Gerard Blanchett writes first
Someone knocks at your door, twice, then stops, as if they’ve lost their nerve. When you open it, Gerard Blanchett is standing in the corridor in a riding coat white with snow, hair wet, gloves still on. He looks as though he hasn’t slept since the capital.
“My Lady.” His low voice cracks on the second word. “You left the key on my desk. Only the key.”
He doesn’t step inside. He looks at your face as if he’s memorizing it in case it’s the last time, and then, slowly, the Marquis of Blanchett goes down on his knees on the bare boards.
“I was wrong. I know I was wrong. I just don’t know how to say the rest without it sounding like a lie.” He takes hold of your hem, carefully, the way a drowning man holds a rope.
“So please. Don’t throw it away. Will you let me try to tell you?”
