still in Manhattan, ministering to Georgiana in countless waysâand the thought makes me sick to my stomach.
If only he were really in the helicopter, about to land on the deck of the ferry, scoop me up in his mighty arms, and whisk me away with himâsomewhere, anywhere, just as long as Iâm with him. For a moment, I flash to an advertisement I remember seeing on TV when I was a child: a helicopter, and a rope ladder down which a heart-stoppingly handsome man shimmies. Not onto a ferry but down a mountain, over lakes, oceans, to the ends of the earth, and all because the lady in his life wants a particular box of chocolates and he is determined to bring it to her, come hell or high water. A romantic hero, if ever there was one . . .
Just a few hours ago, although it now seems like a lifetime, I believed that Robert Hartwell was my romantic hero, and I his ultimate romantic heroine. But that was before he and his men burst into Le Châteauâs dungeon determined to rescue me from my kidnapper, only to be faced with Georgiana, her face smashed and bloodied, alive and not interred on Hartwell Island, not dead and buried, as he and the entire world had been led to believe. As I had led him to believe.
âDarling, darling Robert, Iâm back,â Georgiana had announced.
I donât know how I expected him to react, what I expected him to do when confronted by the wife he had once loved so much, and then grew to hate so much, reincarnated once more and here in living color, in front of him. To my everlasting relief, despite the shock and horror he must have felt, he steadfastly ignored her and pulled me toward him so close that I could hardly breathe, kissed me so passionately, and acted as if we were the only two people in the room, and she didnât exist at all.
His actions, of course, spoke volumes about his love and passion for me, and inevitably aroused Georgianaâs ire. Spitting venom, she went straight for the kill: âReplace me with her? With little Miss Liar here? She knew I was alive all along, but she didnât tell you!â And with those oh-so-carefully chosen words, she condemned me to a lifetime of loss and longing as surely as if she were an omnipotent ruler and had just signed my death warrant.
Or ratherâto be more accurateâa warrant for the death of Robertâs love for me, his trust in me, and for the breathtakingly beautiful future we had once envisioned having together.
Robert turned to me, the expression on his face stony and impassive, his eyes cold and dark with a hundred accusations.
âMiranda?â
Suddenly I was four years old again, and caught with my fingers in the cookie jar. Seven and shamed because I told a white lie and was found out. Twelve and humiliated because I promised to go to summer camp but then tried to renege on my promise.
âMiranda?â My name, plain and simple, yet bringing with it a subtext so mortifying, so shameful, so humiliating that there was nothing for me to do but to confess everything and take the consequences, no matter how harsh, how hurtful, how irreversible they might be.
And so I bit the bullet and told the truth at last.
âIâm sorry, Robert, I did know. I didnât tell you because I was petrified you would want her back,â I said.
Then I held my breath, but he remained silent. Despite my desperation, my terror, a wave of courage suddenly came to my rescue and I met his eyes without flinching.
They were the eyes of a stranger.
I opened my mouth to say something, anything, except not beg, except not plead, but he turned his back on me and strode out of the dungeon.
And from there, most likely to the hospital and to Georgianaâs bedside.
For, knowing Robert as I know him, I at once understood that even though Georgiana had deceived him (almost as grievously as I have done by not letting him know that she was still alive), one look at her battered and ruined face
If only he were really in the helicopter, about to land on the deck of the ferry, scoop me up in his mighty arms, and whisk me away with himâsomewhere, anywhere, just as long as Iâm with him. For a moment, I flash to an advertisement I remember seeing on TV when I was a child: a helicopter, and a rope ladder down which a heart-stoppingly handsome man shimmies. Not onto a ferry but down a mountain, over lakes, oceans, to the ends of the earth, and all because the lady in his life wants a particular box of chocolates and he is determined to bring it to her, come hell or high water. A romantic hero, if ever there was one . . .
Just a few hours ago, although it now seems like a lifetime, I believed that Robert Hartwell was my romantic hero, and I his ultimate romantic heroine. But that was before he and his men burst into Le Châteauâs dungeon determined to rescue me from my kidnapper, only to be faced with Georgiana, her face smashed and bloodied, alive and not interred on Hartwell Island, not dead and buried, as he and the entire world had been led to believe. As I had led him to believe.
âDarling, darling Robert, Iâm back,â Georgiana had announced.
I donât know how I expected him to react, what I expected him to do when confronted by the wife he had once loved so much, and then grew to hate so much, reincarnated once more and here in living color, in front of him. To my everlasting relief, despite the shock and horror he must have felt, he steadfastly ignored her and pulled me toward him so close that I could hardly breathe, kissed me so passionately, and acted as if we were the only two people in the room, and she didnât exist at all.
His actions, of course, spoke volumes about his love and passion for me, and inevitably aroused Georgianaâs ire. Spitting venom, she went straight for the kill: âReplace me with her? With little Miss Liar here? She knew I was alive all along, but she didnât tell you!â And with those oh-so-carefully chosen words, she condemned me to a lifetime of loss and longing as surely as if she were an omnipotent ruler and had just signed my death warrant.
Or ratherâto be more accurateâa warrant for the death of Robertâs love for me, his trust in me, and for the breathtakingly beautiful future we had once envisioned having together.
Robert turned to me, the expression on his face stony and impassive, his eyes cold and dark with a hundred accusations.
âMiranda?â
Suddenly I was four years old again, and caught with my fingers in the cookie jar. Seven and shamed because I told a white lie and was found out. Twelve and humiliated because I promised to go to summer camp but then tried to renege on my promise.
âMiranda?â My name, plain and simple, yet bringing with it a subtext so mortifying, so shameful, so humiliating that there was nothing for me to do but to confess everything and take the consequences, no matter how harsh, how hurtful, how irreversible they might be.
And so I bit the bullet and told the truth at last.
âIâm sorry, Robert, I did know. I didnât tell you because I was petrified you would want her back,â I said.
Then I held my breath, but he remained silent. Despite my desperation, my terror, a wave of courage suddenly came to my rescue and I met his eyes without flinching.
They were the eyes of a stranger.
I opened my mouth to say something, anything, except not beg, except not plead, but he turned his back on me and strode out of the dungeon.
And from there, most likely to the hospital and to Georgianaâs bedside.
For, knowing Robert as I know him, I at once understood that even though Georgiana had deceived him (almost as grievously as I have done by not letting him know that she was still alive), one look at her battered and ruined face
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