The Echo of Old Books(77)
“You had me followed?”
“I suspected the two of you might be involved the first time he came around. I saw you watching him. And him watching you. Like a pair of hungry cats. I didn’t care, so long as you didn’t botch the business with Teddy. A friend in the press can be a good thing to have.” She pauses, flashing a feral smile. “And something tells me he’s very good. A little rough around the edges, perhaps, but that can be a plus. They say it’s fun to go slumming now and then. Is it true?”
The crack of my palm against her cheek echoes off the study walls before I can check myself. Cee-Cee flinches, but her smile never slips. Still, I’m savagely glad to see the hot pink bloom of my handprint along her cheek.
“Right,” she says with a cool nod. “That’s what I thought.”
“I suppose Father knows.”
“No. Or not from me, at any rate. I decided as long as you were being discreet, I’d leave it alone. I assumed you’d be through with him by now, though. Instead, here you stand, ready to throw poor Teddy over for the paperboy.”
“Hemi is worth ten of Teddy.”
“My god . . . You’ve actually fallen for him. A grubby little reporter paid to invent lurid tales about your own family. And please don’t pretend all of this didn’t come from him. You sound like a sappy schoolgirl. Well, he chose his mark wisely—I’ll give him that.”
The remark stings, perhaps because it hits too close to the bone. You did choose wisely. And yet I find myself needing to defend you, too proud to concede that she’s right. I feel myself wavering, wanting to justify what you’ve done—or at least your motives for doing it. But how am I any different from my sister if I’m willing to turn a blind eye to a betrayal simply because I can’t bear the truth? And yet, I cannot allow her this petty triumph.
“You’re wrong about him,” I say evenly. “You’ve been wrong from the start. He was never going to be on your side. You thought you could buy him, use him to create some hero’s narrative, but he was never going to do it. He’s not for sale.”
“Not for sale?” She actually laughs, a high, mocking trill. “You poor dolt. You never saw him coming. You’re a would-be heiress, engaged to one of the most eligible men in the state, but he makes a play for you anyway. He woos you with that pretty face and that stuffy accent. And then, when he’s got you on the hook, he begins to pry little bits of information out of you. He wants to know all about you, how you grew up, and what it was like being the daughter of such an important man. He sets up a little love nest so the two of you can be alone, away from the big bad world, and you play house together. All of this after he’s managed to get himself invited to this house and into Father’s inner circle. Did it never occur to you to ask yourself what he might hope to gain from all that romancing? Or what would happen once he had what he wanted?”
It sounds so obvious when she lays it all end to end like that, so completely and carefully orchestrated. Because that’s exactly how it happened, right down to that first invitation to dinner and the fight we had after. You were in your element that night, smiling and nodding as my sister dragged you around the room, introducing you to people you would have never met otherwise. None of this is news, of course. You admitted as much to me. But knowing that she knows it too—that she sees me for the fool I’ve been—is a hard pill to swallow.
Tears suddenly threaten. I try to blink them away, but Cee-Cee sees them and huffs impatiently. “You little fool. The man doesn’t have two nickels to his name and you were prepared to throw away your entire life for him—to live on love, I suppose. Meanwhile, what have you been giving him?” She rakes her eyes over me, slow and knowing. “Nothing you can get back, I’ll wager.”
“He hasn’t taken a cent from me.”
She brushes past me then, without so much as a glance. “I wasn’t talking about money.”
Hours later, I’m still uncertain what comes next. I’ve been working on a letter—two letters actually—though I’m not certain I have the strength to finish either. I can’t seem to stop weeping. But I have a decision to make. I’ve been wrestling with the words, with the impossible choice between my heart and my head. But how can I choose? It’s as if I’ve been set adrift and there’s no way back to you. No way back to anything. But I must choose. And soon.
I wonder, too, how to deliver the letters once they’re written. I could phone instead. Discretion seems pointless now that our secret is no longer secret. But the truth is I’m putting it all on paper because I know I will never be brave enough to say what I almost certainly have to—not once I’ve heard your voice. And yet, I must say it, mustn’t I?
Goodbye.
Cee-Cee was right. I have been naive. About so many things. Living in a fantasy world where the fairy princess and the handsome pauper ride off into the sunset and the wicked king is never heard from again. But life doesn’t work like that. The pauper isn’t who he seems and the king is all-powerful. There is no sunset, and the princess is a fool.
I’m still at my writing desk when Cee-Cee enters without knocking. I’m startled by her sudden presence and annoyed that she feels entitled to enter without permission. I don’t want her to see me like this.
I sit stiffly as she eases her way into the room, peering past me at the sheet of blue notepaper in front of me. “Writing a letter?”