Like my Mother, who thought her indulgence of a reckless whim more important than safeguarding my well-being.
Burnell took her hands in his. “You must believe me when I say I’ve thought it through, Nellie. You can keep working at the British Museum. I’ll tell them you’re to be put on the curating team for the Palekmul gallery. Anything I send back, you’ll have first eyes when they open the crates.”
“Well that’s mighty decent of you.” Cornelia gritted her teeth. “I get to dust off your finds while you’re living a true adventure on the other side of the world.”
“I can see you’re mad, Nellie, but when you’ve had a chance to think about this, you’ll see I’m right.” A crease appeared between Burnell’s brows. He was clearly uncomfortable with the way their little chat was going but Cornelia refused to let him off the hook.
“I haven’t told you much about my mother, have I? When she bolted, I didn’t believe it at first. I was barely at the start of my first Season. I hadn’t a clue what was happening, nor what the consequences would be—although I soon found out.” Cornelia withdrew her hands from Burnell’s and crossed her arms.
“She took with her every scrap of jewellery and several portable items of silverware, then disappeared with no more farewell-taking than the leaving of a note, explaining she’d never loved my father and was snatching this ‘one chance at happiness’.” Cornelia gave a hollow laugh.
“Did you know, the man she pinned her hopes on had been employed to paint a trompe l'oeil in the music room of our townhouse—a charming scene of Lake Como, as viewed from a window of the Villa Balbianello. My father ordered it papered over, of course, and never again mentioned my mother’s name.”
Cornelia was aware of the bitterness in her voice. She’d always considered herself resigned to the fact of her mother’s abandonment, and her death soon afterward. The lovers had headed to the Italian lakes in earnest, and met their end on Como itself, following the overturning of a hired pleasure boat. An ironic end to the debacle.
Oh yes, she’d shed plenty of tears, and then stoically endured what came next—including that miserable marriage to Mortmain—but she’d never admitted aloud how humiliating the whole thing had been, nor how furious she was.
With her mother, naturally, but with her father as well.
If he’d shown more affection, shown her mother that he loved her, that he needed her, that he wanted to share his life with her, she wouldn’t have sought comfort elsewhere.
But her father had placed the blame firmly on others. As for Cornelia, she’d had the sense that he couldn’t wait to get rid of her; as if having her under the same roof was distasteful to him.
He’d deigned to have her back after Mortmain died, but he’d gone to great efforts to avoid spending time with her. Between his work and his club, he’d hardly been at home.
Seeing how unhappy she was, drifting without purpose, he’d put her forward for volunteering at the museum, but she’d seen that for what it was.
A sop to his conscience.
All these years, she’d let other people dictate the sequence of her life, but no more!
If Burnell truly cared for her, he ought to want her with him all the time, through whatever challenges came their way. She’d rather have a single year of being together like that than decades of a half-love brought out for high days and holidays.
“Don’t you see, I’d rather live a wild, dangerous life with you than stay here, wrapped in cotton wool. What happened with my mother wasn’t just thoughtless or imprudent. She was unhappy because my father never let her into his heart. Their lives were too separate. I want us to hold on to each other, Ethan. Just hold on, and love one another, and do the best we can.”
Suddenly, the anger ebbed away, replaced by a tide of sadness. She couldn’t bear any more wasted years.
Throughout her story, he’d sat quietly, letting her speak. He didn’t appear shocked or disappointed but the face looking back at her seemed older, and so much wearier.
“You’re preachin’ to the choir, Nellie.” He gave a half-hearted smile, but the quirk of his mouth held no mirth. “My Pa thought providing the material things fulfilled his end of the bargain just fine, and he was free to do whatever the hell he wanted on account of that. If my Ma dared to suggest different, the ball of his fists put her straight.”
Ethan’s eyes were dead inside and the way he was speaking…she’d never heard him like this.
“When she brought us to England, it wasn’t just to find a titled husband for Rosie, though that’s what she wanted us to believe. She was running away, Cornelia—and when my father put two and two together, he sent one of his men to fetch me back. Just me, mind you. Rosamund and my mother were left to fend for themselves.”
He gave a doleful sigh. “Pa made a point of telling me all about that—how he’d never forgive them for plotting against him and that all women were scheming varmints. He left them without a cent, and I wasn’t even allowed to write, but Rosie got a letter to me by sending it to our cook. That’s how I learnt Ma had died and Rosie’d found Benedict to care for her.”
The words were toneless, as if he were reciting a story about someone else, rather than himself.
“When I finally worked up the guts to walk out and he had that seizure, I felt nothing.” Standing up, Burnell took the poker and stabbed at the fire. “Actually, that’s not true. I did feel something.” Another vicious jab sent sparks flying. “I was glad, Cornelia. Glad he was dead, and I hoped he suffered with every last breath.”
Turning back to her, his expression had grown harder. “Funny thing was that, despite all the women he slept with and the children he fathered over the years, I was the only true heir to all that money he cared so much about—and the old bastard had no intention of marrying again to secure another legitimate son. So, in the end, I had my revenge.”
Cornelia’s mouth was too dry to speak but it didn’t seem to matter. Burnell had plenty to say all on his own.
“I vowed to see everything he worked for stripped to nothing. That’s why I sold it all—why every dirty, oil-soaked dollar has gone to Palekmul.”
The soft lips that had kissed her so tenderly that morning were set in a thin line. “My father’s poison dies with me. I won’t let there be more sons to carry on his line. Even if I took you to Palekmul, that’s one thing that’s non-negotiable, Cornelia.”
She wanted to shake him and hug him all at the same time. Couldn’t he see that he was only hurting himself, letting his hatred for his father control him.
Her pulse was racing but this was too important to shy away from. “That’s an excuse, Burnell, and you know it! Maybe you’re afraid of being hurt, or trapped, or disappointed, I don’t know—but, all this time, you’ve been badgering me to ‘be brave’ when you’re a coward yourself.”
Ethan regarded her coolly. “You’re right, Cornelia, and you deserve to be loved without limitation or rules, but I can’t make those promises.”
A horrible, lurching pain rose from Cornelia's stomach. It wouldn’t matter what she said, or how she promised to love him if he wasn’t ready to let go of the past.