Chapter 53
“Jacqueline, you mustn’t let me down.”
“You understand how much I depend on you. I can’t face another day alone. Please, have a little mercy on me.”
“You’re trying to ruin me! If that’s your goal, why don’t you just tell me to die? I’ll do it if it’s what you want!”
Her mother was a whirlwind of contradictions—strict, tender, and freezing cold all at once. This erratic behavior was a mirror of her fractured state of mind.
It wasn’t that her mother was cruel; she was simply broken-hearted.
Even with that understanding, every interaction left Jacqueline with fresh scars. She tried to convince herself that those jagged words weren’t born of malice, but they tore through her nonetheless.
New wounds split open over scabs that had barely begun to form. The pain never grew dull with repetition.
Perhaps her mother was right; perhaps she really was a coward. She had fled to the capital because the weight of her mother’s presence had become a burden she could no longer carry.
Guilt settled over her like a suffocating shroud, stealing the air from her lungs. To her mother, Jacqueline was the final tether to the world—the only soul left to lean on.
The mere thought of viewing her mother as an encumbrance, or the secret desire to escape her, made Jacqueline feel like a monster.
“Mother…”
The word felt like a shackle, a lifelong sentence branded with the name of “family” that she could never hope to cast off.
“Haa…”
A sudden tightness seized her chest. Even in the silence of the manor, far from her mother’s voice, she struggled to draw breath. She inhaled deeply, but her lungs felt squeezed tight, refusing to expand.
Giving up, Jacqueline laid her pen aside without having written a single word. She lifted an oil lamp and slipped quietly from her room.
Perhaps a hot cup of tea would settle her fraying nerves.
She moved down the corridor with ghost-like steps. The “monster” of the mansion—the strange midnight creaks and groans—was uncharacteristically still tonight. She descended the staircase, lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts.
Then, she froze.
It occurred to her that tea wasn’t what she was searching for. Perhaps she was actually looking for the person who always seemed to materialize at moments like this.
A soft, airy laugh escaped her—a sound like wind catching in the trees. But the mirth vanished instantly as she recalled his recent, biting coldness.
The features that had briefly softened turned to ice. Jacqueline set her jaw and resumed her walk, one deliberate step at a time.
Windsor’s sudden shift in temperament wasn’t a figment of her imagination. The trouble was, she had no idea what had caused it.
Actually, that wasn’t the real issue. Windsor’s mood was his own business; he was entitled to his own disposition.
Technically, it was his problem to solve, not hers. The true problem was…
“…that it hurts.”
Yes, she was wounded. Perhaps even grieving. She was stung by how Windsor’s warmth had evaporated overnight.
If she asked herself why it mattered so much, she had no answer.
She had dealt with fickle people before—those whose favor could flip like a coin—so this shouldn’t have been unusual.
Yet here she was, unable to sleep, her mind spinning in circles over something as inconsequential as a man’s attitude.
“It started when I got back from Southfield.”
She meticulously traced the timeline of his withdrawal. No matter how she looked at it, the change had occurred the moment she stepped back into the manor.
Before her trip to Southfield, Windsor had been his typical self—if anything, he had been more attentive than usual.
He had personally seen to her train tickets, organized a carriage for her, and checked on her well-being before she departed—
and he had done so with a rare, cautious tenderness.
“Are you certain you’ll be fine on your own? If you require an escort…”
“No, Lord Preston. I’ll manage.”
In that moment, the expression in Windsor’s eyes had been something Jacqueline had never seen. His usually composed gaze had been overtaken by a sudden, intense heat.
It had been so overwhelming that Jacqueline had nearly been moved to tears. She had felt a desperate urge to collapse into his arms for comfort, certain he would have held her.
Instead, she had bitten her lip and held her ground. He had looked as though he wanted to say more, but he only nodded.
“Travel safely, then. I hope for your mother’s rapid recovery.”
“He was already cold by the time I returned and greeted him. What could have possibly changed in such a short time?”
Jacqueline’s whispered question drifted to the floor. Even as she went through the motions of putting the kettle on and opening the pantry, her mind remained locked on Windsor.
Suddenly, her hand stopped mid-air. The color drained from her face.
Could it be… did he find out about my meeting with Parker O’Brien?
“No, that’s impossible.”
She shook her head slowly, discarding the paranoid thought. There was no way he could know the details of what had transpired in Southfield.
“Then why? What happened in this house while I was gone?”
Her voice trailed off into the stillness of the night. She stood silent, listening to the shadows.
A faint movement stirred nearby.
It was a presence so subtle she would have missed it if her senses weren’t already raw and alert.
A dark silhouette appeared in the kitchen doorway. Usually, Jacqueline would have startled with a cry, but now she only offered a faint, tired smile.
A sigh of relief slipped past her lips, though she wasn’t entirely sure why.
Was she relieved it wasn’t some ghost of the manor? Or was it because, despite everything, he had appeared again?
“Do you need something, Lord Preston?”
Windsor remained motionless, staring at her and her fragile smile.
When the silence stretched on, her expression shifted to one of confusion. The quiet between them grew heavy, settling like dust in the summer heat.
Windsor himself couldn’t have explained why he was there, or why he found it impossible to ignore the sound of her footsteps.
He should have gone straight to his room. He should have ignored that graceful, distinct gait—so unlike the hurried steps of the housemaids—and simply slept.
He was already thirty-two minutes past his scheduled bedtime. Extinguishing his consciousness should have been as simple as snuffing a candle. And yet…
And yet, he wasn’t in his bed. He was standing in the shadows of the kitchen entrance.
“Lord Preston?”
Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed with growing suspicion. She lifted the lamp higher, illuminating his face as if to confirm he was truly flesh and blood.
Windsor still didn’t speak. He was afraid that if he parted his lips, words as sharp as iron nails would pour out, cruel and beyond his control.
It was an impulse he couldn’t quite master. He wasn’t a man used to losing his grip on his emotions, but lately, such moments were becoming alarmingly frequent.
He ground his teeth together and watched her in silence. In the dancing glow of the lamp, he saw the shimmer in her eyes.
Her green irises were deep and dark, overflowing with the things she left unsaid. Even when she talked incessantly, her eyes always seemed to have more to tell.
And Windsor was an expert at reading them. He was not a man of many words, but he had always been a gifted listener.
“Oh! I nearly forgot—don’t go adding salt or pepper until you’ve actually tasted the dish. You should try it first and then season it as needed.”
“You’ve misplaced your cane again. Honestly, how did you manage to keep track of your things while I was away?”
Though she would sigh with feigned exasperation, her eyes would be bright with amusement. Back then, the storm hadn’t yet arrived.
Now, however, she simply looked at him through the flickering light. Her gaze was somber; her mouth was set. Neither of them moved to break the silence.
Her dark green eyes, shadowed and heavy, looked like a sea beneath a rain-filled sky.
“Um… Lord Preston?”
She spoke his name again, her tone now laced with genuine doubt. Windsor swallowed hard. He couldn’t make sense of the sensation rising within him.
He was not a man of extremes. He had often wondered if he experienced joy or grief at only half the intensity of other people.
But he had never been confused about what he was feeling—he knew the names for happiness, sorrow, anger, and relief.
He valued precision, and he demanded it of himself most of all. Ambiguity was the root of anxiety, and anxiety led to the cracks that could sink even the sturdiest ship.
Windsor prided himself on being exact. Yet, no matter how he searched his mind, he couldn’t put a name to the turmoil currently churning in his gut.
He reached into that internal chaos once more, hunting for a label, but found nothing.
Then, a thought struck him: perhaps this dark, writhing mass was the sum of every emotion combined.
Just as mixing every vibrant color on a palette eventually produces a muddy black, the knot in his chest felt like a fusion of every feeling he possessed.
What name do you give that color? Is it black? Is it a bruised purple or a deep red?
The question circled fruitlessly in his mind.
Suddenly, his expression turned frigid. Jacqueline flinched, her shoulders drawing in, but Windsor didn’t soften.
He wondered why she was still here at Preston Manor. With the wealth the King had granted her, there was no longer any practical need for her to serve as a governess.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward in a cold half-smile.
Did the King leave her here to spy? Is she lingering in my house just to gather more dirt on me?
As he watched her, the light seemed to die in Jacqueline’s face. She bit her lip until it hurt, watching as Windsor’s features hardened into a mask of ice.
She felt the sting of it. His gaze was utterly hollow, stripped of every ounce of warmth. That hurt quickly curdled into a white-hot spark of rage.
She didn’t understand how sadness could ignite into anger so quickly—she had never been much for science or logic.
Was it a chemical reaction? Combustion? It didn’t matter.
Jacqueline’s eyes blazed. She met his icy stare with a sharp, defiant glare.
He frowned slightly at her boldness, but she didn’t back down. If she didn’t let this anger out now, she was going to crumble into tears.
The bitter dregs of her sadness sat heavy at the bottom of her fury, refusing to wash away.
“Just what is it that has made you so miserable?”
Jacqueline’s voice cut through the air, sharp and jagged. A slight tremor betrayed her, though she was too far gone to notice. In the trembling light of the lamp, her shadow danced wildly against the wall.
