‘I didn’t attend a finishing school. How old-fashioned do you think I am?’ Her cheeks flush deeper, her eyes glisten bright as she places a hand over her mouth. ‘But, yes, she does approve.’
I walk to the bed and climb in beside her, taking a coffee mug off the tray still on her lap. I can’t face eating. I’m scared the nausea will make a return pretty swiftly.
‘You ready to talk about what happened yesterday?’ I ask, lying back against the headboard and raising the mug so I can breathe in the familiar aroma, using it to gain a sense of calm.
She chews her food slowly, raking a hand through her hair as her eyes lose their spark. I wish I’d waited until after breakfast, but if I have my way I’ll be taking her home to pack a bag and then getting the hell out of the city.
‘My brother...my stepmother—’ She swallows like it pains her to do so, her tears instant and crippling. ‘They want me to convince Granny she would be better off in a hospice under twenty-four-hour care.’ She shakes her head and starts to tremble.
Oh, God.
I take the tray from her lap, slide it out of the way and pull her into me. She comes easily, her head tucking beneath my chin, the tears, the sobs, racking her body as she lets go.
I rock her and hush her softly, murmuring words of encouragement—It’ll be okay... It’ll be okay—but will it, when all is said and done?
The fraud-filled boulder swells large in my chest, suffocating, heavy. I close my eyes and force myself to breathe through it.
‘I don’t want to do it—it’s not fair, and it’s not right,’ she rambles through her tears. ‘They just want life to continue like nothing’s wrong... They don’t care that being at home is a comfort to her...that it’s important... They only care what effect it has on their plans, on their stupid summer soirée.’
‘You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to,’ I whisper into her hair, my lips brushing over its softness. ‘You don’t.’
‘But I’m just tired of it—tired of trying to act like everything’s okay, like I can cope, when it isn’t and I can’t.’ She sniffs and looks up at me, wiping her nose, her eyes, with the back of her hand. ‘I never fight with her.’
‘With who?’
‘My stepmother. It’s not worth it. But last night I got so angry I walked out on them—created a scene, according to her.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t create a scene.’ Wet strands of hair cling to her blazing cheeks and I brush them back as I try to reassure her. ‘And even if you did, what does it matter? You have every right to be upset.’
She folds herself back into me.
‘Granny wouldn’t approve. Laurens don’t cause a scene. Laurens need to be above reproach. Laurens don’t show their feelings. Laurens sport a stiff upper lip at all times.’
It comes out in a controlled flurry as she channels her grandmother, letting rip the pressure she’s permanently under. I can feel her physically cracking under the words and I’m taken over by a need to protect her, to take her away, to give her a break even for a few days.
‘It’s not healthy to bottle everything up.’
‘But I have to. I have to keep up appearances. I’m not going to let her down—not while she’s still here.’
‘Then let me take you away—give you time to recover, regain your strength.’
She’s looking up at me, wide-eyed, shaking her head.
‘I can’t go away—not with her so sick.’
‘A few days won’t hurt.’
‘But what if my brother has her kicked out while I’m gone?’
‘He won’t.’
‘You can’t know that.’
I can, because I’ll have people watching him. But I can hardly tell her that.
‘Does she have a close friend? Someone you trust who could come and stay for a couple of days?’
‘There’s Grace... She’s been visiting quite a bit; she’d come if I asked her.’