“Well.” Her uncle smiled. “Is that all you wished to discuss? I’ll get the direction for Lady Camilla, if you wish.”
“How long?” Judith heard herself ask.
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“How long was it?” She looked at him. “How long did it take you to toss my sister out after promising her a home, a place to stay, clothing, a come-out… How long did it take you?”
His lips froze in a pained smile. “I did what was best for her,” he finally said. “Camilla has been with the Rollins family for seven and a half years.”
She had known the answer would be hurtful. She had thought he might have withstood at least a year. But it had taken him six months.
He couldn’t even tolerate her sister for six months.
“And my letters?” Judith asked. “What happened with the letters I sent? Did you send them on? Did you consider writing to me and giving me her new direction?”
“Ah.” Her uncle rubbed his forehead. “I felt she was better off…not remembering her old family. I instructed the servants to toss them out. Never tell me you’re still writing.”
Camilla’s old family? That was how he saw her now—as something more dangerous to her sisters wellbeing than a complete stranger. Judith imagined herself calmly turning away from him and finding that golden urn in the entry. It would make the most satisfying crash when it dented his bald head.
But it wouldn’t get her sister back.
“I have no other questions.” If she looked at him any longer, she would lose her temper in truth. “Get me my sister’s direction.”
Chapter Eleven
The sun, which had seemed so pleasant afterward, beat down oppressively. Christian sat next to Judith. Her hands were folded on her lap, her gaze trained on the fields ahead of them.
Someone who didn’t know her might have thought her serene.
Christian knew better. She was upset. So upset that she’d folded all her emotions deep, hiding them under the quiet of her tilted mouth.
“Do you think he was the one to take the money?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I should have realized the idea was foolish the moment I saw his home. What point would there be in his stealing a few hundred pounds?”
“Not everyone is rational about their dishonesty,” Christian pointed out.
“But he could not have snowed the solicitor. How could he claim to be Theresa’s guardian when he isn’t even housing Camilla any longer? And why wouldn’t Mr. Ennis tell me about him? None of this makes sense.” She folded her arms. “I hate to think that Mr. Ennis was lying to me.”
Christian glanced down at her. From her perspective…
Well, from her perspective, this was downright chilling. Her father had betrayed the family; her brother had been transported for the same reason. Her uncle had refused to take Theresa in, forcing Judith to take on that burden herself, and then at the first possible instant, he’d put her other sister out, too.
No wonder she didn’t want to think of Mr. Ennis as a liar. He was the only person in her life who hadn’t betrayed her, Christian included in that number.
Her hands trembled. Christian did not reach out to take them; that would violate their agreement. But he wanted to.
Her eyes shivered shut. “Oh, Camilla.”
“You don’t think she’d be happier with other young ladies her age?”
Judith made a noise in her throat. “She and I talked about this. We argued, really. He told her she would never want for anything. She’d have clothing, a come-out—even if it was only a come-out in country society, where the scandal would be less fatal to her chances. He’d never had children; he promised to treat her as if she were his own daughter.” Her voice shook. “Instead, he abandoned her to his second cousin, someone that Camilla didn’t even know.”
“Maybe,” Christian said dubiously, “she is happy with them.”
“Maybe.” But Judith sounded as convinced as he felt. “But at least I have her direction now.” Her tone firmed. Her jaw lifted. “And whatever might have gone awry, I am sure that I can fix it.”
Those words had a well-worn sound to them, as if she’d trotted them out so many times that they provided only threadbare comfort. “Find where the money for the younger girls has gone,” she said, holding up a finger. “Fix Benedict’s difficulties at Eton. Teach Theresa enough deportment that she might be able to marry with reasonable success. Find Camilla and assure myself that she is happy, that someone is looking after her future.” She was nodding as she spoke, ticking off fingers. “It’s not so much, these things. I can do them.”
“And what of Judith?” Christian asked.
The hand she’d used to tick off tasks fell to flatten against her gown. “What of her?”
“What are you doing to secure her future happiness?”
She didn’t speak, not for a long time. “I’m not unhappy now,” she finally said. “There’s no reason to worry about me.”
Odd. She’d said there was money in trust for the two younger girls. Why was there nothing for her? She ought to have had money as well. She ought to have brought her own damned chicken curry sandwich. She ought to have had more than one good, sensible gown. She wasn’t worried about herself, but she should have been. Someone needed to care about what happened to her, even if it was the man who had promised to make her hate him.
He pulled the horse to the side of the road. They were just outside town, with a field of turnips bordering one side of the dusty road and a bit of grass and a footpath on the other.
Her eyes opened. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
“But—”
She didn’t trust him, not one bit, and he could hardly blame her. She’d been struggling under a tremendous burden for the past eight years. It was a miracle she could still keep her head held high, an even greater miracle that she’d accomplished what she had.
“I have one task,” he said, “and that is to make sure you hate me. Somewhere in all those years of managing and arguing and planning, it seems to me that Judith fell off your lists.”
She looked down.
“The Judith I remembered,” he said, “would never hesitate to explore. She’d enjoy the summer sunshine. She’d wander the footpath just to see what was at the other end. She wouldn’t worry about anyone’s guardianship or her brother’s schooling. She wouldn’t have to.”
Judith glanced down the footpath.
“She would take a little time to herself every day, so she wouldn’t forget.”
“Forget what?” Judith said, her voice subdued. “That the world lied and told her that she was important?”
“No,” Christian replied. “She wouldn’t forget that somewhere, beneath the duties and the obligations, she still deserved joy.”
Her hands clutched her skirt. “You’re supposed to make me hate you.”
He looked at her, waiting, until she lifted her face and looked him in the eye. Until she let him see all the anguish written in her expression. He couldn’t hold her hand in comfort; holding her gaze would have to do.
“I trust you’ll recall that if there is a dearth of happiness in your life, it’s because I’ve taken it from you.” He shrugged. “Now, I plan to sit here and read. So go and take care of Judith.”
He took a book from his satchel and didn’t look up. Not when she unlaced her bonnet strings. Not when she took off her gloves, one by one, and laid them on the seat.
If he watched her take off her gloves, he might start thinking of the buttons on her gown. The laces of her corset. The nape of her neck, where he might lean down and… No, the last thing Judith needed at the moment was a man who couldn’t keep his eyes where they belonged.
He let her disembark from the carriage on her own, giving her this moment of solitude.
He didn’t look up, but he imagined her as he’d known her years ago. She would go out into the summer sun. She’d lift her f
ace until the sun’s rays outlined the dimple on her cheek, the curve of her lips. She would inhale and turn and finally—finally—she would smile.
The footpath led to a stream, one that chirped merrily over graveled banks overhung by ferns and grasses. The sun was high overhead, and Christian had been right—she needed this. She needed to breathe clear air, to feel the cobwebs in her chest loosen and break up.
Eight years of London fog and London smoke had taken their toll. She’d not had many idyllic moments.
Christian had it right—it was hard to hate him because despite everything that had transpired, despite everything he had done, they knew one another. She could keep telling him to make her hate him, but being hateful simply wasn’t in his character.
No matter how she wished for it, no matter what she told herself, she knew him too well. He would not stop bringing her her favorite sandwiches or making her laugh. He would always be the one to stop the carriage so she could have a moment for herself.
He would know when she needed it.
Standing next to the stream, with the sun tickling the back of her neck, it was hard to remember that she didn’t like him. Judith reached for the righteousness of her anger, but it slipped away, burbling like the water in the stream.
She tried. It was his fault Camilla had been abandoned, after all. Wasn’t it?
The words no longer rang true. It was Judith’s fault, too; she’d told her sister not to come crying to her when their uncle was cold and unfeeling. It was her uncle’s fault for not living up to his grandiose promises.
Next to those two huge wrongs, Christian’s fault hardly even registered.
There, on the banks of the stream, she tilted her face to the sun and quietly, painfully let go. She trailed her fingers in the cold water, imagining the worst of her hate bleeding from her like dark ink. Her hand grew numb as she envisioned all her hurts slowly drifting away, the darkness dissipating into clear water.
It wasn’t his fault Camilla thought she was unloved. It wasn’t his fault her father had committed treason. He was just the easiest, nearest target.
She made her way back to the carriage after fifteen minutes. Christian didn’t ask her how her time had gone. He didn’t tease her. He simply put down his book.
“We need to negotiate a new treaty,” Judith said.
“Yes?”
“There’s a problem with the former one.” She insisted on meeting his gaze head on. “You can’t remind me that I hate you if I don’t hate you.”
His hands stilled in the act of gathering up the reins.
“I wish I could,” she confessed. “It would make everything so easy if I did. I’m angry with you. I can never forgive you.” She looked over into his eyes. “It’s simple if it’s all just hatred. But nothing is ever simple, least of all us.”
His gaze dropped down from her eyes to her lips, and then very slowly, traveled back up. She felt the path it took like heat from the sun.
“You’re right,” she said. “We know each other too well to really hate one another.”
“Come,” he said in a low voice. “You can’t be reasonable now. I don’t want you to be reasonable. It gives me…ideas. And hope.” His voice dropped even lower. “I will never forgive you if you give me hope.”
“Don’t hope.” She looked away. “I never said I would forgive you. How could I?”
He exhaled. “What now? We’ve only managed to uncover more problems. You still haven’t figured out what is happening, and I still don’t have Anthony’s journals. The money—”
She looked away. “At this point, the money is the least of my worries. I need to find my sister. I need to know that she is well. I think it’s best that we see each other as little as possible. I’ll look into Camilla’s whereabouts; nothing else matters until I know she’s safe. You…”
“I’ll ask for some private legal advice,” Christian said. “I’ll see what circumstances might lead to this oddity that we’ve discovered, and find out if there’s any way to force Mr. Ennis to disclose what he knows without creating a public scandal.”
She snorted.
“A larger public scandal,” Christian amended.
“It sounds like we have an agreement.”
Christian fingered the reins. “As to our new armistice, might I make a suggestion?”
She looked over at him.
“We can try not to hurt each other,” he said.
“You mean, I’ll try not to call you a colossal idiot, and you in turn will—”
He reached out and touched her hand, interrupting her speech. In truth, she couldn’t have formed a word. His hand on hers snuffed out all her rational thought, like fingers pinching out a candle—a sharp heat all at once, and only the imprint of light against her vision.
“Judith,” he said, “I asked you to marry me once. You sent me one letter after eight years and I appeared on your doorstep within four hours. Yes, I want Anthony’s journals. But let us not be foolish; we both know that is not all I think about. You know precisely how you can hurt me. Please. Don’t.”
Do, his eyes suggested. Turn your hand over. Take mine. Let it all go, and hurt me.
The thing about admitting to herself that he wasn’t entirely at fault was discovering that she must have hurt him.
He’d wanted to marry her. He’d said he loved her, and likely he had. He had said he would never forget her, and he hadn’t.
She couldn’t apologize. Not now. Not with his hand on hers. Not with her heart still so raw.
She pulled her hand away. “I think last time we hurt each other enough for a lifetime. The less we talk, the better it will be.”
He nodded. “Agreed. Hopefully, everything will go right from here on out.” He picked up the reins and started the horses.
“Wrong,” Judith reminded him. “Remember, we want everything to go wrong between us.”
Chapter Twelve
The house was quiet when Judith finally returned home. It was only eight in the evening, and still light out at this point in the summer, but nobody greeted her at the front door.
She walked in. The entryway had been freshly swept. To her right, no detritus of meals had been left on the table.
Curious.
There was a single place set in front of her chair. A fork and a knife stood guard over an aging metal cover. She lifted it.
Dinner awaited her. Someone had made a creditable roast potato and some buttered carrots. These rested alongside slices of crusty bread and cheese. A little note was folded under the edge of the plate.
Judith lifted it with trepidation.
Welcome home, Judith, the note read. We love you. We missed you today.
Both Benedict and Theresa had signed it. How…sweet.
How suspicious.
She let the cover drop. It was sweet like tea with four lumps of sugar added. One only dumped sweeteners in to hide the fact that the beverage had been overbrewed.
The singular lack of carnage continued as she made her way through the house. No books were heaped on the stairs that she ascended. No piles of petticoats had been unceremoniously abandoned in the hall.
Her siblings were sucking up to her, and Judith was afraid. Very afraid.
As she came to the upstairs landing, she could finally hear their voices. They were in the bedroom that Judith and Theresa shared, speaking quietly with one another.
“No, no,” Benedict was saying. “Stop. It tickles.”
“Lie still,” came Theresa’s response. “You can’t possibly move. You’ll crush them.”
Them. Oh, dear. Judith lifted her hand to shove open the door and announce her presence when Benedict laughed. Oh, God. He laughed. Judith’s heart stood still. He was laughing again. She’d feared that whatever had happened to him at Eton had broken him in some irretrievable way. But if he could still laugh, everything was going to turn up right.
So instead of shoving the door open, she gave it a gentle push—enough for it to swing open a few inc
hes.
Her brother and sister sat cross-legged on the bed, and they were surrounded by kittens. The word surrounded did not do justice to the multitude of kittens that thronged her bed. So many kittens. There were three on Benedict alone. He twitched his finger invitingly, and one calico kitten pounced. A second one—black, with a single white paw—curled, sleeping in the crook of his arm. A third tiny cat, all fluffy white fur and pink nose, was ascending his arm with the uneasy determination of an exceedingly clumsy mountain climber.
Those were not the only kittens. Two played in Theresa’s skirts; another three rolled in a tussle at the end of the bed.
Oh, for the love of…kittens. She had said no more cats. They’d agreed.
This many uncountable kittens, however cute, would turn into approximately eighty trillion grown cats, given time, milk, and free rein to indulge their cat-lusts. If only they weren’t so cute.
If only Benedict were not laughing.
At that moment, Theresa looked up and caught sight of Judith standing in the doorway. The amused smile froze on her face.
“Oh, look who is home. Judith!” Theresa gave a scarcely credible fake smile and attempted to unhook kitten claws from her hair. “How good to see you.” These kitten claws, it turned out, didn’t unhook; she ended up dragging a cat body across her face. “We were just…um…”
Benedict wasn’t smiling any longer. He touched his finger to the little kitten sleeping in his arms and looked at Judith with a worried furrow marking his forehead. “I know you said no more cats, but… These are kittens. Kittens aren’t cats, right?”
Judith swallowed. “Benedict, love. Kittens are still cats, and you both know it.”
Two heads dropped in disappointment.
“You told us to walk by the river. We found them in a sack with rocks in the bottom, down by the Thames,” Theresa said. “Someone had thrown them over the edge, but the sack caught on a hook and didn’t fall all the way in. We couldn’t just leave them.”
Benedict, obviously misinterpreting Judith’s look of consternation, interjected. “Don’t worry. I was quite safe climbing down to get them. It wasn’t in the middle of the bridge where the drop to the water could have been significant. Near the edge.” He looked uneasy. “Pretty near, I’d say. Not quite at the center.”