Eleven
Marcus had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’d spent the morning with his father’s steward and the afternoon riding with the foreman in the fields, taking a look at the land. He’d met with his tenants and made a list of the things they needed. One needed another roof. And still another had a drainage problem, with standing water in his fields. He’d met their wives, and he’d given treats to their children. He was tired, yet now he had to dress for dinner with his family. At least he’d stayed busy. He hadn’t had more than a moment to worry about Cecelia or the fact that she’d returned home without him.
Marcus dressed for dinner and then stepped down the main staircase, but when he got to the bottom, he stopped, because milling about the front entryway was his entire family.
His mother supervised the stacking of trunks, and his sisters each held at least one of their offspring in their arms, or two in Claire’s case. At least the infants weren’t screaming at the moment.
Ainsley riffled through a trunk of her own and then tugged on her gloves.
The Duke of Robinsworth looked bored as his servants brought his trunks in through the front door, and Lord Phineas looked content as he kissed his wife on the forehead.
“Are you going somewhere?” Marcus asked.
His mother looked up. “Oh, yes, darling. We’ve planned an impromptu trip. We hope you don’t mind. Cook will serve dinner to you in your chambers, if you’ve need of it.”
Need of dinner? He hadn’t eaten all day. Of course he had need of dinner. “Where are you going?”
His mother smiled. “We’re going to the land of the fae for a bit. It’s of no importance. We won’t be gone long. You’ll barely miss us.”
“What’s the occasion?” Marcus asked.
“We just remembered it’s your grandmother’s birthday. And the only thing she wanted this year was to eat her birthday dinner at her own table.” His mother laughed. “Such a simple request, really. We couldn’t tell her no.”
He made a sweeping motion across the room. “You’re all going?”
His mother beamed. “I mentioned to your father that we should go, just the two of us, and then we sent word to Sophia and Claire about our proposed absences, and they sent word that they would like to go too. And we can’t leave the children behind.” She bent and placed a kiss to Lucius’s head.
“Will you take him?” Claire asked.
“Absolutely not,” Marcus said. With all the women in the room, certainly one of them could relieve Claire of some of her burden. The lad’s father took him instead, laying him upon his shoulder.
Lady Ramsdale bustled forward and kissed Marcus’s cheek quickly. “We’ll miss you, darling. But we’ll be back soon. You’ll be fine without us, won’t you?”
“Of course,” he said quietly. “But how do you plan to go to the land of the fae today? By way of the fish?”
“It was actually Claire’s idea.” His mother beamed. “We’d originally planned to go by way of the fish, since that’s how we went last time.”
“We’re going through one of my paintings,” Claire chirped. “Then we can return whenever we like.”
“Won’t the Trusted Few be angry?” Marcus asked. They liked nothing more than order. And this certainly wasn’t orderly.
“They’ll have no idea how we secured passage. We’ll just be there one day.”
Allen chimed in, “And I’ve never been, so I’m looking forward to it.”
What? “Allen’s going?”
“Yes,” his mother said with a smile.
“But he’s not fae.”
“Neither are Robinsworth, Lord Phineas, or Lady Anne.” Lady Anne, the Duke of Robinsworth’s daughter, poked her head out from behind Sophia.
“Hello,” she chirped.
Marcus’s mother’s brow furrowed. “You’ll be all right here by yourself, won’t you?” she asked.
“I suppose,” Marcus said quietly. They were all going to the land of the fae and leaving him behind?
“Excellent, darling. We’ll see you when we return. Do send word if you need anything.” She turned and motioned to a servant, who propped a floor-to-ceiling-sized painting against the wall. It was a painting of their manor house in the land of the fae. It was home. Claire went first, carrying one of the babies. Then she held her hand out and took the rest of them, one by one. They each called out salutations as they exited the world of the humans. The servants even bustled through with their trunks.
“I’m a little nervous,” Allen admitted when it was his turn. But Ainsley took his hand and smiled broadly at him. It appeared as though Allen would follow her anywhere, and then he did.
The room was quickly emptying of people, and Marcus felt nearly as empty as the room. They all were going home. They were going to the one place he dearly wanted to be.
Yet he had obligations here, didn’t he?
His dad looked at him and said, “The steward will be waiting for instructions from me and will take care of anything that comes up. But you can guide him if you feel the need to do so.”
Marcus nodded. “But…” he started.
Then it was his father’s turn. “I’ll see you when we return,” he said, and he clapped Marcus on the shoulder.
The room was empty. His entire family was gone. Even Ainsley and Allen were gone, along with his two younger sisters, who’d never been to the land of the fae. Good Lord, the fae didn’t know what they were up against. His family would wreak all sorts of havoc. Havoc of unmentionable proportions. Marcus scrubbed a hand down his face.
He turned in a circle, looking at the empty room. But that’s all this place was. An empty room. Suddenly, a hand appeared in the painting, reaching out. He knew it was Claire’s. Did she think they’d left someone behind? They hadn’t. They’d taken everyone. Except him.
Marcus steeled himself, adjusted his waistcoat, and reached for her hand. It was risky, he knew, but he dearly wanted to go. It was just for a short while, right? And they could come back as easily as they’d left. He clasped Claire’s hand in his and she gave it a gentle squeeze, and then he walked into the painting with his family. He left it all behind. He left this world, his obligations, and his destiny. And he went home.
When he stepped into the painting, he took a deep breath and came out on the other side. He looked up at the stately old mansion and took another, fuller breath. He could breathe again. He was home. He looked around. His mother laid a shocked hand upon her chest. “Marcus, what on earth are you doing here?” she asked.
“I thought I might join you,” he said.
His mother smiled broadly at him, took his face in her hands, and kissed his cheek. “I’m so glad. But won’t you be missed? All of your obligations?”
“It’s nothing that can’t keep,” he said. It was. Right?
***
Cecelia knew the moment the air shifted at the dinner table. Her father had gone beyond the point of abashedly tipsy. He was now obnoxiously foxed. It had started with a sherry before dinner. Then he moved on to whiskey, since sherry was a lad’s drink, he’d said. She’d tried to steer him toward something as innocuous as wine and had even asked the footman to make a pot of tea. But her father would have none of it.
“I can hold my spirits,” he slurred.
It had been the most trying of days. She’d battled with him at every turn and had to cajole even their most stalwart of servants to remain with the household. “This is the last time, miss,” they’d said. And it had been more than one. The butler met her eyes across the dining room. The pity she saw there shocked her. It was like a stab to the heart. This man they’d once revered, and her, their darling girl, the girl they’d all played a part in raising—they all pitied her now. And pity was something she simply could not tolerate.
“You should go to bed, Father,” she warned.
The butler stepped forward and raised his brows in question. She shook her head quickly in the negative. “Not yet,” she mouthed. He was one of the few people who could handle her father. But he was also much more likely to get punched than any of the others. Probably because he didn’t give up. If it took overpowering her father to get the job done, then that’s what he would do. He was a reed of an old man, but he was stalwart, and she had a feeling she would be in his debt before the night was out.
“I miss her,” her father said as he lifted his glass to his lips and tipped it back. It was empty, but that didn’t stop him from trying to drain the last drop.
He clunked the glass on the table, signaling for more in the rudest way possible. She shook her head at the butler.
“It’s time for bed, Father. Things will look brighter in the morning.” Cecelia pushed her uneaten food to the side and stood up.
“I’ll go to bed when I’m good and ready,” he said, getting to his feet. He nearly fell over, and the butler stepped forward to catch him. But her father was already belligerent, so he shoved the kind man to the side.
“Father,” she warned. She made her voice purposefully chipper. “Mother once told me a story about you taking her to the top of Mount Angel. Can you tell me the story while we walk?”
He scratched the top of his head, his eyes glassy and unfocused. But a smile broke across his lips. It was a watery smile, but a smile nonetheless.
“Can you tell me the story, Father?” she asked.
“I dragged your mother all the way to the top of that blasted mountain. She complained the whole way. But we got to the top, and the sun was setting, and the hues were all golden and yellow. Then they turned to purple, and we sat in the grass and planned our lives.”
He heaved the glass in his hand against the wall, and it shattered, the pieces falling like broken dreams to the Aubusson rug.
“Why did you do that?” Cecelia cried, covering her head with her hands. He didn’t have to be this way. He chose to be this way. He chose it every time he took a drink. Every time he let the memories overwhelm him.
“She left me,” he said, smashing his fist into the wall. He pulled back scuffed knuckles and grimaced at what he’d done. But he didn’t apologize. He never apologized until the next day. When it was too late.
“She didn’t leave you, Father. She died. It wasn’t voluntary.” Cecelia couldn’t count the number of times they’d had this same conversation. And it always ended the same. Poorly.
“You miss her, don’t you?” he slurred, holding on to the wall as he walked down the corridor. At least he was walking toward his chambers and not toward the common rooms. The butler walked a few feet behind him, and Cecelia was somewhat comforted by his presence.
“I miss her every day,” Cecelia said softly. There had never been a kinder or gentler woman. Never. But she was gone. She’d died. And she’d left Cecelia with her father. It was growing harder and harder to forgive her mother for dying.
What an absurd thought. Her mother hadn’t chosen to leave them.
Her father turned to the butler and said, “Get me a bottle of scotch, would you? Have it delivered to my chambers.”
Her father would probably be just fine all alone with a bottle in his chambers, but she couldn’t feed his habit. She just couldn’t.
“The delivery didn’t arrive today, sir,” the butler said. “I could brew a pot of tea. Or perhaps some coffee. Or chocolate?” Her father liked chocolate.
“When did I get such poor staff that a delivery can’t be arranged?” her father mumbled. “Worthless, the lot of them.”
Actually, it was her father who was worthless. He was nothing. Not anymore. The man who’d once swung her so effortlessly from his shoulders now was a shell of a man. At the door of his chambers, Cecelia leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Mr. Pritchens will help you prepare for bed, Father.”
His gaze didn’t meet hers, but he did nod. That was more than she got most days from him. “Mr. Pritchens is a dolt.”
Mr. Pritchens was standing directly behind them. Cecelia just heaved a sigh, opened the door to her father’s chambers, and then watched him walk inside.
“Go to bed, miss,” Mr. Pritchens said, touching her elbow lightly. “I’ll take care of Mr. Hewitt.”
“Thank you,” Cecelia whispered. And then she fled. She fled because she didn’t want to help her father fall into bed fully clothed. She didn’t want to see him without any dignity at all. She didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want him to be her father, but that was neither here nor there. She was stuck with him, like it or not.
A soft knock sounded on the door just as she walked past it. She looked up only briefly and kept walking. Whoever was calling could return on the morrow, couldn’t he? It was late. Cecelia doused the lights and turned to walk up the stairs to her chambers.
A maid passed her in the corridor. “There’s someone at the door. Would you tell whomever it is that we’re not available?” Cecelia told her.
The maid curtsied and said, “Yes, miss.” She turned away and then back quickly. “Can I get you anything, miss?”
“A new life?” Cecelia said with a chuckle. But it was a sound without any mirth.
The maid pinched her lips together in a thin line. “Would that I could, miss,” she breathed. Then she turned to go and answer the door, the knocking growing louder.
Cecelia called back to the maid, “If it’s not too much trouble, could you call for a bath to be brought to my chambers?”
“Yes, miss,” the maid said as she bustled away. “Right away, miss,” she called over her shoulder.
***
Marcus shifted from foot to foot in the doorway of Cecelia’s father’s home. Hope spilled from his fingertips as he touched the heavy knocker, lifting it and letting it drop. The lights had been doused moments before, but it was still early. The sun had barely set, only two hours before. Surely, Cecelia wasn’t in bed yet. Though the thought of her in bed wasn’t entirely unpleasant. He immediately imagined her warm beneath her counterpane, dressed in a gown made of linen with long sleeves and ruffles at the neck. Her gown would be twisted around her legs, which might even be parted in sleep, one knee pointed up.
He was growing hard just standing there. He adjusted his stance and the fit of his trousers, as he raised and lowered the door knocker again. He could just admit himself, he supposed. He’d done it before. But that had been for dinner parties or soirees when Cecelia’s mother was alive. Not since then. Of course, he hadn’t been home since then. So he couldn’t compare.
The door opened slowly, and a harried maid blew a lock of hair from her face. “Mr. Thorne!” she cried.
“Good evening. Is Cecelia about?” he asked. His heart was beating like a team of runaway horses.
The maid glanced toward the stairs and back at him. “She said she doesn’t want to see any visitors tonight, Mr. Thorne. I’m sorry.”
He pointed to his own chest. “Did she say me specifically?” Of course, she wouldn’t do such a thing. Would she? Perhaps she was angry at him after all.
A couple of burly footmen walked toward the stairs carrying a tub and buckets of water up the steps.
“She said she didn’t want to see anyone today, Mr. Thorne. She’s had a long day of it.” The maid glanced down the corridor toward Mr. Hewitt’s suite of rooms. “And it might be a longer night,” she said, but it came out as a frustrated breath.
“Is everything quite all right?” Marcus asked.
“Quite,” she said.
But household staff wouldn’t say if something wasn’t all right, even if the walls were caving down around their ears.
“Would you like to leave a note?” she asked.
“No. I’ll call upon Miss Hewitt tomorrow,” he said. He turned to walk away.
“I’m glad you’re home, Mr. Thorne.” Marcus turned back to face her. But she wasn’t smiling. She was doing the opposite, and she worried the edge of her apron. “I hope you can help to set things to rights.”
She closed the door softly, and he stood there until he heard her footsteps fade away.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
He wouldn’t be able to sleep until he saw Cecelia. So, he waited for a moment and then slowly opened the front door, looking left and then right to be sure no one was around. His Hessians made soft knocks against the oak floor, so he sat down on the lowest stair to pull his boots from his feet. He set them in the dark corner behind the stairs and quickly climbed the staircase in his stockinged feet.
He knew which room was Cecelia’s. He’d played in it when he was small, and he’d steered clear of it when he was older, because being caught in Cecelia’s chambers past a certain age was inappropriate and her father would have thrashed him.
The house no longer smelled like freshly oiled wood and clean linen. It smelled like dust and discomfort. What had changed? Had Cecelia’s mother’s death changed the household this much?
He stopped outside Cecelia’s door and listened intently. A splash of water and the clank of a bucket against the floor were all that he heard. Was Cecelia taking a bath?
He scrubbed a hand down his face. Good God, the woman would unman him and he hadn’t even seen her yet. It had been less than a day since he’d seen her, yet he ached to look into her eyes, to hold her in his arms.
The idea of Cecelia naked in the bath, with nothing but clear, clean water tickling her skin, was enough to steal the breath from his lungs. But then he heard her sniffle.
He opened his mouth to call out to her as he stepped into the room. It was the poorest of form for him to spy on her and for her not even to know he was there. But there was a privacy screen between them. He stepped to the edge of it, his feet still quiet, and prepared her name on his lips. But then he saw her reflection in the looking glass. She was curled into a ball, her face buried between her bent knees and her shoulders heaving.
Good God, what was he to do? He couldn’t rush to her. He couldn’t take her in his arms, not as he was. What on earth was making her so sad? It wasn’t him, was it? Perhaps it was. Perhaps he was the last person she ever wanted to see.
His heart ached with the need to go to her. But she laid her head back against the rim of the tub, and he couldn’t tell if the wetness on her face was from the bath or if it was from her crying.
The knob on the door turned, and Marcus dashed to hide behind the curtains that hung from Cecelia’s bedposts. He’d hidden here plenty of times when he was younger and they played hide the slipper. Only now he didn’t feel quite as well concealed. He held his breath until the maid stepped behind the screen with Cecelia.
“Shall I help you with your hair, miss?” the maid asked.
“Yes, please,” Cecelia muttered.
She sounded like all the fight had been leached out of her. Perhaps he’d just caught her at an unguarded moment. This wasn’t his Cecelia. His Cecelia rarely ever cried. She hadn’t even shed a tear when she’d fallen from Mr. McGregor’s apple tree when she was nine. She’d cut her arm badly but never shed a tear.
Marcus untangled himself from the bed curtains and tiptoed to the door, where he let himself out into the corridor and crept back down the stairs.
He reached into the shadows for his boots, but a crash from down the corridor caught his attention. Without even thinking, Marcus walked toward it. Perhaps Mr. Hewitt was injured. He’d never forgive himself if he left the man there hurt. But as he went around the corner, the sound of a scuffle met his ears.
Good God, it was like Bedlam. He looked into Mr. Hewitt’s chambers, where he was being held down by two footmen. And Mr. Pritchens, the stately old butler who never had a cross word for anyone bellowed at him, “We will not allow you to do this. You will leave her be.” He pulled a flask from his interior coat pocket. “Here.” He shoved it at Mr. Hewitt, who took it like a man who was dying of thirst. “Drink it all. Then go to sleep,” the butler warned. He brushed a lock of hair that had tumbled from his perfectly combed head back into place. Mr. Pritchens never looked disheveled.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
Marcus turned to walk back down the corridor. But the sound of his soft footsteps drew the butler into the corridor and there was nowhere for Marcus to hide. “Who goes there?” Mr. Pritchens asked.
Marcus turned, forcing himself to grin and be friendly, though it was the last thing he felt like doing. “It’s just me, Mr. Pritchens. I came to give my regards to Mr. Hewitt.”
Mr. Pritchens looked down at Marcus’s stockinged feet and back up at his face, his brow furrowed. “You had to remove your boots to give your regards?” he said.
“It seemed prudent at the time,” Marcus said with a shrug.
The man nodded.
“Is all well?” Marcus asked, motioning toward the door with his hand full of boots.
“As well as any other day.” Mr. Pritchens breathed out on a sigh.
“What has happened here since I left, Pritchens?” Marcus asked.
The man lifted his nose into the air and regarded Marcus as though he might as well be an ant beneath his shoe. “What’s happened is that someone has broken into the family home where he has not been invited.” He motioned toward the door. “I’ll see you out.”
He brushed at that errant lock of hair again, and Marcus noticed that the butler’s jaw was darkening to the color of a cold grate.
“I’ll find out what’s going on here, Pritchens,” Marcus warned.
“I certainly hope you do,” Mr. Pritchens said, and then he gave Marcus a gentle shove out the door and closed it behind him.
Damn. What a mess. He’d been gone for just over six months, and now that he was home, nothing was as he’d left it.
Even Cecelia wasn’t the woman he’d left behind. She was naked in the bath. And crying. And her father was foxed. And Pritchard had given him a flask while footmen held him down. And Pritchard had been hit in the jaw.
And Cecelia was crying.
Something was very wrong if Cecelia was crying.