A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 85 - Eighty Five

The midnight air in London was rarely quiet, but within the high brick walls of the Hamilton estate, the city noise faded into a dull, distant hum.

Delaney could not sleep.

The Blue Suite, with its soft lavender-scented sheets and heavy curtains, felt too small. The walls seemed to press inward. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Lord Hawksley’s scarred face in the hallway. And when she managed to push that nightmare away, it was replaced by a different kind of torment: the memory of her chest against Rowan’s back in the woods, her breath on his neck, and the raw, undeniable heat between them.

She had slipped out of bed, wrapped a thick, dark woolen cloak over her white cotton chemise, and quietly navigated the back stairs.

Now, she sat in the deep shadows of the backyard.

At the far end of the manicured lawn, beneath the sweeping branches of an old oak tree, hung a wide wooden swing. Delaney sat on it, her bare toes brushing the cool, damp grass. She did not swing. She simply sat perfectly still, letting the cold night air numb her skin, wishing it could numb her mind as well.

She had been sitting there for nearly an hour when she heard the crunch of gravel.

Delaney stiffened. She pulled the dark cloak tighter around her shoulders, trying to blend into the trunk of the oak tree.

Footsteps approached. They were slow, measured, and accompanied by the faint rustle of heavy fabric. A moment later, a sharp scent drifted on the breeze. It was not the smell of night-blooming jasmine or damp earth. It was the rich, earthy, unmistakable scent of burning tobacco.

A figure emerged from the pathway.

It was Aunt Margery.

The older woman was wrapped in a voluminous, dark green velvet dressing gown. Her gray hair, usually hidden beneath elaborate turbans or feathered hats, was braided simply down her back. But the most striking thing was the object in her right hand.

Aunt Margery walked to the center of the backyard, a thick stick of cigar in her hand. She lifted it to her lips, took a slow, deep puff, and exhaled a thick cloud of white smoke toward the moon.

She let out a long sigh, dropping her shoulders. Without the audience of the drawing room, the loud, booming woman looked suddenly very small and very tired.

Margery turned and walked toward the oak tree, seeking the bench underneath it.

As she stepped into the deep shadow of the branches, she finally noticed the dark shape sitting on the swing.

"Goodness gracious!" Aunt Margery exclaimed, jumping back a full step. She clutched her chest with her free hand, the glowing red tip of the cigar trembling in the dark.

Delaney quickly turned her face and stood up from the swing, stepping into a patch of moonlight so the older woman could see her clearly.

"I’m sorry, my lady," Delaney said softly, her voice filled with regret. "I didn’t mean to scare you."

Margery stared at her for a moment, her chest heaving. Then, she let out a breath that turned into a dry, raspy chuckle. She lowered her hand from her heart.

"For a moment I thought I was going to join my brother," Margery said, shaking her head. "I thought you were a ghost sent to collect me for my sins."

She walked closer, the scent of the cigar growing stronger. She looked at the wooden seat of the swing, then looked at Delaney.

"May I?" she asked, gesturing to the swing with the hand holding the cigar.

Delaney moved to the side, making room. "Of course."

Aunt Margery sat down heavily. The thick ropes of the swing creaked under the sudden weight. She arranged her velvet wrapper over her knees and leaned back against the ropes.

Delaney sat down beside her. The swing was wide enough for two, but the proximity felt strange. During the day, they were the employer and the employee. Now, in the dark, they were just two women hiding from the house.

Margery held out her right hand. She passed her cigar toward Delaney in a silent question, raising a gray eyebrow to ask if she cared for a puff.

Delaney looked at the glowing ember. She shook her head respectfully.

"I don’t smoke," Delaney said quietly.

Margery shrugged her shoulders. She brought the cigar back to her own lips.

"More for me then," Margery said. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

She dragged on the cigar again. The tip flared bright orange in the gloom. She puffed out the smoke, watching it swirl and vanish into the night air.

For a few minutes, they sat in complete silence. The only sounds were the distant rustle of leaves and the soft shhh of Margery exhaling. Delaney kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, wondering if she should excuse herself and go back inside.

"What is bothering you?" Margery asked suddenly.

She did not look at Delaney. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, staring out over the dark expanse of the Hamilton lawns.

Delaney blinked, caught off guard. "Pardon?"

Margery continued, her voice sounding entirely serious. The comedic, loud aunt from the drawing room was completely gone.

"Everyone is inside sleeping," Margery pointed out, gesturing vaguely toward the large, dark silhouette of the manor house. "Yet you are out here alone, in the cold, dressed in nothing but a nightgown and a cloak. You must have a lot bothering you."

Delaney was silent.

She looked down at her hands. What could she possibly say? I am hiding from the man who murdered my father. I am habouring forbidden feelings for your nephew, who is about to marry someone else and this person is also related to said murderer. The truth was a heavy, ugly thing. She could not share it. She closed her mouth and kept her secrets locked safely in her chest.

Margery did not press her. She seemed to understand that some burdens were too heavy to be spoken aloud. She took another drag of her cigar.

"I’m outside here because I miss my husband," Margery said quietly.

Delaney turned her head. She looked at the older woman in surprise. Aunt Margery never spoke of her husband. She was always traveling alone, staying with Ines or Rowan, attending parties, and managing everyone else’s lives.

"Why didn’t he come with you?" Delaney asked gently.

Margery stared at the glowing ash of her cigar. Her eyes looked wet in the moonlight.

"He’s bedridden," Margery replied. Her voice cracked slightly, losing its usual iron strength. She turned her head and finally looked Delaney in the eye. "He might die any moment from now. His heart is failing him. The doctors say it is only a matter of time."

Delaney felt a sharp ache in her own chest. She looked at the woman beside her and saw the profound grief etched into the lines of her face.

"Why are you here?" Delaney asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. "If your husband is so ill... why are you in London? Why are you not by his side?"