Page 57 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
Léon’s features darkened a shade, the words of Henry’s pathetic apology shooting every awful memory like an arrow through his chest. He turned his head away, because it was only about to lead to a fight if either of them spoke of it.
He wouldn’t say it was okay. Or that he had forgiven him. Léon would never say that, and Henry knew it, so he kept his head bowed, Léon kept his turned away, and Henry held onto his hand, brow compressed, lips hard, as he tried to search for the words. The right ones, that would fix it. But there were none. There was no fixing it.
He raised his eyes and found Léon’s locked onto him. And they were sad, and they were fearful, and it pained Henry to think he had put those dark shards into those beautiful eyes. He’d done it so many times, and now… Now all he wanted was to make it better.
His other hand reached for Léon’s cheek, to feel his skin beneath his palm, to bring him close, feel his forehead against his own, to kiss it all away if Léon would only let him. But Léon moved before ever he could. He pulled away, his hand slipped from Henry’s, and he was gone. He disappeared into the inn. The door closed behind him, without so much as a final glance over his shoulder.
And Henry felt rotten. He felt all the loneliness and sickness and loss that he’d earned. He felt that heart too big in his chest, and that fever too hot in his veins, and he wanted to vomit. And there wasn’t a thing for it. Not a thing to fix any of it. And it was all his own stupid fault.
But he never could have known that Léon, inside the inn and out of sight, rested his head against the door that sat between them, holding the shaking hand that Henry had just touched to his heart, trying not to cry.
28
PARTING WAYS
Léon dressed in one of Henry’s shirts that had been laid out for him in the room upstairs. He’d told the landlady to bring the caramel horse only, as he’d resolved to walk back to Reims, leading Souveraine and Émile on the horse. All the way back, all night. He didn’t think of the cold; he thought only of escape. A flight back to his own life.
His stomach roiled at the idea.
Émile and Souveraine were eating downstairs with Catherine. Henry hadn’t come up. He’d taken a change of clothes and disappeared, so perhaps he was dining downstairs too, which made Léon take that much longer to dress.
Gathering the little strength that remained in him, Léon walked down, boots stepping slowly and heavily.
Upon entrance to the dining hall, his eyes fell immediately on Henry. He was sitting at the same table as Souveraine, who appeared to have formed something of a rapport with Catherine. At least, she leaned in to speak with her, and there was no clear sign of dislike on her face. And there was Émile. Henry was spinning coins with him, and Émile was laughing, as he so often did with Henry.
What a scene it was. So familial. So warm. Léon’s heart twinged with how much he missed his parents. A life Émile had never really experienced. He hated to drag him out into the night, back to their dingy shed, away from this beautiful moment. How sweet Henry’s hand was in the boy’s hair. What a good father he would have made…
The thought shook Léon so violently he felt ill. The very idea of how happy he might have been were things a little different.
But they were not different. And he had to accept that. It was over.
He wished he’d never hoped. He wished Henry had never led him to hope.
He strengthened his voice, though it still came out weak when he called to the landlady, “Is the horse ready?”
She barely glanced up. “Out front.”
“Thank you.” When he approached the table, Henry’s eyes were melancholic on him, but he said nothing.
It was Catherine who leapt to her feet and took his hands. “Do you really have to go now?” She looked like a new person, every bit the fine lady Henry had said she would be. Expensive clothes well cared for, nails cleaned and trimmed, hair in an unnecessarily complicated style, artfully arranged as if she had somewhere better to be than an inn in the lonely countryside of France.
“Yes,” Léon said, making himself smile across his reply. “It’s for the best.”
“It had better be.” She pouted in Henry’s general direction. “He’s making us leave now, too.”
The news came as both a surprise and an unexpected sort of heartbreak for Léon. Had he thought he was going to ride back one day? Had he thought Henry would always stay here, forever, an option open to him should he change his mind?
Of course not…
Henry was leaving too.
“Do we have to?” Émile’s voice was sleepy. There were scraps of meat and potatoes about his almost-empty plate. Léon hadn’t even thought to feed him. Not like Henry had. But then, Léon had no money. He had nothing but Henry’s shirt on his back.
“We have to,” Léon said, desperate to get it all over with. “Now.”
Émile made to protest, but Henry interrupted. “Your brother’s right. It’s the smartest thing to do. Give me a hug.”
The boy, tired from the last few days and waning in the late evening, became teary just as Souveraine came to Léon. “Are you sure about this? It’s a long way to walk.”
