Emma felt tears burning behind her eyes. She refused to let them fall. So what do you want from me? She asked, her voice barely audible. I want you to leave. Go back to France. Disappear again. Let Charles fulfill his obligations without the torture of seeing you, wanting you, knowing he can never have you. Beatrice's expression was almost kind. It's a mercy, really. For both of you.
A mercy, Emma repeated hollowly. Yes. Clean break. No drawn-out goodbye. No watching him marry me while you stand in the back of the church, heartbroken. Just gone. Beatrice reached into her reticule and withdrew a small envelope. I'm prepared to help with expenses. Travel. Resettlement. Whatever you need to start fresh somewhere else. She slid the envelope across the table.
Emma stared at it. Saw the bulk of it. Banknotes probably. Enough to buy her silence. Her absence. Her dignity. You're offering me money to leave, Emma said slowly. I'm offering you a chance at a new life. Away from a situation that can only bring you pain. Emma looked up, meeting Beatrice's eyes. And if I refuse? Then I'll make your life in London unbearable. I'll spread rumors. Question your virtue. Destroy what little reputation you have left. I'll make sure every door closes in your face. Every invitation is rescinded. Every friendship turns to dust.
Beatrice's voice remained pleasant. Conversational. And in the end, Charles will still marry me. You'll just have suffered more in the interim. Margaret's hand found Emma's under the table, squeezing gently, a reminder that she wasn't alone.
Emma looked at the envelope, at Beatrice's beautiful cold face, at the future being offered. Safety in exchange for surrender. I need time, she said finally. To think. You have until the announcement. 3 weeks. Beatrice stood gracefully. Choose wisely, Miss Ashford. Some battles aren't worth fighting. Especially when you've already lost.
She swept out of the tea house, leaving her untouched tea and her poisoned offer behind. Emma sat frozen, staring at the envelope. Emma, Margaret said gently. You're not seriously considering, I don't know what I'm considering. Emma's voice was hollow. She's right about one thing. I can't save him. I can only make everything harder. You love him. That's exactly the problem.
Emma looked at her cousin, tears finally spilling over. I love him too much to be the reason he fails. Too much to watch hundreds of people suffer because he chose me over them. Too much to, her voice broke. To make him choose at all. Margaret's own eyes were wet. Then what will you do?
Emma looked out the window at the London street. Carriages and pedestrians and the endless churn of city life. Somewhere out there, Charles was going about his day, planning a wedding, fulfilling duties, carrying the weight of an empire on his shoulders. And loving her. That was the cruelest part. He loved her. And it changed nothing.
I don't know, Emma whispered. But I think, I think Beatrice might be right. The merciful thing might be to leave. Emma, let me think. Please. Just let me think. They left the tea house in silence, the envelope burning in Emma's reticule like evidence of a crime.