MY HEART FREEZES in my chest. In two strides I’m back over to him. “Shut up!” I hiss. “How did you know about that?”
A grin spreads over his face and I realize my mistake at once. I slump down into the chair.
“So there is a baby.” Smug, he saunters to the sideboard and pours himself a glass. At least he’s lowered his voice now, and there’s a reluctant creak in the hall as Aunt Phillips tries to tiptoe quietly away.
He flops down into the chair opposite me. “I’ll try to make it quick, but I have to say I rather have a mind to bide here awhile, drinking your uncle’s fine spirits.” He drains the glass. “I haven’t had a good glass of port in too long.”
“Cyrus...”
“Oh, all right.” He unfolds the paper, and my heart lurches as I recognize Catherine’s handwriting. “Seems your sister is in rather desperate circumstances. She sent me this letter.”
I dig my fingers into the chair, waiting for him to finish drawing out the moment.
“Well, I won’t bore you with the details. She just said that she knew we—that is, you and me,” he says, gesturing between us, “had fallen out and that she had reason to think I might entertain the idea of another Montrose sister. She spells it all out quite clearly, said she wouldn’t even try to pull the wool over my eyes, as it were. It seems she got herself...” he clears his throat delicately, as if this were somehow beneath him, and continued “...in a certain condition, and she needed my help to keep her respectable.”
My insides are coiled ropes, tightening as he goes on. Oh, Catherine, what have you done?
“So, Lydia.” Cyrus leans forward, drinking in the effects of his words with greedy eyes. “What will become of the baby? Catherine can hide out in the country for some time, her belly growing rounder and no one the wiser of her condition. But it can’t be kept secret forever. Eventually people will wonder why she is never seen anymore. And what of a marriage?”
He goes on in that vein but I’ve stopped listening. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that the baby has already come and gone. And how could he? The only thing that proves that there ever might have been a baby rests in his hands.
“Are you paying attention? If I were in your place I would be listening very carefully, because, Lydia, I’m offering you a way out of this. Do you really want to bring more scandal crashing down on your family?” His sharp eyes settle on mine, softening just the slightest bit at the edges. “Let me help you.”
“I would rather face a thousand scandals than accept whatever it is you would try to pass off as help.” I stand up and move to the door. “We’re done here.”
But Cyrus doesn’t move. He’s staring at me so intently that I shift nervously despite myself.
“No,” he says slowly, not breaking his gaze. “No, I don’t think you would rather face a thousand scandals. There is a baby, the letter says as much. You might turn down my suit for your hand because a return to society isn’t really such a prize for Lydia Montrose. But a baby, one conceived around the time the rumors of incest were spreading? Well, that’s another matter entirely. Why, it would kill your mother! Catherine would be beyond ruined.”
“You’re not half so clever as you think,” I manage to say. “You don’t know anything about my family or what we’ve been through. I don’t need you or whatever it is you would pass off as help.”
“No? Am I missing something? Would you care to enlighten me?”
My face is burning and I’m trying so hard to look as cool and composed as he does. I must be failing miserably, because the smuggest, most delighted smile spreads over his face. “Your face always did give away everything, did you know that? You can’t hide your true feelings to save your life. So, there is a baby, but you aren’t worried about it being known. Now why would that be? Does your mother already know? Has she already put some scheme in place to pass the child off as hers? No, of course that’s not it. She’s much too old and fragile for anyone to believe it.”
“We’re going to pass it off as mine,” I blurt out, desperate.
Cyrus just stares at me, and then breaks out in a fit of laughter, as if I said something genuinely funny.
“Oh, please,” he says, gathering his breath. “What an idea. No one would believe it. First of all...you’re chaste as a nun! And why even bother to pass it off from one sister to another? What would be the point?”
I bite my tongue. Cyrus is right: I’m not a good liar, and I don’t know what to say that won’t further tangle me up in the web he’s spinning.
He’s up now, pacing with his glass in hand, thoughtfully swirling the liquid side to side. This is a puzzle, and he’s enjoying solving it. I stand stupidly by the door, powerless to do anything but watch him prod and snake his way into my darkest secret.
“No one outside you and your sister know about it—well, and me obviously,” he says with a little cock of his head. “I daresay even the father doesn’t know, or...” Cyrus trails off, and for the first time since launching into this inquisition, his confidence fades, replaced by slow realization. He locks eyes with me, color slowly returning to his face. “No,” he whispers. “Really? The rumors were all true then?” He’s speechless for a moment. “My God,” he says quietly, taking a long, slow drink. I close my eyes. I hate that he can read me like a book. I hate that after all this time he does know me so well.
“So,” he starts with renewed energy. “The father must be nowhere to be found, or he would be back to take care of his little sister, the mother of his child.” He pauses. “I say, Lyd, doesn’t it make you sick?”
I can’t take it any longer. “The baby died!” I hiss, “It’s gone. I don’t need your help or your...your offers to keep us respectable. I don’t need you!”
He blinks, as if it had never occurred to him that he might not somehow fit into this equation. But then he tilts his head and gives me a pitying look. “There now. So the great mystery is solved. The baby has come, and the baby has died. But you’re wrong about one thing, you do need me.” He raises a brow and waves the letter again. “I still have proof of the baby’s existence.”
The air goes out of me. “You wouldn’t,” I whisper.
“Why, Lydia, do you need to sit down?” Trembling, I don’t refuse his hand as he gently guides me back into my chair.
“You’re delusional if you think you can blackmail your way into my family’s money.”
His brow darkens. “And you’re delusional if you still think this is just about money.”
I gloss over his meaning; Cyrus’s feelings for me—or what he thinks he feels—are the least of my worries right now. “My family will deny the story if you decide to print it. We’ll say the letter was a forgery.”
He gives me another pitying smile, as if it pains him that I could actually be so naive. “Who would believe your family’s word over mine? Everyone knows what went on between your brother and sister, and it doesn’t take a great leap of the imagination to accept that there could have been a child. And me, I’m the son of a respected businessman, never mind one that is a bit down on his luck at the moment. Christ, I could say that you were a witch, practicing that same black art that got your ancestors hanged, and people would believe me over you.”
How does he know about my ancestry? And why would he say such an awful thing? “Where did you hear that?” I ask in a choked whisper.
He gives a little shrug, but his gaze is piercing. “People say lots of things. Surely you are more than used to rumors. Of course in your family’s case, the rumors often seem to hold more than a shade of truth.”
Something deep inside me stirs. My heart beats fast and erratic, and it’s hard to breathe. I push it back down, the slumbering thing that wants to awaken, wants to make itself known. Cyrus doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he’s just trying to scare me. Nevertheless, my gaze flickers over to the book wrapped in brown paper on the table.
“I want you to leave, right now.”
But Cyrus doesn’t make any move, doesn’t even give any indication of having heard me. He slants me a sidelong glance. “Say, did you know that I saw Tom Bishop recently? He still walks with a limp.”
If I didn’t know any better, I would say there was a hint of admiration in his tone. He drains another glass of port. “Do you remember that day? Tom does. In fact, lots of people do. It’s funny the way people remember things like that, things that happened long ago but leave a stamp on the mind. Tell me, Lydia, should I be afraid of you too?”
My throat is so dry that I can hardly speak, and my words come out hoarse and choked. “What do you want?”
Coming around the chair, he crouches down in front of me, cupping my face with those fingers I once thought so elegant. I shrink back but he just presses his fingertips firmer against my cheeks. “Why, what I’ve always wanted, Lyd. Money. Fine things. You. That’s all.”
“And if I can’t...?”
“A clever girl like you? I find it hard to believe you couldn’t somehow get dear old Father to open his coffers for his favorite daughter, especially on the occasion of her wedding. But if you can’t, then of course every newspaper in Boston, in New England, will have the story. Your sister will be ruined, and your poor mother will die of the shame. Is that really what you want?”
His finger is soft and gentle on my cheek, but it might as well be a reptilian claw. Why won’t he just leave me—my family—alone? What do I have to do to make Catherine’s mess disappear? It’s not fair that Mother suffer because of Catherine’s reckless behavior, and because Cyrus has a black, greedy heart. I squeeze my eyes shut. I just want it to end.
My body vibrates with fury, and pressure builds within me, as if a swarm of angry bees has been roused, and are looking for an escape.
“Lydia?” Cyrus’s voice is far away.
My heart tears at its strings, rebelling against the confines of my ribs. Sweat slicks my palms and my ears burn. It’s not fair. It isn’t right. Just leave! Go away and leave me alone!
Cyrus must see something in my face because his hand falters, and he rocks back uncertainly on his heels.
I jerk away from his touch, and he pulls his hand back the rest of the way. He stares at me with a mixture of concern and bewilderment. “Lydia, what’s happening? Are you all right?” I hardly know what I’m doing as my palm rises automatically out in front of me.
The pressure inside of me reaches its peak and I feel as if I’m being ripped opened and emptied out. The wind goes out of me, and with it, a bolt of something like invisible lightning. Cyrus gives a strangled yelp, and suddenly he’s flying backward, slamming into the door with a great crack, as if a giant had lifted him up and carelessly tossed him.
I slump back into my chair, breathless and as fatigued as if I had just climbed a mountain. I close my eyes and when I open them again, he’s still sitting dazed on the floor, his waistcoat flown open and hair disarranged. He blinks.
I’m trembling all over, from my hands to my knees, the pressure that felt like it was going to completely consume me, slowly evaporating.
Cyrus and I lock eyes, and I don’t know who is more terrified of what just occurred. He braces his hand on the door behind him and slowly clambers to his feet. I can see his legs shaking from across the room.
“Lydia.” His voice comes out in a crack, and he opens and closes his mouth several times. “You—”
But he doesn’t have a chance to finish. He’s just moved away from the door, a hand outstretched toward me as if looking for support, when suddenly the door swings open and Aunt Phillips comes in with Blake behind her, carrying a tray of tea.
She stops short, quickly taking in Cyrus’s disheveled appearance and my white face. She raises a brow at me, her eyes warm with an amused question. If I weren’t so terrified of what just happened, I would feel sick at her assumption.
“I’m sure I didn’t mean to interrupt anything!” she says with twinkling eyes. “I’ll come back later.”
Cyrus, who has buttoned up his waistcoat and is making a valiant effort of composure, forces a shaky smile at Aunt Phillips. His urbane charm naturally takes over, and I can’t but help being a little in awe, even grateful, that he’s able to act as if nothing just happened.
“You’ll do no such thing, Mrs. Phillips,” Cyrus says, forcing a light smile as he reaches for his coat. “I was just leaving.” Only I notice the slight tremor in his voice.
I sit heavily back in the chair, pressing my fingers against my eyelids until I see stars. My head is light and fuzzy, the alcohol dulling the edges of my senses. Maybe this is all just a bad dream. Maybe Cyrus didn’t just go flying like a rag doll through the air. I’ve never been drunk before, is this what happens? But it’s not a dream, and when I open my eyes again he’s still standing there.
“Oh, and Lydia?” He turns from the doorway. I hold my breath, afraid that he’ll divulge to Aunt Phillips what just happened. He pauses, as if weighing his words, trying to decide how much to say. But when he continues, his voice is light, as if nothing unusual had occurred. “I won’t rush you into making a decision. Take a few days to think it over. This doesn’t change anything, and I’m not going anywhere.”