* * * *
“It is my fault,” Charlotte heard Reilly say.
She had left as he had asked, but she had been worried for him, alarmed by the uncharacteristic fear she had seen in his eyes. She had never known Reilly to be afraid of anything before. She had returned to his threshold after hearing soft footsteps in the corridor beyond her own room, and Meghan’s voice falling softly as she tapped against Reilly’s door.
Meghan had been behind closed doors with Reilly for nearly half an hour. Charlotte had slipped into the hall, and padded over to his room, kneeling on the floor to try to peep through his keyhole. She could see them; Reilly sat in a chair by his dressing table in direct view of the keyhole. Meghan knelt on the floor in front of him, her hand draped against his knee, her face softened with worry.
“It is my fault,” Reilly said again, more sharply this time. He had been holding one of the gazettes in his hand; as he spoke, he leaned back and let it fly, sending the pages fluttering across the room. He balled his hand into a fist and struck his tabletop with enough force to slosh the meager remnants of brandy in the decanter.
“Reilly…” Meghan whispered. Whatever secrets he harbored to torment him so, Reilly kept them as much from her as he had from Charlotte. He kept saying it was his fault, with precious little other elaboration, and Charlotte could see that his words left Meghan disconcerted, too.
“Maybe they do love one another,” Reilly said, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes and leaning his head back. His breath escaped him in a heavy, weary sigh. “I do not know, Meghan. Maybe they do. Who am I to say? It is not my place. Who am I to counsel anyone on the matter of love?”
“Reilly,” Meghan said softly as he lowered his hands. She raised her hips and reached for him, cradling his face between her hands.
“Am I envious?” he whispered, stricken. “Is that what this is, Meghan? I… maybe I am seized with regret because Charlotte has the strength I lack,to marry where her heart leads her, while I sit here… helpless to do the same.”
“That is not true,” Meghan said. He turned his cheek against her hand, his eyes closing. Charlotte drew back from the keyhole, her eyes flying wide, her breath drawing still. My darling Reilly, the letter she had seen had opened; one of many written to him by someone whose affections he held dear, yet brought him sorrow.
“Meghan,” she whispered, stunned. She leaned toward the keyhole again and watched her brother kiss Meghan, his mouth lingering against hers, his expression softening with obvious tender emotion.
They had known Meghan all of their lives; she was only a year older than Charlotte. By that reason, Meghan had always been more of a friend than a servant to them. It had never occurred to Charlotte that she might have been more than even this in Reilly’s regard. He had fallen in love with her, and to judge by her letters to him, the kind and loving words, Meghan felt the same.
“It is my fault,” Reilly breathed, pressing his forehead against Meghan’s, keeping his eyes closed. “He is young, and Charlotte is young, and they… who can blame them to abandon reason if they are fond of one another? I… I have not drawn a clear moment’s thought since I came back here to Darton… and near to you…”
Meghan smiled, lifting her chin enough to kiss his mouth softly. “They are in love, Reilly,” she said. “It is not a crime. No one is to blame.”
He uttered a soft, hurting sound, and tucked his face against her shoulder. Meghan held him, drawing her arms about him, stroking his hair. “It is all right,” she whispered, kissing his ear.
“It must be,” Reilly said, trembling against her. “It must be all right. My God, we have no way to take it back now. It is beyond me.”