For the first time since she fled Hanover Square, Gwyneth opened her eyes lazily. She yawned, stretched, and relaxed against the pillow.
Morning light touched the pane of glass, inched over the floor, and reflected off the mirror. It made her sigh in wonder.
Light. No horrific monsters, no creeping puddles of darkness. No terror stalking her. She had simply slept. Slept and dreamed of idyllic things. Thad had been in them, smiling and laughing. Swinging little Jack high above his head. Teasing Philly and her husband.
Taking Gwyneth’s hand, touching her cheek, toying with her hair.
She settled a hand over her thudding heart and felt the soft cotton of her nightdress under her fingers. Part of that had been no dream. At least she thought she remembered opening her eyes down on the divan and seeing his face so close, feeling his touch. Glimpsing that light in his eyes that had made her feel…safe. Treasured.
Her fingers twirled through the ribbon at her neckline. She knew she had stirred long enough to eat with Thad last night, but that was only a hazy recollection. Perhaps her mind had blurred it deliberately, as dinner conversation had been her reliving those horrific moments—hurrying into the house, hearing the argument, seeing the blade, and watching the life extinguished from Papa’s eyes.
Then came Thad’s promise not to leave again until after breakfast, and he had called Mrs. Wesley to help her up to bed. Darkness had been falling by then.
She had slept the night through. The whole, entire night. Without any nightmares.
More memories filtered in from the night before. Her begging Thad not to tell anyone else about her father, him insisting that the household needed to know. His tone had been soft but unyielding, and he had sworn she would not have to be the one to recount it again.
Her hand fell to the mattress, and she pushed herself up. Had he told them after she retired? His parents, who counted Papa one of their dearest friends? The Wesleys?
Mrs. Wesley entered with only a cursory knock on the door. Her feet shuffled rather than bustled as usual. Her shoulders were hunched, her eyes red and puffy.
Gwyneth had her answer. “Good morning, Mrs. Wesley.”
The woman trudged over to the window and pulled back the drapes. “You should have told us. You should have let us share the grief and heartache.”
It wasn’t the words that pierced. It was the tone, dull and full of censure. Gwyneth slid to the edge of the bed and put her feet upon the floor. “I am sorry. I was too frightened.”
“Frightened?” Mrs. Wesley faced her, the wrinkles made all the deeper and fiercer by the sunshine behind her. “How could you be too frightened to have the sense to run for the authorities rather than across the ocean? He was your father, and you let his murderer go free.”
Though Gwyneth tried to stand, her knees buckled, and she sank back onto the mattress. “You are right.” Why had she not considered that? She squeezed her eyes shut, but the accusation still wagged its gruesome finger at her, shouting that she was an idiot, had made a mull of everything. “They would have caught him. Then Uncle Gates would be in Newgate and I—”
“Mr. Gates?” Claws dug into her shoulders and shook until she opened her eyes, looking straight into Mrs. Wesley’s blazing ones. “What do you mean by such slanderous rubbish? Your uncle is a good, God-fearing man, and I’ll not suffer you speaking so of him.”
Gwyneth recoiled and shoved her hands into the mattress to keep them from shaking. “I saw him, Mrs. Wesley. I saw him run Papa through with a sword.”
“I am to trust what you’ve seen? Like the monsters on the ship, the teeth you cried out where gnashing at you?” A derisive snort fouled the air. “More ravings of a madwoman.”
“It isn’t.” Her voice emerged as naught but a squeak. If Mrs. Wesley, who had known her all her life, did not believe her, then perhaps she had been wise not to go to the authorities after all. “They were arguing, Papa accused him of greed, Uncle demanded something, and when Papa refused, he…he—”
She was cut off by the connection of Mrs. Wesley’s bony hand with her face. The slap was not hard; it scarcely stung her flush. But the shock of it stole her breath, her words, her will to recover from it.
The woman’s brown eyes threw sparks. “Your sainted father deserves justice that you have denied him. And your uncle—he is a man of heart and purpose. He is the one who recommended us to your father when he and your precious mother set up house. He always, always took the time to speak with us, to ask after John as well as your family. But you.”