Even when something viscous and unthinkable had begun to run down her leg.
She’d not moved.
A part of her feared she’d become so cold. So empty. So hard that she’d turn to stone. That they’d not be able to pry the lantern from her fingertips, and when the authorities came, as they surely would, she would advertise just where the body was hidden.
She could condemn them all.
“I will finish here and then I will make certain the study is cleaned.” Jean-Yves motioned toward Alexandra, though he addressed Cecelia. “You take her, and you care for her as we discussed. Comprenez-vous?”
Cecelia nodded, placing her hand on the man’s shoulder.
“We will speak of this tomorrow.” He kissed her temple affectionately, then turned back to his work, dismissing the girls.
Alexandra hadn’t let go of the lantern until Francesca uncurled her fingers and relieved her of it.
She felt nothing.
Nothing but sensations beneath her feet as they led her back. First, the chilly dew of the grass. Then the slippery tiles of the back kitchens. The lush carpets of the school halls were welcome cushion against her beleaguered soles.
Her beleaguered soul.
And then she was standing in the tower, staring at the coals in the fireplace as her friends silently bustled around her, not realizing that she was naked until the sensation of the lukewarm water on her foot returned her to the moment.
A blaze flared as two filthy nightgowns, dressing robes, and Alexandra’s favorite yellow gown, stockings, and underthings fed the fire.
Francesca added a log or two as Cecelia lowered Alexandra into the tub and bathed her gently.
Alexandra stared at her conflagrating undergarments.
De Marchand had never even taken them off. The slit made for her necessary conveniences were convenient for men, as well. She’d never once considered that. Had anyone considered that? She suddenly wanted to warn every woman alive.
“Are you certain we can trust Jean-Yves?” Francesca finally broke the silence from where she stood in front of the wardrobe, completely naked, snatching at fresh nightgowns and heavy, warm robes. “I don’t like that he knows.”
Alexandra clinically examined her friend’s lean body. De Marchand had been wrong. Francesca was impertinent, but she wasn’t scrawny. She’d the sleek, long build of the thoroughbreds she was so fond of riding. Comprised of lean muscle used for speed and agility.
Her wit was just as quick, her tongue as sharp, and her instincts impeccable.
How Alexandra envied her that. Perhaps she’d have been able to escape before—
“Jean-Yves is the only man I’ve ever trusted,” Cecelia insisted, using the back of her wrist to slide her spectacles back up to the bridge of her nose. “He’ll keep our secret, of that I have no doubt.”
Francesca paused with a pair of new white drawers in her hand. Her cat-green eyes glimmered with equal parts sardonic speculation and gentle curiosity. “Isn’t your father still alive? Isn’t he a vicar?”
“Yes.” Cecelia’s plump, ever-placid features darkened.
“And Jean-Yves is the only man you trust?”
“That’s what I said.” Her sapphire eyes flashed at Francesca as the latter pulled a ruffled nightgown over her head.
“I know he’s important to you, Cecil, but we have to consider—”
“Jean-Yves and I have long had an arrangement,” Cecelia cut in, picking up a pitcher and easing Alexandra’s head back, so as to wash her hair. “I’m taking him with me once we leave to be a part of my household.”
“But—”
“We will speak of this tomorrow.” Cecelia echoed Jean-Yves’s words with more vehemence than Alexandra had ever marked from her. For the first time in their short lives, her tone brooked no argument. Even from Francesca.
My fault.
The burning, aching tears finally arose, branding Alexandra with the same punishing heat as any fire of inquisition. Her friends were quarreling, and it was all because of her. She’d put dear old Jean-Yves in danger, not to mention Cecelia and Francesca.
My fault. My fault. My. Fault.
Those words repeated through her head like rifle shots in a terrible, terrible accelerating rhythm. Like that of flesh against flesh. She couldn’t have said how long Cecelia and Francesca bathed her, or how they disposed of the bathwater. She didn’t remember them dressing her. Braiding her hair. Nor could she tell when she ended up in bed.
But, eventually, Francesca’s commanding voice calling her name permeated the gray fog in which she’d been floating all night. “Alexandra!”
“My fault!” Her inner thoughts manifested in a raw cry even she didn’t recognize. “It’s all my fault.”
“Dear God, no!” Francesca settled in beside her beneath the wide canopy and rested her head on Alexandra’s shoulder. “Nothing that happened tonight is your responsibility.”
“Y-you’re now my accomplices,” she agonized, spreading her fingers in front of her. “I shouldn’t have brought this to you. It could ruin your entire lives. This shouldn’t be a secret you are forced to bear.”
Cecelia lay on her other side, drawing up the coverlet and sharing her warmth and bosomy softness. “We all have secrets, Alexander. Ones that could ruin us.”
Alexandra shook her head, staring up at the white canopy, hating the color of purity almost as much as she hated herself. “Not like this. I—I murdered a man.”
“Your rapist.” Francesca tucked the quilt beneath Alexandra’s chin. “We all might have done the same if…” She didn’t finish her sentence, displaying a rare sensitivity she didn’t often possess.
“We all have secrets?” Alexandra turned her head toward Cecelia, her previous words only just permeating her numbness. “I’ve known you four years now … You’ve never mentioned a secret that could ruin you.”
Cecelia sobered, suddenly appearing so much younger than her eighteen years. “I don’t want to share, and yet.” She hesitated. “I don’t want you to feel alone…”
Francesca locked eyes with Alexandra, her elfin face a shade of pale Alexandra hadn’t considered anyone but a corpse could attain. “We should all share, then we’ll have something to carry that will forge an unbreakable bond of trust.”
The gesture touched Alexandra utterly. “Tell me,” she whispered. Anything to distract her from the horror of what would face her every day for the rest of her life
Cecelia inhaled for an eternity until she finally gathered the courage to speak through a voice made even huskier by emotion. “I’m a bastard. My mother had a lover. She died giving birth to me, you see, and my father … the man who raised me … has made it clear there isn’t a physical possibility that he sired me. He’s spent my entire life insisting that my mother died because of her infidelity.”
Francesca nodded, heaving a breath made weary by the weight of so much pain. “Oh, darling, is he cruel to you?”
“Unspeakably,” Cecelia whispered, blinking away an unwanted memory.
“Do you know your real father?” Alexandra asked, snuggling closer to Cecelia. “Is it this mysterious benefactor who finances your education?”