not.” She tilted her chin defiantly. She refused to allow him to unsettle her nerves. Not again. After snapping the book closed, she made to march from the room, head held high.
“Please, don’t,” he said. “Don’t leave. Not yet.”
Her feet froze. Her heart lurched.
Never had she heard Basil sound so desperate, so…weak. She peered through the semi-darkness, trying to discern the reason for such a thready voice. Seeing none from here, she stepped toward him, curious.
“Sit.” He nodded to the chair in which Mrs. Prescott sat earlier. It was close to his. She bit her bottom lip, weighing with heavy judgment whether she should sit beside him or across from him.
And then she looked at him again. She didn’t like what she saw. Though it was difficult to tell for certain in the firelight, the pallor of his skin seemed extraordinarily pale. Dark shadows smudged across the underside of his eyes. Even his cheeks looked hollowed, probably from the shadows the flames chased across the room.
“Are you unwell, Mr. Merriweather?”
“Please, Julia. We once were well enough acquainted to forgo the use of proper names. Will you not call me Basil again?”
She sat gingerly on the seat beside him and folded her hands primly in her lap. She tilted her head and looked into his face.
“That was a long time ago…Basil.”
At the sound of his name, he smiled. The smile relaxed the lines on his face, making her realize how tense he was moments ago. She peered at him closely.
“What’s happened to you?”
“The very question I wish to put to you,” he said. She narrowed her eyes, knowing he evaded her question by tossing it back. She pressed her lips together, determined not to answer any of his questions. Let his curiosity fester , she decided.
“I admit I’m quite surprised to find you here. I thought you married with six or seven brats by now.”
“How do you know I’m not widowed?” she asked simply to torment him. Let him imagine her life being full of love and laughter while he was away. A delicious moment of retribution. She still felt the pain of his departure deep in her heart. “I could have ten children by now for all you know or care. My life may be blessed with fruitfulness and prosperity.”
He stared a full moment, studying her. Did images of her possible husband flit through his mind? Did he wonder whom she might have married?
She wanted to torment him. He hurt her cruelly when he disappeared all those years ago. And with no communication after his departure, she only knew of his whereabouts from the gossipmongers in town. Even his family knew very little about the where’s and why’s. After all of these years, wondering and worrying over him, he returns with nary a word of explanation. Not a word about anything! Why did he leave? Where did he go? Why did it take so long for him to return? Had he married?
That last question had plagued her for more years than she cared to admit. Even now it sent daggers of pain into her heart. So, let him believe she lived a perfect life. Better than him knowing the truth.
“He died?”
“What?” Julia blinked. How did he know? Did someone write to him, explaining her misfortune in a letter? She didn’t think anyone in his family took much notice of her after she relocated to London. She rarely traveled in the same circles as his brother and sister who lived there. She could barely count the times she might have seen them in the last five years. So, how did Basil know?
“Your husband. He’s dead?”
Oh.
Her imaginary husband. Well, yes, he was truly dead and gone. When Julia was a girl she hoped Basil would one day ask for her hand. Those dreams died when he left England to roam across the world. Now that he sat in front of her, inquiring after her deceased imaginary husband, she guessed she might as well admit to the sad truth. As much as she wished to torment him, he’d find out the truth from his aunt if she lied.
“I never
Learning to Kill: Stories