Page 3 of Tears of Gold

Her eyes lift to his with bewilderment and then a lone tear slips down her cheek, swiftly followed by another and then another. Then her shoulders shake, lifting up and down as her wall of countenance falls brick by brick.

His grasp on my finger loosens and he steps closer to her while I remain in place. His legs buckle and he falls to his knees, almost soundless despite the fact it must hurt, and he pulls her into his arms.

The sound of their sobbing echoes through the air and I back away, unwilling to encroach on their moment of bitter intimacy. I may be about to become his wife, but she has always been his mother, despite her flaws. Unable to watch the shattered mother and son, I back away and make my way through the conservatory, through the lush dark green foliage that seems utterly out of place on a day such as today; full of death and despair.

I easily remember my way around the place despite the labyrinth of corridors and maze-like features of the mansion. The door with ‘Kitchen’ tacked onto it with an enamel plate is as easy to find as falling into my own kitchen at home—although with slightly more steps involved.

Elaine, the Bowsley cook, is at the table. Jennings is next to her, his arm around her shoulders as they heave up and down. She glances up, her eyes red and swollen. This is what grief looks like to me, not the icy rigidness Jennifer maintained by the waterfall.

“Oh, Faith.” Elaine’s greeting is stuttered and swollen.

“Elaine.” I rush to the table and squeeze her motherly figure into my arms.

“Oh, Faith,” she says again. “This is awful. It’s just awful.”

“I know it is.” I plant a kiss on the top of her head and realise with surprising clarity that this is the only woman I think I’ve ever felt remotely close to, other than Abi and Tabs. There is something innately comforting and secure about her, like a mothership who can hold you safe through stormy waters. I look up and smile softly at Jennings. He’s not crying, although I wouldn’t expect him to. The Bowsley butler is the epitome of professional at all times, even here in the safe haven of the large kitchen.

“Can I make you guys a cup of tea?” I learnt this back in the summer when Al died. If you have nothing else to say, it’s best to offer tea.

Jesus. I can’t believe Peter is dead.

My head can’t even comprehend that. I was shopping with him just the other day. He helped me find a dress for Elijah’s birthday dinner. We had lunch. Had fun. And now… he’s gone? How?

God, Elijah’s birthday. I bet that’s one he isn’t going to want to remember in a hurry. He got beaten to within an inch of his life by my perverted and sleazy almost once half-brother, found out I’d slept with my best friend, and then his brother died the following day.

That’s a birthday to forget.

My heart hammers so loud in my chest it thuds in my ears like I’ve run too far or taken the stairs too quickly.

Peter is dead.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” I say to no one in particular. “Where is Connie?” Now, I’m not exactly in a rush to see Eli’s evil grandmother, but why the hell wasn’t she sitting with her only daughter and supporting her?

Maybe she was grieving in her own way privately?

Jennings looks up at me, his hand still circling Elaine’s back with calming reassurance. “She was in Jennifer’s office sorting through paperwork.”

Say what?

“What on earth for? That can wait, surely?”

Jennings' gaze meets mine steadily. “It’s not my place to question what or why.”

I would imagine he’s very grateful it’s not his place to question what or why. “Is Tabitha on her way back?”

I knew Tabitha was back in London this morning. It was her who tracked down Eli to the Tate Modern where I found him stood with my fixed glass heart. Where I asked him to marry me and promised to never run again.

I swallow hard.

“Miss Fairclough arrived an hour ago I believe, along with Mr Duncan.” Who the hell is Mr Duncan? It takes a split moment for me to realise he’s talking about Lewis. Why is he being so formal?

I stare at him for a moment and he meets my questioning gaze, his face calm as always. He’s the epitome of professional butler. He blinks and I spot the turmoil in the depths of his eyes. I give him a small nod and turn for the kettle.

The very least I can do is make tea.

Peter is dead.

I can make a half-decent cup of tea.