Part 2
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see Celia?”
“No.”
Beatrice placed both palms on the table. “This is becoming grotesque. Poppy saw two adults in a garden at dusk. Children combine things. They hear words, they imagine connections, and then they speak with total confidence. Sophie used to insist there was a horse living in the linen cupboard.”
“I was four,” Sophie called from somewhere beyond the doors.
One of the guests coughed into his napkin.
Nathan’s cousin Oliver reached for his wine and seemed to reconsider halfway there. “Perhaps,” he said, “we might all give Nathan and Celia some privacy.”
It was the first useful sentence anyone had spoken.
Chairs moved. Napkins were folded. Nobody looked directly at Celia as they left, which was worse than staring. Beatrice tried to remain, but Nathan touched her wrist.
“Please.”
She studied him.
For thirty-four years, Beatrice had possessed the irritating ability to make silence feel like a verdict. Her face was narrow and handsome, her gray hair cut bluntly at her jaw. She had worn black since Richard’s death eighteen months earlier, though she claimed tonight’s dress was navy.
“This family has had enough public humiliation,” she said.
Nathan looked around the room. “There is no public here.”
“There is always a public.”
She left.
The doors closed again.
Nathan, Celia, and Edmund remained at the table beneath the painted eyes of dead Ashcombes.
One of the candles nearest Celia had begun to lean in its holder. Wax ran down one side in a pale ridge.
Nathan waited.
Edmund was the first to move. He placed his napkin beside his plate and stood.
“I think it would be best if I went home.”
“No,” Nathan said.
The word came out more sharply than he intended.
Edmund paused.
Nathan breathed through his nose. “Please sit down.”
“I have already answered you.”
“No. You denied being there. That isn’t the same thing as answering what Poppy saw.”
Celia pushed her chair back with care, leaving room for her belly.
“I need some air.”
Nathan stood too. “Celia.”
“Not now.”
“Then tell me when.”
She looked at him for the first time since Poppy had pointed across the table. Fear was there, but not the fear he expected. She did not look like a woman caught with a lover. She looked cornered by something larger than embarrassment.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
“Why tomorrow?”
“Because I am tired, I am eight months pregnant, and eight people have just watched a child accuse me of hiding something from the man I am supposed to marry.”
“You are hiding something.”
Her jaw tightened.
Edmund said, “Nathan, let her rest.”
Nathan turned on him. “You don’t get to advise me about her.”
Edmund absorbed that without visible offense. “No. Perhaps I don’t.”
The admission disturbed Nathan more than denial would have.
Celia took one step from the table. Her hand pressed against the underside of her belly.
Nathan’s anger vanished so quickly it made him dizzy.
“Is something wrong?”
“The baby is moving.”
“Are you in pain?”
“No.”
“Should I call Dr. Shah?”
“No, Nathan.”
He stared at her hand. The child beneath it was his daughter. At least, until five minutes ago, he had never permitted the sentence to contain uncertainty.
Celia saw the change in his face.
Her own face hardened.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She walked toward the doors.
He caught up with her before she reached them but did not touch her.
“Was the meeting about the baby?”
Celia stopped.
Edmund closed his eyes.
Nathan watched both of them, and that was enough to make the suspicion worse.
Celia turned slowly. “No.”
“Is she mine?”
The question hung in the room with an ugliness Nathan could feel against his skin.
Celia did not cry. She did not slap him or raise her voice. She studied him with a composure so complete it seemed to cost her.
“Yes,” she said. “She is yours.”
Then she opened the doors and left.
Edmund remained standing at the far end of the table.
Nathan walked toward him.
The long table made the distance feel ceremonial. He passed untouched plates, cooling food, and half-full glasses. When he reached Edmund, he looked down at the ring Poppy had recognized.
It was a heavy oval of dark red stone engraved with a crest that did not belong to the Ashcombes.
“Take it off,” Nathan said.
Edmund’s brow moved slightly. “Why?”
“I want to see whether your hand shakes.”
For the first time that evening, Edmund looked tired.
He twisted the ring free and set it on the tablecloth.
His hand did not shake.
Nathan almost wished it had.
“What is in the blue room?”
Edmund looked at the ring between them.
“You should speak to Celia.”
“She says she doesn’t know.”
“She does.”
“So she lied.”
“Yes.”
The answer was so immediate that Nathan’s anger returned.
“Did you meet her by the greenhouse?”
“Yes.”
“Did you give her a key?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you deny it?”
“Because she asked me to.”
Nathan leaned both hands against the table. “And you thought that was acceptable?”
“No.”
“Did you tell her not to show the key to anyone?”
Edmund hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because once it is used, certain things cannot be put back.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It will.”
Nathan straightened. “Was the meeting intimate?”
“No.”
“Was it romantic?”
“No.”
“Did you touch her?”
Edmund’s expression sharpened with something close to disgust. “No.”
“Then what was it?”
“I cannot tell you without her consent.”
“You have just lied in my house about meeting my fiancée in secret.”
“Your mother’s house,” Edmund said softly.
Nathan went still.
Edmund glanced toward the closed doors as though he regretted the correction.
“Is that what this is about?” Nathan asked. “The house?”
Edmund did not answer.
Nathan picked up the ring. It was warm from Edmund’s hand.
“What opens with the key?”
May you like
“A locked steel compartment in the old potting room.”
“What is inside?”
