The three of them were interrupted by Sam and Elizabeth returning home. Bursting into the room, Elizabeth threw herself upon Rosamund and declared herself delighted to see her cousin in such remarkable health considering Sam had painted such a grim picture of her condition.
Before Rosamund could respond, Sam also charged toward her, lifting her from the chair, pressing her to his chest and smothering her with kisses, much to Elizabeth’s chagrin, and declaring her recovery nothing short of a miracle. Rosamund refrained from reminding him he’d seen her that very morning before he’d set out for Tower Wharf and Deptford.
When he finally let go of her, she slid back into the chair, rearranging the rug. Elizabeth wasted no time bidding them good night and all but dragged Sam back to their chamber, from which a sound scolding was heard followed by noises that had little do with anger and a great deal to do with a husband and wife having a long-awaited reunion.
As any attempts to talk above the din failed dismally, Matthew and Bianca made their excuses and left; Matthew to the room he shared with Filip and Will, Sam’s clerk, and Bianca upstairs to the maid Jane’s room to share a bed with Grace.
Unable to consider sleep while Sam and Elizabeth frolicked, Rosamund reflected upon Matthew and Bianca’s reactions to her news. Altogether, it was what she expected. Bianca stoic and unsurprised; Matthew horrified to learn the extent of Lady Margery’s role, and remembering how his drive for vengeance against Sir Everard had led to him becoming a blackmailer.
As far as Rosamund was concerned, Sir Everard could have made different choices. He had been as determined as his wife in his own way. Margery had used him and Matthew, and he had been prepared to use Matthew and Rosamund.
It was a sorry, sad affair. Thank God it was over. They could put it behind them.
Or could they?
Echoes of the Blithmans survived in the derisive, doubt-filled voices whispering to Rosamund that Matthew didn’t really love her, that the only reason he remained was because she looked so much like Helene . . . That with her, he could recapture a version of what he had once desired so much. In that regard, Matthew was no different from Aubrey . . .
It was becoming harder to defend Matthew. How was she to think differently when, ever since the fire, he’d been so distant? There was a time when he would welcome her with a gentle caress. Her cheek or hand would burn for hours after, and all she had to do was recall his touch for her center to melt like a cake of chocolate. Sometimes he would reach for her hand and wrap his gloved fingers around it. And there were those looks he would bestow, the ones that set her heart racing. They were as incendiary as the sparks that had flown around London during the fire. But since they’d been at Sam’s house, he had treated her like a fine porcelain bowl that would chip if he touched it. Retreating like a wounded soldier, he’d become almost maudlin in her presence. What battle was Matthew fighting? What had she done to suddenly become the enemy?
Was it because he wanted nothing to do with the Blithman name? Listen to her. There was a battle, and it was raging within her. She knew how she felt about Matthew. She had for a long time now. Together they’d survived the plague and now the fire. There’d been so much loss, so much death. So much sorrow. She didn’t want to waste another moment without him. Not anymore. So why was she churning over old ground?
Blithman ground.
Flinging herself on the bed, Rosamund rested her chin in the cup of her hands, rubbing her flesh against the bandaged one, and gazed at the glowing hearth, marveling at how such a dazzling thing could become all-consuming and deadly. Just like revenge. It too needed to be contained lest it spread and run unchecked.
Her mind raced. Every time she attributed to Matthew thoughts that the Blithmans had put in her head, she was allowing their corruption to pollute her feelings. Not once had Matthew done or said anything to make her believe he didn’t care for her—her, Rosamund, not the woman who resembled Helene. Even his recent coolness was probably more to do with her being hurt than any change of heart.
If she continued to convince herself their relationship was based on what happened in the past, then she was as bad as the Blithmans. No—worse, because she was allowing their poison to kill any hope she and Matthew had.
Was that why Matthew had withdrawn from her? Because he sensed her ambivalence?
She sat up suddenly and kneeled on the bed. But her ambivalence was born of what she’d persuaded herself he felt. She was going around and around like a waterwheel. If she didn’t tell him how she felt and allow fate, destiny, whatever, to take its course, then the Blithmans would win, the Blithmans and their sinful, sour history; their revenge upon Matthew would be complete and she would be the instrument because he would never know her love—her love.
Her hands flew to her head, her breast. She loved him. A delicious bubbling began in her very center, filling her up with tremulous joy, with wonder as she tasted the notion. Rosamund Blithman loves Matthew Lovelace.
What was it Matthew had said? The important thing is not to get swallowed by the darkness. To remember, even when the shadows grow long and you fear they will consume you, there’s still light in the world. You just need to find it.
She would offer him a way out of the Blithmans’ never-ending midnight. It was up to him if he followed. She climbed off the bed, threw a shawl over her gown and opened the door carefully, shutting her ears to the sounds still emanating from the Pepyses’ bedroom. And went up the stairs to where she knew Matthew’s room lay.
She was beyond caring about the impropriety of what she intended to do. Her newly won courage would light her way. She was on a quest. To find love. She prayed with all her aching, pounding heart that it wanted to be found.