“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.
Twelve
Cecelia dressed slowly, donning her faerie clothing with care. One good thing about being at home was that she could do away with the long dresses and bonnets. She could let hair hang freely over her shoulders, and she could tuck it behind her ears. She shook her skirt out over her knees. Fae dresses were made for usability. They were designed with strips of fabric that fell to the length of one’s knees, and the pieces tore off when one got stuck sliding beneath a windowsill or through a keyhole. They were fitted to the skin, with no excess of material.
With her silk stockings tied up with red garters, she slid her feet into her fae slippers. She was ready. She was ready for anything that could happen today. Anything at all.
She stepped into the breakfast room and forced herself not to react when she saw her father at the head of the table, with his head buried in his hands. He groaned aloud and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
“Long night?” she asked.
He looked up slowly, like the light hurt his eyes.
“I don’t remember most of it,” he admitted.
He never did. That’s what made his crimes so heinous. He couldn’t properly apologize because he had no idea what he’d done wrong the night before.
Mr. Pritchens stroked a finger along the line of his jaw, almost absently, as he stared a hole into her father’s back.
“I believe you had too much to drink. Then you proceeded to break some glasses and punch a hole in the wall, and you had to be restrained in your room until you drank enough that you fell asleep.” She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Pritchens. “Is that about it?” she asked.
The man nodded. “Quite right,” he clipped out.
“I’m sorry,” her father said, not looking up from where his face rested in his hands.
She didn’t respond. He deserved a solid dose of reality. He deserved to feel as miserable as they all did.
She filled a plate for herself and sat down at the table. After a few minutes of stilted silence, she asked, “What are your plans for the day?”
He heaved a sigh. “I have none.”
Mr. Pritchens spoke up. “I believe you’re to pay a visit to Mr. Randall today.”
Her father snorted. “I’m the last person he wants to see.”
“Probably,” Cecelia agreed. “But you should visit anyway.”
“We’ll see,” her father said. He raised an inquiring brow at her. “What are your plans today?”
“I believe I have to see how much damage you’ve caused, find out what the repercussions will be, and try to fix everything you’ve fouled up.” She took a sip of her tea. “That should take the whole day. And perhaps tomorrow.” And the rest of her life.
“I’m sorry,” he said blandly.
“Don’t be sorry,” she snapped. “Change.”
He threw his fork down with a clatter. “You think I haven’t tried?”
“Try harder.”
She hated to be so callous. But this problem wasn’t going to solve itself. He had to participate in his own care. He had to help them. He had to have a reason to help them.
She leaned forward, catching her father’s dark gaze with her own. She forced him to look her in the eye by not breaking contact. “If you can’t clean yourself up, I’m going to leave.”
He snorted. “And go where?”
She tossed her napkin into her plate and got up from her chair. “Anywhere but here,” she said as she left the room.
There was room for her in the human world, she was certain of that. She could be a governess or a nanny. She could even marry a rich lord and have his children. She’d have to clip her wings to do so, but maybe leaving home was what she needed. Right now, she couldn’t get far enough away fro
m her own life. She needed someone else’s. Desperately.
Cecelia had to go pay a call on Mrs. Dalparsons. She was the only one in the land of the fae who might know what to give her father to keep him from drinking. She specialized in herbs and potions, and she knew what to give for every ailment. And if anyone ever had an ailment, it was Cecelia’s father.
She went out the front door, her skirts swishing about her knees, and looked up at the bright sun. The land of the fae didn’t have the same soot-washed streets as London. It didn’t have the litter or the dull gleam of disuse. It nearly sparkled. And she usually sparkled with it. But she couldn’t find a single spark within her. She drew in a deep breath and then nearly choked on it when she saw Marcus coming up the lane. He had to be a figment of her imagination. His body was limned by the rising sun, and he was hatless, his hair loose about his shoulders.
Her breath halted in her throat, and tears burned at the backs of her eyes. She blinked them back and stayed put. She wouldn’t run and fling herself into his arms. She couldn’t let him know that she needed him that much. But she needed him. Good God, she needed him.
“Marcus,” she said as he walked closer to her. His grin was almost infectious. “What are you doing here?”
He lifted a stalk of wheat to his lips and then talked around it. “This is kind of like déjà vu, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He mocked her tone. “What are you doing here?” He changed to his own deeper tone. “Looking for you, you ninny.” Her tone. “Why are you looking for me?” His. “Because I can’t live without you.”
He held his hand to his heart and looked at her, and then reached for her. She didn’t even think twice before she took his hand. It swallowed hers as he came to stand beside her on the top step. Then he sat down and tugged on her fingertips until she sat down beside him.
His knee brushed hers, the warmth of his leg seeping through his trousers and the skirt of her dress. “My parents came for a visit. It’s my grandmother’s birthday, apparently.”
Her heart sank.
“I think it was a trick,” he admitted, grinning, “because her birthday isn’t until January.”