Page 81 of The Lost Heiress
Florence’s knees trembled. For a moment, she contemplated bolting up the stairs to Astrid’s room. But what good would that do? RJ could easily catch her, tackle her, do Lord knew what with her if she provoked him. It was his home. Florence knew none of the staff would come to her rescue. They’d done nothing to restrain him or check him, even though everyone knew about the bruises that Astrid hid under her clothes. If Florence remained calm and civil, maybe he would too. So she turned and followed RJ into the parlor. A fire was going in the hearth. RJ poured them both a glass of brandy.
“Is Astrid all right?” Florence asked, trying to keep her voice level.
RJ motioned toward the sofa, ignoring her question. “Please, sit,” he said.
Florence sat, and RJ handed her a glass and took the armchair next to her.
“I’ve underestimated you, Florence,” RJ said, crossing one leg over the other. “When I first met you, I thought you to be meek and pious—a timid little church mouse. I thought you’d be a calming presence for my wife, a familiar balm in an unfamiliar place. But you’re not a mouse, are you, Florence? You’re a snake.”
Heat flamed in Florence’s cheeks, and she looked down at the floor.
“Don’t you think I know what goes on in my own house?” RJ said.
Florence looked up at him. “Please,” she said. “We meant no harm.”
“I think it’s time for you to go back home,” RJ said, taking a sip of his drink. “Back to Cliffhaven. I’ve spoken with Scarlet. It’s all been arranged; your ticket’s booked. You leave at the end of the week.”
Florence’s heart stuttered in her chest. “Does Astrid know?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“I’ve had a conversation this evening with my wife,” RJ said. “We are—as we are in all things—in complete agreement on this matter.”
It was the next morning before Florence was allowed into Astrid’s room to see her. Astrid was still in bed, the curtains drawn, her body curled into itself, facing the windows.
“Are you awake?” Florence asked.
Astrid sniffled in response. “Yes,” she said, her voice hoarse. “But I wish I wasn’t. I wish I were dead.”
Florence sat down on the bed next to her. “What happened last night?” Florence asked. “Are you okay?”
Astrid pulled the covers back, and that’s when Florence saw it—her right foot was in a cast. Her toes peeked out, a gruesome blue-black color, blood crusted under the nails. Florence gasped.
“The doctor says I’ve fractured the sesamoid bone,” Astrid said despondently. “It’ll never heal properly, he said. I’ll never dance en pointe again.”
“How did it happen?” Florence asked, her voice quiet, lest anyone stood at the door, intent on eavesdropping on their conversation.
“I’ve always envied you,” Astrid said.
“Envied me?”
“Yes,” Astrid said. “You can go anywhere, be anything.”
“So can you,” Florence said.
“No,” Astrid said, and Florence didn’t think she’d ever heard anyone sound sadder. “I’ve exchanged one cage for another.”
“Why do you stay?” Florence asked.
“You act as if it’s some choice I’m making,” Astrid said. She let out an exasperated laugh. “Where would I go? What would I do? I’ve nothing that truly belongs to me. Everything I have belongs to my husband or my family. I’ve no right to any of it without them. And they keep me yoked to them like a ... like a prized calf.”
“We could go to Paris,” Florence said before she knew what she was saying.
“Paris?”
“We could get an apartment there, on the Seine,” Florence said. “Our own apartment, and no one could tell us what to do.”
“That’s a pretty thought,” Astrid said.
“I’m serious,” Florence said.
