Sixteen
Cecelia closed her eyes tightly and counted to ten.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
She could count to one hundred and when she opened her eyes, her father would still be there in all his drunken glory, and she would still hate him just as much.
The first time he’d raised his hand to her was just after her mother’s death. That had been a slap across the cheek when she’d chastised him for having another glass of wine.
The second time had been a little more direct and couldn’t be explained away as a rash on her face. She’d had a bruise across her cheekbone that required her to stay at home and out of sight for a sennight.
Mr. Pritchens stepped between her and her father. “Mr. Hewitt,” he began, his voice shaking with rage. “Miss Hewitt went to fetch something for one of the upstairs maids. She has a terrible megrim. It was at my request.”
“Are you daft, man?” her father bellowed. “We have servants for running errands.”
All the servants would be in bed at this time of the night, but her father didn’t know or didn’t care about anyone’s comfort but his own. “I volunteered,” Cecelia said. “Everyone else was in bed.”
“Why didn’t you go yourself, Pritchens?” her father snarled. “You sent my daughter out in the dead of night to run an errand?”
Mr. Pritchens gritted his teeth and said, “I was somewhat preoccupied.”
Her father kept Mr. Pritchens busy every night for what seemed like the whole night. But her father paid no heed to how much discomfort he caused everyone else.
Her father stepped forward and shoved Mr. Pritchens so hard that he thudded against the wall. Hitting her father back was like hitting a child who was having a tantrum. It did no good. It served no purpose. And no one felt good about it afterward. But when her father made a move to charge Mr. Pritchard, Cecelia felt obligated to step between them.
This time, her father’s shove sent her into the wall. She stood there stunned, unable to take a deep breath for a moment. But when she could, there was no apology. There was only her father snarling, “Look what you made me do,” in Mr. Pritchens’ face.
“He didn’t make you do anything, Father,” Cecelia said, putting a hand on her father’s shoulder to gently pull him back.
In the past six months, she’d done so more times than she could count. And he usually took it very well. But this time, he didn’t for some reason. “He did make me do it. I would never hurt you on purpose,” he bellowed, spittle flying from his lips to land on her face.
Cecelia closed her eyes and took another deep breath. She’d taken so many deep breaths lately that they should have called her Windy instead of Cecelia. Perhaps that would be the name she chose when she began a new life. One far away from her father.
“You hurt me every day, Father. Every time you do this.”
He huffed. “Do what?” He jammed the heels of his hands into his eyes and scrubbed them.
But Cecelia had had enough. She stepped close to his face and screamed in it, just the way he had in hers. “Every time you do this!”
She was shocked at herself, so she stepped back and closed her eyes, counting to ten again. She didn’t even see the hand flying toward her face. But she felt it. The back of his hand connected with her cheek, hitting her hard enough that it spun her head and she fell to the ground.
The last time he’d hit her, he’d been immediately contrite. Not this time. This time, he fell on top of her, intent on flipping her over, probably so he could yell in her face. But she folded her arms over her head to ward off any future blows and curled into herself. Inside herself was the safest place to be right now.
Suddenly, her father’s weight shifted off her, and she looked up from between her elbows. Despite his slightness of form, Mr. Pritchens had wrestled her father from on top of her and laid him on his stomach, his left arm pulled up behind him at an almost sickening angle. Her father swore like a dockworker and threatened Mr. Pritchens.
“You don’t have to dismiss me, Mr. Hewitt,” the butler gritted out. “It’s only because of your daughter that I’m still here.” He looked up at Cecelia. “I can’t keep doing this, miss,” he said. “I want a peaceful existence. And this isn’t it.” He wrenched her father’s arm higher behind his back when he began to struggle. “Stay down,” he snarled.
He looked at Cecelia’s face, which hurt like the devil.
“You’re going to have a bruise there, miss,” he warned.
She reached up and touched the tender side of her face. “I suppose I should have come home earlier tonight.” She snorted to herself. Oh, the irony.
“How is Mr. Thorne?” Mr. Pritchens asked quietly. Her father had settled into a lump on the rug, with his eyes closed. He would be asleep in moments, she was sure.
She smiled at the memory of her day. “He’s well.”
“Nice day?” Mr. Pritchens asked, as if they were taking tea.
“The nicest,” she said. And it had been. Until her father ruined it.
Mr. Pritchens removed his pointy knee from the center of her father’s back, and her father didn’t move. He didn’t utter a sound, aside from a loud snore. Cecelia breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness.
“I suppose I should get him to bed,” Mr. Pritchens said.
“I’ll help you,” she volunteered, moving toward her father. She knew Mr. Pritchens gave the staff the nights off because this became a regular occurrence with her father. It had become normal for him.
“One moment,” he said.
Mr. Pritchens left the room and came back with a wet cloth, pressing it gently against the side of her face. “Ouch,” she complained. Her eye was already swelling shut.
“That’s going to hurt like the devil in the morning,” he mused, tipping her chin up to get a better look.
“Where did you learn to fight, Mr. Pritchens?” she asked. As small as he was, he was strong. And he could take down her father. Why, he wasn’t much bigger than Cecelia was.
“Necessity,” he admitted.
Cecelia furrowed her brows. But it hurt to do so. “My kind of necessity?” she asked.
“Yes.” He didn’t say more. Just that one word.
“Yet you stay.” She looked into kind, old gray eyes.
“I wouldn’t leave you here for anything,” he admitted. “Not alone.”
“When I have my own household someday,” Cecelia began, “will you come and manage it for me?”
His tired eyes brightened. “I live for the day.”
She nodded.
He pressed the cold cloth tightly to her eye, and she winced again. “Keep it on there. It’ll help.” He patted her shoulder twice, then squeezed. “Go to bed. I’ll take care of your father.”
“Slap him around a few times while you’re at it, will you?”
He heaved a sigh. “I would if I thought it would help.” He looked Cecelia in the eye. “We’re going to have to get some help for him.”
She nodded. “Someone to slap the bottle out of his hand.” She tried to laugh. But it came out more as a sob.
Mr. Pritchens cocked his head to the side and pressed his lips tightly together. “If that’s what it takes.”
“It won’t help. Not unless he wants to change. He used to be an amusing drunkard.”
He gently probed at her cheekbone. “Not amusing now,” he murmured, anger flashing in his eyes.
“You’re certain you can get him to bed by yourself?” she asked.
“Quite,” he said, gritting his teeth as he looked down at her father. “Go to your chambers. I’ll see to him.”
Cecelia was halfway up the stairs when he called out to her. She turned back. “What should I tell Mr. Thorne when he comes to call tomorrow?”
“What makes you think he’ll come to call?” she asked, her heart leaping at the thought.
He smiled. “He’ll come.”
She sighed heavily. “Tell him I’m not accepting callers.” She turned to go upstairs.
“He’ll ask for a reason,” Mr. Pritchens called to her back.
“Tell him I’m ill, for goodness’ sake, Pritchens,” she called back. She couldn’t let Marcus see her looking like this. And it would look even worse tomorrow, if history was a good indicator.
“He won’t accept that.”
“He won’t have a choice.”
Cecelia entered her chambers and looked around at what used to be her home. She crossed the room and leaned close to the looking glass. She’d seen pugilists leave Gentleman Jackson’s looking less beat up than this. Her eye was a startling shade of red, and it was quickly swelling shut. She pressed the cold cloth against it, wincing as it touched the scraped skin of her cheek. Her father must have caught her with his ring.
A rising sense of elation buoyed her for a moment as she realized what Marcus would have walked into if she’d allowed him to escort her inside the house. At least he was spared from it. Even if she wasn’t.
***
Marcus broke his fast the next day to the sound of babies crying in the breakfast room. Allen stuck his fingers in his ears and made a face. “I imagined the land of the fae to be calm and serene.” He raised his voice comically loud. “This is nothing of the sort.”
Lord Phineas grinned. “Just wait until you have one of your own. I’ll be sure to remind you of this conversation.” He bounced Lucius on his knee.
“Can’t you take them to the nursery or something?” Allen groused.
Claire passed Lucius to a hovering nurse, and another stepped forward for Cindy. Thank goodness Sophia and her son were still upstairs. “Take them to the nursery, will you?” Claire brushed Lucius’s hair from his forehead. “And come and get me immediately if you need me.”
“Yes, my lady,” the nurse said.
“What are you two doing today?” Claire asked as she began to eat.
Allen looked at Marcus and grinned. “I’m going to see Ainsley. She’s going to show me the sights.”
Marcus snorted. “That what they’re calling it these days?”
Allen flushed scarlet. “Shove it,” he growled good-naturedly. He looked at Marcus. “What are your plans?”
He smirked. “I’m going to join you and Ainsley.”
“If you must,” Allen growled.
“I’m only joking. I’m going to call on Cecelia.” His groin tightened at the thought of calling on Cecelia. “And then we’re going to do whatever she had planned for herself today.” He grinned at the thought. He didn’t even care what it was. He just wanted to be with her. They could darn socks all day and he would be happy.
He tossed his napkin onto his plate and stood. “Speaking of which, could you make my excuses to Mother and Father? I don’t want to wait for them to come down.”
Claire stabbed a fork toward him. “You may want to send a calling card, first, Marcus, to be sure she’s receiving callers today.”
He’d never sent a calling card in his life. She would receive him. Any alternative was laughable. “Why would I do that? She’s not angry at me anymore.”
“Straightened all that out, did you?” Claire asked.
He grinned. They’d more than straightened it out.
Claire raised a brow at him and said to Lord Phineas, “Darling, why don’t you tell Marcus where we went last night?”
Lord Phineas shot her a look hot enough to scorch paper. “I’m certain he doesn’t want to hear about that.”
Yet Claire continued. “I took Finn to see the cabin. You remember Grandfather’s old hunting lodge, don’t you?” She tilted her head at Marcus, but the wry tilt to her mouth told him she knew already.
“I remember it.” He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it all night, truth be told. “You say you took Lord Phineas?”
Damn it all. The maid was supposed to go this morning to change the rumpled sheets and do the housekeeping.
“Mmm-hmm,” Claire hummed.
“Damn it, Claire,” he began.
Lord Phineas sat up taller and said, “Watch it, Marcus.”
“Apologies,” he murmured. “Stop acting like the cat that ate the cream.”
“I will as soon as you admit what’s going on,” she shot back.
“I admit nothing,” he batted out.
“I’m guessing it was Cecelia, wasn’t it?” Claire asked, not the least bit sly about her probing.
“Leave it alone, Claire,” Lord Phineas warned.
“Listen to your husband, Claire,” Marcus warned as well.
“Oh, posh. I have your best interests at heart, Marcus.” She suddenly sobered. “How is Cecelia?”
He shrugged. “She’s well.” Probably sore, but that wasn’t anything Claire needed to know about.
“I have heard some things, Marcus,” she started.
“What kind of things?” He sat back down to glare at her.
“It’s all scuttlebutt, Marcus,” she said on a heavy sigh. “But things are not well at home.” She poked the air with her fork tines again. “Be careful, Marcus.”
Marcus sighed and dropped his face into his hands, scrubbing down it. “I hate it when you’re cryptic. Why don’t you just say what you’re thinking?” He couldn’t tell if Claire was referring to the fact that he’d bedded Cecelia or that something was wrong with her. “She hasn’t been ill, has she?”
“Her father hasn’t been well,” she started.
But Lord Phineas cut her off. “Claire,” he warned.
She threw her fork down. Lord Phineas was the only one who’d ever been able to take Claire to task.
“The man is grieving, Claire,” Marcus said. Surely everyone could see that.
“It’s more than that.” But Lord Phineas shot her a look, and she shut her lips tightly.
“Ask questions, Marcus. Lots of questions.” Apparently, she was done with her cryptic ramblings, because she left the room.
“I won’t stick my nose in your matters,” Lord Phineas said. “But tread lightly with Cecelia, Marcus.”
“You’ve already stuck your nose in my matters. I hate it when people say things like that but won’t explain. So, out with it.”
“You’re straddling two worlds. And giving it a valiant effort, I might add.”
“So are you.” Marcus didn’t understand this line of questioning.
“I’m not straddling anything. I’m a visitor here.”
“And I’m a visitor in your world. Is that what you’re saying?”
He took a sip of his tea. “Not at all. Your home is there. Or did you intend for it to be here?”
“It can be both.”
“Does she want home to be both places?”
“I haven’t asked her.” He would do so today. He’d live wherever she chose. Particularly now that he had his father’s blessing to do so.
“Ask lots of questions, Marcus. That’s all.” He grinned at Marcus and said, “And next time, change the damn linens so Claire won’t speculate about who’s been at the hunting lodge.” He laughed as he stood up and quit the room.
Marcus adjusted his jacket and tucked his hair behind his ears. He was dying to see Cecelia, and he didn’t want to wait another moment. If he was any happier, he would have to skip to her house like a child.
***
He knocked on the door to Claire’s house and made a move to step inside when Mr. Pritchens answered it. But Pritchens blocked his way. “Miss Hewitt is not receiving callers today, Mr. Thorne,” he said.
“What?” Certainly Cecelia wanted to see him.
“I believe you heard me.” The butler stood a little taller.
Marcus’s heart clenched in his chest. “Might I ask why?”
“Miss Hewitt is otherwise occupied.” But he didn’t look Marcus in the face when he said it.
“What happened to your jaw, Pritchens?” Marcus asked, running a finger down his own jawline.
“Rotten luck,” Pritchens said blandly.
“Sorry to hear it. Must hurt like the dickens.”
“I’ve had worse.” The man’s voice retained no inflection.
“Step aside, Pritchens,” Marcus said. “I’ll see Cecelia now.”
“No, sir,” Pritchens said, his arms spanning the doorway.
“Is she sick?” Marcus asked.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“She’s otherwise occupied.” Again, the man didn’t look him in the eye.
“Move aside, Pritchens,” Marcus growled.
“No, sir,” Pritchens said again. Marcus knew he could take the old man.
“Did she tell you why she doesn’t want to see anyone?” Marcus asked. His heart was beating like a team of runaway horses. She didn’t want to see him? How could that be?
Marcus heard whistling behind him and turned around to find Ainsley walking up the stone path that led to the front of the house. “Good morning, Marcus,” she said. She had a little skip to her step as well.
“Morning,” he grunted.
Pritchens smiled at Ainsley and stepped to the side, and she slid into the house. When Marcus went to follow, Pritchens stepped back into the doorway. “Why does she get to come in?” Marcus asked.
“Because she’s not you?” Pritchens said very directly.
Marcus’s heart was ready to break into a million pieces. “She doesn’t want to see me. But no one else’s visiting has been limited.”
The butler refused to look Marcus in the eye. “I can’t say, sir,” he said. “Would you like to leave a note?”
Marcus shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.” His heart hurt so badly that he could barely take a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” Pritchens said quietly. “Come back in a few days.”
Days? He wanted him to wait days to see her? Marcus nodded. Where there had been a spring in his step earlier, now there was none. His feet felt like they had lead weights attached to them.
They’d made love, and now she wanted nothing to do with him. It had been perfect, and now she wouldn’t even see him. She wouldn’t come to the door. Had he done something wrong? Had he hurt her without knowing it?
***
Cecelia sat in her window and listened, the sound of voices below like a hatpin stuck through her heart. Marcus’s voice was soft, and he gave up easily. Too easily. But it was for the best. He certainly couldn’t see her looking like this, could he? He would want an explanation. And this one couldn’t be explained away as having hit her eye on the wardrobe door. This one was awful. And it was even worse that her father had been the one to deal the blow. It would be at least a week before the signs of the bruise faded.
Marcus was patient and kind. He turned to look up at her window, and she pulled herself back into the curtains. She couldn’t face him right now. She just couldn’t.
“Good morning,” a voice called from her doorway. She turned around to find Ainsley walking into her room. Cecelia turned back toward the window. She didn’t want Ainsley to see her face either, but she supposed it couldn’t be avoided. At least Ainsley knew what was going on. Cecelia didn’t have to explain.
“Why was Marcus being detained at the door?” Ainsley asked as she untied her bonnet and threw it on Cecelia’s bed.
“I didn’t want to see him,” Cecelia said quietly. “Did he appear angry?”
“He was fit to be tied,” Ainsley said. “I loved it.” She laughed loudly. “I just don’t understand it, since you were together yesterday.” Ainsley’s face turned crimson.
Cecelia slowly turned to face Ainsley. She wanted to wince at the embarrassment of it, but doing so would hurt too much.
Ainsley’s choked gasp was all the proof Cecelia needed that her face looked as bad as she’d assumed. “What the devil happened to you?” Ainsley asked, running to appraise the fresh bruise. She poked at it with her finger, and Cecelia had to brush her hand away.
“That hurts,” she said.
“I’m not surprised,” Ainsley said. “It looks like it hurts terribly.”
What hurt terribly wasn’t her eye. It was the fact that she could finally admit her love for Marcus, but she couldn’t see him. “Ainsley,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Your father did this.” Ainsley didn’t ask. She just gathered Cecelia in her arms, and Cecelia nodded into her shoulder. “Someone should horsewhip the man every time he picks up a bottle,” she ground out.
“He’s sick. I know he’s sick,” Cecelia explained. “He’s been so sad since Mother died.”
“Has he ever tried to stop drinking?”
“He’s tried more times than I can count. What am I going to do, Ainsley?” she asked.
“You can’t keep this a secret,” Ainsley said.
“I can’t tell anyone,” Cecelia cried. She didn’t want to see the pity on their faces. Nor the sneers. Nor did she want her father to be judged.
Ainsley wrung her hands together. “I can’t, Cece,” she finally said.
“What?” She couldn’t have heard her right.
“I can’t keep your secret. Not this time.”
“I don’t understand.”
Ainsley took Cecelia’s hand in her own and squeezed tightly, so tightly it nearly hurt. “I love you too much to let this continue.” She grabbed her bonnet from the bed and put it on, tying it tightly. “I’m going to talk to Allen. I need some help with this.”
“You can’t, Ainsley.” Cecelia rushed to follow her from the room. “You can’t tell anyone,” Cecelia called to her friend’s retreating back.
Suddenly, Ainsley turned back to her. “I can’t not tell anyone. Don’t ask me to do that.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears.
Then Ainsley turned and fled through the front door.
Cecelia walked downstairs, her feet heavy on the treads, and sank down on the settee. Mr. Pritchens flopped down beside her. “Finally,” he breathed.
She reached out and blindly took his hand, unable to see through her tears. “Finally,” she repeated.
What if Marcus was too hurt by her rejection to come and help her?
“He’ll come,” Mr. Pritchens said. She didn’t even need to explain. “I feel somewhat sorry for your father when he does. But Mr. Thorne will come.”