But then, much to his surprise, Penelope clapped her hand over her mouth, turned beet red, and said, “Oh, I'm so sorry!”
He set his spoon down slowly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Of course this is a special occasion. I had completely forgotten. I'm so sorry.”
“Penelope, what the devil are you talking about?”
“Marabelle.”
Blake felt an odd sort of clutching feeling in his chest. Why would Penelope bring up his dead fiancée now? “What about Marabelle?” he asked, his voice completely even.
She blinked. “Oh. Oh, then you don't remember. Never mind. Please forget I said anything.”
Blake watched his sister in disbelief as she attacked the bowl of soup as if it were manna from heaven. “For God's sake, Penelope, whatever it was you were thinking about, just say it.”
She bit her lip in indecision. “It's the eleventh of July, Blake.” Her voice was very soft and filled with pity.
He stared at her in one blessed moment of incomprehension until he remembered.
The eleventh of July.
The anniversary of Marabelle's death.
He stood so abruptly that his chair toppled over. “I will see you tomorrow,” he said, his voice clipped.
“Wait, Blake! Don't go!” She rose to her feet and hurried after him as he strode out of the room. “You shouldn't be alone right now.”
He stopped in his tracks but he didn't turn around to face her as he said, “You don't understand, Penelope. I will always be alone.”
Two hours later Blake was good and drunk. He knew it wouldn't make him feel any better, but he'd kept thinking that one more drink might make him feel less.
It didn't work, though.
How had he forgotten? Every year he'd marked her passing with a special token, something to honor her in death the way he had tried and failed to honor her in life. The first year it had been flowers on her grave. Banal, he knew, but his grief was still raw, and he was still young, and he hadn't known what else to do.
The following year he'd planted a tree in her honor at the place she'd been slain. It had somehow seemed fitting; as a young girl Marabelle had been able to climb a tree faster than any boy in the district.
Subsequent years had been marked with a donation to a home for foundlings, a gift of books to her old school, and an anonymous bank draft to her parents, who were always struggling to make ends meet.
But this year…nothing.
He stumbled down the path to the beach, using one arm for balance while the other clutched his bottle of whiskey. When he reached the end of the trail, he plopped inelegantly onto the ground. There was a grassy spot before the hard ground gave way to the delicate sand for which Bournemouth was famous. He sat there, staring out at the Channel, wondering what the hell he was meant to do with himself.
He'd come outside for fresh air and escape. He didn't want Penelope or her well-meaning questions intruding upon his grief. But the salty air did little to ease his guilt. All it did was remind him of Caroline. She'd come home that afternoon with the smell of the sea in her hair and the touch of the sun on her skin.
Caroline. He closed his eyes in anguish. He knew that Caroline was the reason he'd forgotten Marabelle.
He poured more whiskey down his throat, drinking straight from the bottle. It burned a ragged path to his stomach, but Blake welcomed the pain. It felt raw and undignified, and somehow that seemed appropriate. Tonight he didn't feel like much of a gentleman.
He lay back on the grass and gazed up at the sky. The moon was out, but it wasn't bright enough to diminish the light of the stars. They looked almost happy up there, twinkling as if they hadn't a care in the world. He almost felt as if they were mocking him.
He swore. He was growing fanciful. That, or maudlin. Or maybe it was just the drink. He sat up and took another swig.
The liquor dulled his senses and muddled his mind, which was probably why he didn't hear footsteps until they were nearly on top of him. “Whosh there?” he slurred, awkwardly raising himself up onto his elbows. “Who is it?”
Caroline stepped forward, the starlight glinting off her light brown hair. “It's only me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I saw you from my window.” She smiled wryly. “Excuse me, your window.”
“You should go back up.”
“Probably.”
“I'm not fit company.”
“No,” she agreed, “you're quite drunk. It's not good to drink on an empty stomach.”
He let out a short burst of hollow laughter. “And whose fault is my empty stomach?”
“You do know how to hold a grudge, don't you?”
“Madam, I assure you I have an excruciatingly long memory.” He winced at his words. His memory had always served him well—until this night.
She frowned. “I brought you some food.”
He didn't say anything for a long moment, then said, in a very low voice, “Go back inside.”
“Why are you so upset?”
He didn't say anything, just wiped his mouth with his sleeve after taking another drink of whiskey.
“I've never seen you drunk before.”
“There are a lot of things you don't know about me.”
She took another step forward, her eyes daring him to look away. “I know more than you think I do.”
That got his attention. His eyes flared with momentary anger, then went blank as he said, “Pity for you, then.”
“Here, you should eat something.” She held out something wrapped in a cloth napkin. “It'll soak up the whiskey.”
“That's the last thing I want to do.”