I imagined my return home differently. In my mind, it would have been grand, glamorous like the parties grandma Linda use to throw. But, it's nothing like that. There are no guests in diamonds and Louboutins, no wine in Baccarat crystal glasses and no Isabelle.
I absentmindedly count the beads of my rosary as I stare out the window watching rain fall. Fifty nine. One for every prayer I've uttered for Belle's soul.
Is it pointless to pray for the unbelieving dead?
"I didn't think you would come," a voice says from behind.
"I didn't expect to," I respond.
"I'm happy you came," he says. His voice cracks a bit and I shift uncomfortably as he comes to stand next to me.
His gray eyes are tinged red, his dark shirt is untucked and the bottom of his black trousers are splattered with mud. Even his golden blonde hair is left sticking out in unsightly directions.
We are in the huge nursery of the Barclay mansion which has catered for all the Barclay children since the 18th century. Including the man next to me, Adrian Barclay. My first love.
"I know," I whisper even though there isn't anyone around to hear us. It still feels like it did when she was alive and we snuck around the house stealing kisses when no one was looking. Forbidden. He's still forbidden, I muse as my eyes search his.
"I'm sorry I missed the funeral," I say. It feels like the right thing to say even though it isn't my fault I arrived late. I wasn't even aware of her illness until it was too late. Mother had made it a point to keep me isolated from all family events and news since the my betrayal. I spent six years in forced exile in Germany while my sister, Isabelle, lived her happily ever after with the man who shattered my heart into several pieces. But it still wasn't enough to absolve me of my crimes in the cold judgemental eyes of my parents. It wasn't enough to let them tell me that my own sister was dead. I had to hear it from a family friend.
"She lost the baby," he tells me, moving towards the empty crib. "I lost Isabelle the day she lost the baby."
I say nothing as I watch him pick up the pink blanket and raise it to his nose taking in a deep breath. "My wife is dead," he states as if just realising the fact Isabelle is six feet under.
I walk to him and place my hand on his shoulder. My other hand grips my rosary tightly in hope that he doesn't push me away like he did the last time we touched.
I feel him tense up beneath my hand before he relaxes, turns around and hugs me close.
I urge my heart to remain still. But how do you stop your heart from beating? How do you stop yourself from breathing?
"You smell the same," he whispers against my ear. "Like vanilla and oranges."
His words take me back to when we first met. I was young and foolish and to me, he was the very brightest star in the sky. I loved him before I knew what love meant and when he chose Isabelle, I hated him with the sort of hate that only came with unrequited love.
He took everything from me. My heart. My family. My virginity. How could I not hate him? How could I ever forget him?
I am startled out of my thoughts when the door opens and Lizzy walks in with the understated arrogance of a woman aware of her wealth and beauty and unapologetically flaunts it in every body's face.
She takes one look at Adrian and I and draws her conclusions. She'll probably tell mother. No. She'll definitely tell mother. She's been trying to get into her good books for as long as I can remember. I assume her desperation has intensified especially since the death of Isabelle and my decision to take a vow of poverty means that the position of heiress to the Sinclair fortune is vacant.
"Aunt Veronica wants to speak with you," she tells Adrian, her pretty blue eyes lingering on me before flickering back to the man next to me. "She's waiting for you in the study."
"I'll talk to you later," Adrian says to me before walking out of the room.
"Isabelle told me you were weak," Lizzy says immediately the doors closes with a click, "she was right."
She's playing a game she's loved since we were children; pitting Isabelle and I against each other. Unfortunately for her, Isabelle's dead and I have considerably matured since we last spoke.
I ignore her and instead focus my attention on the car parking in front of the fountain.
I watch as a chauffeur opens the door of the car and a man dressed in a black suit steps out.
"Ignore me all you want," Lizzy says close to my ear. I didn't notice that she has come so close to me. "But even you know she was right."
The guest glances up, his eyes staring directly at us. I pull the curtains close and place my hand on the rosary around my neck. My heart's beating faster than it has ever done. My hands are trembling and for a second, it reminds of what I'd imagined meeting my prince charming would be like back when I was a child. Back when I still had dreams and a vivid imagination.
"Aren't you going downstairs to meet our guest?" I ask her, finally taking a good look at her. She's dressed in a form fitting black dress. Her lips are painted a bloody red and her eyelashes are lightly coated with mascara. Her hair is perfectly curled at the ends.
"I will," she snaps. "Don't think I won't tell aunt Veronica about your little rendezvous with Adrian."
I wouldn't expect anything else. I keep silent. I want her out of the room so that I can wallow in self pity and wonder how differently everything could have been if I'd never stabbed my sister in the back. Maybe I will have my parents love. It's a wonderful thought. But let's face it. I've never had their love not like Isabelle did and I've never been the perfect daughter like they wanted. I'm weak willed, plain and knee deep in the sinking sands of depression.