Ch. 8: The Purest Sacrifice (Interlude)

"Has there been news on your father?" I calmly smiled to Edward as he slowly paced about his room, "It seems like it's been ages since that night."

Five months to be exact; within those five months, things have drastically changed at Thornfield. Megara had moved back into her corridors following the New Year: causing chaos and ruin wherever she went. The Mistress had become more withdrawn: she hardly ever leaves her room, and then there's the man who was currently pacing.

Edward had led a campaign so belligerent on his father's murder; it's astonishing that no new evidence had been uncovered. Following the identification of his father's body, Edward had hardly slept for weeks. It seems that the only true connection was the bullet used to kill him. Registered to an unnamed revolver: a very old model; though, they still don't know who the gun could belong to.

The rings under Edward's eyes shocked me back to our conversing; he hadn't slept in a fortnight. With an exasperated sigh, Edward sat near me upon his bed, "Charlotte—"

"Yes?"

He kissed me softly, "I'm afraid I'll have to abandon this all together. Mother will be devastated, but it seems the authorities were correct. The man responsible for my father's murder has efficiently made himself disappear. It's like he doesn't exist."

"I'm so sorry," I held him close, "You've been so adamant on finding him. To know that all that hard work has been pointless…"

"It's alright," He sighed softly, "Can I be quite frank with you?" he broke the hug, staring into me earnestly, "The way that you've been loyally at my side during this endeavor; the way that you have been able to hold your head high dutifully in public; you are truly an enigma, Charlotte. I've never met a woman as strong as you."

"Edward," I breathed nervously; his sudden topic change to myself felt unnervingly jarring, "T-Thank you, I suppose."

"You suppose?" He chuckled softly, "You are completely bewitching. I don't know how you've done it, but I am completely smitten with you. This short time we have grown to know one another has opened my eyes to knowledge I didn't think possible."

"W-What are you saying?"
"Marry me, Charlotte."

"M-Marry you?" I felt a sting deep within my chest, "I—"

"Yes?"
"Let me think this over."

As I left his chambers, I couldn't help but laugh. I escaped back into the maid chambers, locked myself into my room, and laughed. A deep, resounding laugh that pinged around the walls in need of escape. During these passing months, it could be said that I was being treated differently; less workloads, more free time, constantly running into Edward to spend time with him. I'm sure that I knew we were exploring the feelings we shared. But, I hardly know the man! Honestly, even before this tragedy struck, who was I to him then?

Just another member of the servants he can treat miserably. An honestly spoiled boy. Who are you, Charlotte? Where have your senses run off to!

"You're making a mistake, Sharpay."

I jumped in shock as Tristan barged into my room, "What are you doing here!" He closed the door, came to me, and claimed my lips with his own. It was shocking; I wanted to resist him. Yet, I knew there was a burning deep within me, one that only he can cause.

"Don't marry him." He sighed after our lips parted, "You don't belong to someone like him."

"And how is it you know what I want?"

"I saw the way you looked to me," He stared at me, almost in triumph, "Before you ran off with him to see his dead Father. You didn't pick him out of mutual affection. You picked him because you felt obligated to."

"T-That's not true, Troy."
"I know you could never be with him."
"How!"

"He's not like us." He smiled softly, "The most tragic thing he'll ever experience is losing his father. He doesn't know what it's like to truly suffer; he's just a rich snob. He roped you in with one look, Sharpay. I l know you're smarter than that."

"So," I sighed in disgust, "I should risk it all: my own affections, my relations I've made here, even my own job! Just for a boy who cooks quail, and lives on the streets. A boy who keeps his bed warm with any available maid who finds him even remotely attractive?"

"I don't love any of them." His eyes bore into my earnestly, "No like I love you; you know that. You wouldn't feel anything for me if you didn't."

"What are you doing here, Tristan?"

He pulled two tickets out of his coat pocket, "I've finished my apprenticeship with the Head Chef. I'm going to Paris to find work; I want you to come with me. We'll take a boat to Germany, and travel to France from there."

"And you think that's something I want?" I looked to him incredulously, "To forsake a comfortable source of income for poverty in a different part of Europe?"

"You'd have me." He stated earnestly, "And I'd finally have you, and that's enough."

"Maybe for you, sir." I shook my head, attempting to bypass him for the door, "But I want something more."

He gripped my shoulder, stopping me, "And what is that? Twenty-thousand pounds annually in a marriage with someone you could never love."

"You don't know that—"
"I do, Sharpay. You could never be happy with him."

He placed one ticket in my hand, "The ferry leaves from the port in St. Ridge tomorrow evening; I have a carriage arranged to take us there in the morning."

"I refuse—"

"Don't," He sighed, "Not yet. You chose him once before; make the correct decision this time."

As he left my chambers, I felt the urge to slap him. State that he couldn't know what I want or claim to need; he was just a boy, a boy with nothing. And yet, when we kissed, I felt every bit of passion he outright proclaimed for me.

I clenched the ticket in my hand; I am forced to choose once more.

The interludes are complete; going forward, there will be fully fledged chapters.