.”
“I thought asking you to marry me communicated something.”
“It communicated that your solicitor understands settlements.”
Julian laughed despite himself.
Then his expression softened.
“I think about you constantly.”
Cordelia looked away.
“I thought about you after you left me in the rain.”
“That was probably hypothermia.”
“I asked the innkeeper about you before changing my clothes.”
“Poor judgment.”
“I stayed in Thornwood because of you before I understood the legal problem.”
She faced him.
“Why?”
“I wanted to see whether you were always that impossible.”
“And?”
“You are worse.”
She smiled.
Julian stepped closer.
“I admire you.”
Her smile disappeared.
“I admire the way you refuse to perform weakness merely to make other people comfortable. I admire how Edmund looks at you as if you created the sun. I admire that you challenge me when everyone else agrees because agreement is easier.”
“Julian.”
“I love the sound of my name when you are irritated.”
“That is unfortunate because you hear it frequently.”
“Yes.”
His hand lifted.
He did not touch her.
“May I?”
Cordelia knew what he meant.
Her pulse thundered.
“No.”
His hand lowered immediately.
The absence of pressure affected her more than pressure would have.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For stopping?”
“For asking.”
Julian nodded.
“I will ask again someday.”
“Arrogant.”
“Hopeful.”
They stood in silence.
Then Cordelia said, “I care for you.”
His breathing changed.
“That does not mean I can marry you.”
“I know.”
“I need to know who I am when nobody owns my choices.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He looked toward Ravensworth House.
“When Alexander died, I inherited everything he was supposed to inherit. Title. Estates. Parliament seat. Expectations.”
“You were young.”
“Twenty-one.”
“What did you want?”
“To travel.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
Cordelia smiled faintly.
“I wanted to see the coast of Italy.”
“I wanted Egypt.”
“Too hot.”
“You complain about English rain.”
“I am consistent.”
Julian laughed softly.
Then his voice changed.
“I nearly married Celeste.”
Cordelia’s stomach tightened despite herself.
“She told me about Alexander.”
“After he died, our families thought marriage would repair something.”
“Would it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because grief is not a house. You cannot repair it by replacing furniture.”
Cordelia looked at him.
“That sounded almost wise.”
“I have occasional episodes.”
“And Celeste?”
“She knew before I did. She ended it.”
“Was your pride wounded?”
“Catastrophically.”
“Good.”
Julian smiled.
Cordelia’s hand rested against the fountain.
His fingers lay inches away.
Neither touched.
Then a bell sounded from the house.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Alarm.
Julian ran.
Cordelia followed.
They found Mrs. Finch in Edmund’s room.
The bed was empty.
The window stood open.
A rope hung over the sill.
Cordelia stopped breathing.
“No.”
On the pillow lay Edmund’s wooden horse.
And beneath it, a note.
Cordelia unfolded it.
Come to Blackwater Bridge alone before dawn.
Bring the original survey and Charles Ashworth’s journal.
If you involve Ravensworth, the boy disappears forever.
Cordelia’s knees gave way.
Julian caught her.
For one terrible moment, she clung to him.
Then she pushed away.
“I am going.”
“No.”
She turned on him.
“He has Edmund.”
“And he expects you to come alone.”
“I promised Marian.”
“Cordelia.”
“I promised.”
Julian saw the terror behind her anger.
He stepped closer.
“And I promised you there would be no hidden obligations.”
“What does that have to do with this?”
“It means I will not command you.”
He took the note.
“But I am asking you to trust me.”
Cordelia stared at him.
“I trusted Beatrice.”
“I am not Beatrice.”
“I know.”
“Then let me help.”
Cordelia looked at the empty bed.
The little wooden horse.
The night beyond the window.
She had spent years surviving alone because depending on anyone felt dangerous.
Now a child’s life depended on whether she could do something even more frightening.
May you like
Trust.
“Tell me the plan,” she whispered.
