TW: Suicide Attempt

Henry approached the house. He had no idea what he was doing, was this this how Imogen had felt when she visited Lizzy that fateful night?

If he was right, and Rose was in love with George Redwood, could he commit cold blooded murder? For the crime of falling in love with who Henry perceived to be the most enchanting woman in the world. Tears stung his eyes. He knew he was not a killer. What was he even doing here?

He knocked boldly on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again.

This time, he was received by a middle aged butler.

"Is Mr Redwood in?" Henry asked.

"Not at present, sir. But he should be back surely if you should like to wait."

The butler showed Henry into a small parkour room and left him alone. Henry threw himself down into the sofa and sat like a statue for ten minutes before stirring. His mind was too restless to sit and wait.

Henry opened the door a crack and peered our. There was nobody to be seen. He walked out into the long corridor and moved along it, admiring the artwork and sculptures along the way. It wasn't the sort of art that Rose likes. It was too straight laced, too old fashioned. She was modern and free-spirited.

The sound of voices approaching broke Henry's solitude. He looked around wildly for a place to hide. He was not ready to explain himself to the Butler, nor confront Redwood. He slipped up a small staircase that spiralled upwards as if leading to a tower. Henry followed it up to a small parlour. It would have looked sweet should it have been tidier. Like a porcelain dollhouse. But the books had been flung from their ivory bookcase, their pages torn from their leather spines. A China teaset was shattered on the tea stained floor besides an upturned table.

Henry froze at the strange sight. This part of the house seemed so isolated from the rest, who lived here? He crossed the room to the adjoining door and pressed his ear against it. He could just about make up the quiet, weary sobs from the other room. As quietly as he could he tried to open the door, as to not disturb the sorrowful figure on the other side. It was not locked, but there seemed to be something barricading the other side. He forced his face as close to the crack in the door as he possibly could to see in.

He could just about make out the a woman, dressed all in white. She was standing in the middle of the room, unmoving. Henry could better make out the words that drowned in her sobs now. She was praying. He pushed forward a little more. There was a shallow wooden stall, and above that, a rope. Tied like gallows to the ceiling beams.

Henry was a banker. His whole life revolves around careful contemplation and calculated thought. His mind had been flooded with ideas about Rose and Redwood all morning but now, all thought seemed to cease, and passion took over for the first time in Henry's life.

Without hesitation, he threw himself at the door, breaking through the wooden panels, knocking down the barricading chest of drawers.

However, Henry was not an athletic man either, and that one piece of action caused him to crumple down onto the floor besides the lady's feet.

She stumbled back, obviously startled, then launched herself forward onto the stool, frantically pulling at the rope to get it down, as if to hide what she almost did.

Henry pulled himself to his feet. "No, please. It's okay. I'm sorry I shouldn't have broken in but I just-" both of them paused in synchrony to look at one another. The lady was not much more than a girl, with porcelain skin and green eyes. She looked a lot like Rose, only smaller, and with dark ebony hair rather than red. "Here." Henry reached up and undid the rope ties, pulling it down. He handed it to her. She smirked.

"You're giving them rope back to me?" She asked incredulously.

"What else should I do?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Take it away, tell my husband?" She said bitterly.

"Who's you're husband?"

"George Redwood."

Marianne looked at his shocked face. "There's an age difference, I know. But now you know my name, what is yours?"

"I don't know your name? You're first name, what is it?"

She looked up at him, as if surprised someone should be interested in who she was. "Marianne." She said.

"Henry Calvert." he replied.

"And why are you in my house, Mr Calvert?"

"Call me Henry, please, and, I don't really know to tell you the truth." for Henry had never really known his motive for coming to his suspected cuckholder's home, and none of that mattered now anyway. Yes, he was heartbroken over his lost love, but this girl in front of him had clearly forgotten what love was.

"I didn't even no George Redwood was married." Henry cut in, before Marianne could react to his entering her home without a reason. "I've never seen you."

"Well, I don't go to parties or theatre productions with my husband." She said matter-of-factly.

"Why not?"

"When we first married, I resented him just for being old. Can you blame me? I was only fifteen, I wanted love and passion. I certainly didn't want to trade that all in for status and wealth. Eventually he stopped inviting me." She gestures to the rope in her hands. "I'm very lonely."

In those three words, Henry sensed she had shown him a glimpse of her soul, which was more than she'd shown anyone before.

"I won't tell your husband, and if you like, I'll come back and see you again. You won't have to be lonely anymore, please keep yourself alive till then." Emotion caught Henry's voice, which Marianne did not miss. And that, for her, was enough. One shred of concern for her could keep her long enough to see this man who saved her life again.

As if in agreement, she pressed the rope into Henry's hands. "But how do you know I won't try again?" she whispered.

"You were never going to."

"Why?"

"You would have done it already."

The sound of car arriving echoed into the room. "That'll be George. You must go." Marianne ushered Henry out. "Down the stairs and to the right, you'll come to a back door." Henry disappeared from sight and Marianne leans against the wall for support. That fleeting moment of emotion, and hasty escape, as if they were part of an illicit affair, was more passion and excitement than she'd felt in years.