A Passion for Pleasure(82)

He looked up. She was watching him, concern and wariness etched into the face that both belonged at once to his mother and a stranger. He wondered if she would have made such a confession to Alexander or Nicholas. Or even to Talia.

“Do you still play the piano?” he asked.

She smiled. “I did. Especially for Alexei. He loved to hear me play.”

She didn’t have to say that Rushton never seemed to notice. She gestured for one of the servers to bring them more tea, and then she told Sebastian about the man who was apparently the love of her life, a solider who’d moved up in the army ranks through determination, strength of will, and proficiency in battle. She told Sebastian how she’d waited for him, withstood the disapproval of her family, and longed for Rushton’s divorce petition to free her.

She must have loved Alexei Leskov to distraction, Sebastian thought, to have followed the man into battle because she could not bear to be parted from him again. And him too, waiting, then returning to her, asking for her hand in marriage, while knowing he would never be welcomed into her family, that she wore the mantle of disgrace, that she would never bear his children.

They both had known they would be alone together. Just two. And for them, that had been enough.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian finally said. He was still not able to comprehend how she could have cut her life in two with such irrevocability, but a faint understanding wove through him at her confession of overwhelming love.

“I loved Alexei deeply.” Sorrow flashed in Catherine’s dark eyes. “I was blessed to have known and loved him for as long as I did. I was blessed to have known him at all. You’d have liked him. He had a love of life that was not unlike yours.”

Sebastian’s hand clenched. Too late, he realized that the subtle movement drew his mother’s attention. She lifted a hand as if to cover his, then settled it on the tablecloth.

“And you?” she asked. “I knew the moment I heard about your departure from Weimar that something was wrong. Will you not tell me what happened?”

Realizing there was no reason not to, especially after her confession, Sebastian explained. He pushed his hand into his pocket and told her the entire truth of his disability and resignation. Tears spilled down her cheeks by the time he’d finished the unpleasant tale.

“I knew you wouldn’t have forsaken your patrons without a reason,” she said. “Did any of them know?”

Sebastian shook his head. Some part of him recognized that he had kept his secret just as she had kept hers, both to protect others and to protect himself. Oddly, the thought was fitting. He realized now that he and Catherine shared certain instincts—foremost the need to be free from the trappings of expectations. It had taken her thirty years of a stifling marriage to discover that.

He, at least, had always lived as he pleased, and his marriage to Clara had reminded him of the importance of such a desire.

Sebastian pushed to his feet. A strange but welcome sense of calm settled over the turmoil of his emotions. Catherine came around the table and took his hand in hers. He didn’t know if he would see her again, but at least now he finally had answers to the questions that had plagued them all.

“Will you try to see Talia?” he asked.

The light in Catherine’s eyes dimmed. “I don’t know. Darius refuses to facilitate a meeting with Talia. I fear she must despise me.”

Sebastian couldn’t reassure her otherwise. They would all impede Catherine’s access to Talia for no other reason than to protect their sister from further hurt.

“Where will you go now?” he asked.

“I’m staying with my sister in Kuskovo. Please know you can always contact me there.”

Sebastian nodded. After a moment’s hesitation, he bent and brushed his lips across her cheek. Then he turned and left, pulling his hand from his pocket and unclenching his fingers as he stepped back outside.





Chapter Seventeen


Rain streamed down the arching windows. Charcoal clouds foamed overhead, spilling heavy drops that pooled on the streets into wide, greasy puddles. Inside the studio of Blake’s Museum of Automata, the piles of satin and silk appeared muddy in the gray light, the ribbons and streamers dulled, the paint thick and congealed.

Clara pushed a needle through a square of silk and glanced at the clock. Two thirty. Her stomach tightened. The hour between now and the moment when she had to execute her plan seemed almost impenetrable.