Page 13 of Tears of Gold

Miss Beesley has the grace to flush slightly, although her demeanour doesn’t change. A woman of middling years, she’s of a slight build and put together with a sharp edge. Not the sort of woman you’d want to get too close to or give a hug. Definitely not like Elaine back at Bowsley. I wonder, if we move in here, whether I could swap?

“Of course.” She steps back and allows us in. The hallway ceiling goes all the way to the attic, a spiralling staircase leading up to the other floors. Beneath our feet are black and white marble flagstones, much like the floor in the ballroom at Bowsley. My mouth is hanging open, and there is nothing I can do to shut it. Above our heads hangs a chandelier which is bigger than my kitchen at my flat. Probably twice the size. I crane my neck to look at the thick gilt chain which hangs metres long.

“Miss Beesley, if you could provide us with refreshments in the sitting room please. It’s been a long drive.” I manage to hold in my laugh. Provide us with refreshments? Where is the man who was fucking me against the wall only a couple of hours ago?

He grabs my hand, knotting our fingers tightly together, and leads me up the first flight of stairs where the whole of the middle floor is opened up into a wide and bright living space. High arched ceilings curve above our heads. It’s very, very far from an Austen novel.

“Where on earth do we start?” I ask. I had no idea Peter’s home was going to be this big.

Eli shrugs. “In the study?”

“It’s a place to start, I guess.”

He’s quiet as we stand in the middle of the study. It’s exactly Peter: leather and black furnishings, sleek and extravagant. The Baroness’ son to perfection. “It looks like no one comes in here,” I say when the silence is once again unbearable. The desk is immaculate. A desk blotter and a Mont Blanc that looks similar to my own is the only thing on its surface.

“Peter is private. And tidy.” Eli stops himself when he realises he’s spoken in the present tense again, and I watch with a sharp pain twisting my stomach as his shoulders sag and his head drops. Shutting the door for some privacy, I step up behind him and wrap my arms tight around his waist, breathing in the scent of his soft jumper and moulding myself to the solid shape underneath.

When a splatter of cool water lands on my arm I hold in my gasp and squeeze him tighter. I’d take the pain from him if I could. I’d take those tears and draw them into myself, so he’d never have to experience them. I’d cry for the both of us if it would make him better. But I know it won’t. This is grief, and it comes in shocked waves and hits you endlessly until you can’t take anymore.

I know. It was only a couple of months ago Al went and left behind a strange and alien emptiness in his wake. Like he’s there, the shape of him still carved in the air, but he’s no longer there to will it.

“I’m sorry.” Eli lifts an arm and wipes at his face. When he’s done, I turn him in my arms, pressing my face against his chest. Inhaling him.

“Don’t be sorry.”

“It’s all wrong. I keep thinking I could punch him for ruining this. We should be out celebrating, drinking champagne and shouting from the rooftops that we are together, united.” His gaze falls on my face and my stomach tightens. “Or in bed with champagne, screaming one another’s name and celebrating what the future holds.”

“I know.” I don’t know what else to say.

“Instead, the future has twisted, the path has moved, and what I promised you yesterday no longer exists.”

My fingers reach for his chin and I tilt his head down so he has to meet my gaze. “Paths change all the time, Eli. I know this more than anyone. What’s important is that we walk it together.”

His eyes swim with shining water. “And you’re going to live here? Going to be happy being sent out on engagements, and to dinners, and fucking parties, and all the things that Peter did at the word of my mother, while hiding himself the whole time.”

My fingers pinch his skin tighter. “I’ll do it all. But I won’t hide, and neither will you.”

We stare at one another, our gazes fierce. I want him. I’ve never known a desire like it. Even in the midst of heartbreak, the thought of having him, touching him, having him fill me from the inside out, overrides everything else.

“There is nothing in here.” I drop my hand. “Let's try his bedroom. Maybe there is something there.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe there is nothing here. Not one personal effect.”

Eli’s face drops and he shrugs.

“My love,” I say, the words surprisingly comfortable. “It won’t be like this for us. We will fill this home with laughter and love and passion. We’ll have paints and mess and life itself to fill its walls.”

The blues rest on my face. “We’ll have you.”

“And you.” My hand reaches for his. “Come, let's move on.”

We take every room, but we still don’t have any names to call, any people to tell. My heart is heavy, beating with a hollow boom for the eldest Fairclough child. And it aches for Elijah, who is realising all too late the life his brother had.

I shake my head. “No.”

The blues flicker in my direction. “No, what?”

“I just can’t believe it.”

“What, Faith?” He’s tired, his edges jagged. It’s been a long day. We shouldn’t have driven all the way back to London on a wild goose chase. Another Faith Hitchin cracking idea. He must ache, although he’s trying not to let it show.