Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Caoimhe

Ireland, 1814

Edmond Dantès slipped the post bills under the widow's door, keeping close to the side of the house so he could blend in with the shadows. Not that anyone was likely to be wandering about past midnight on a chilly autumn night. The money should be enough to last the widow till the end of the month, keep food on the table for her and her three children.

He never stayed to see the joy on the faces of the people he secretly helped – he wasn't doing this for any sense of goodwill – and he was about to leave, but when he turned, he stopped short at the sight of Caoimhe standing behind him, her mass of blonde curls tied back with a ribbon.

"I woke up and you were gone," she said.

"Sorry." Edmond crept away from the house, towards his lover.

Caoimhe stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. "I don't like it when you don't tell me you're going."

"I didn't want to wake you."

Caoimhe glanced back at the little house Edmond had left, and concern flickered across her face.

"You know how much I admire you for helping people, but . . . how long do you think you can keep this up?"

Edmond tensed. "What do you mean?"

Caoimhe knew why he gave away so much of his money, and she had always been supportive of it. For six years, he'd quietly distributed his wealth among the poorest parts of Paris, trying to help as many people as he could, but as the Napoleanic Empire tightened its grip, Edmond realised that Paris wasn't home for him anymore. Really, it hadn't been for a long time. Ysanne had made it clear that France would never be home again, and Edmond finally understood that. It was the place of his birth, and maybe it would always hold some place in his heart, but . . . something had changed. He didn't want to be there anymore.

So he'd returned to Britain, where he'd continued his mission to help the people who needed it most.

"Some of your investments haven't paid off like you hoped they would. You need to be careful, Edmond, or you'll run out of money," she said.

He shook his head. "Things will turn around."

"What if they don't?" Caoimhe asked.

Edmond offered a shrug; it wasn't something he cared to think about.

"It's just . . . don't you think about the future?" Caoimhe said.

"In what way?"

Caoimhe sighed. "We've been together for years, Edmond, but nothing's really progressed in that time. Don't you ever think about our future?"

Words failed him.

Caoimhe made him happy, and he'd loved the time they'd spent together, but . . . he hadn't thought about the future. It hadn't occurred to him that she might want more than what they had.

The air between them seemed to grow colder.

"You haven't, have you?" Caoimhe said.

Edmond would not lie to her. "No," he admitted.

A long pause ensued.

"Do we even have a future?" Caoimhe asked.

"What do you mean?"

Caoimhe stared at him. "Do you love me, Edmond?"

Another pause.

Caoimhe's expression flattened. "That would be a no, then."