Ella left the Fitzherbert household without imparting her decision to anyone. Her mother would have chided her that such an act was impulsive, careless.
Perhaps it was. She did not know, nor could she help it now—for she was already approaching Northston’s main street without carriage or escort.
At least she had made time to gather her gloves and bonnet. Certainly that was something to her credit.
The lulling noise and hum of village life surrounded her as she continued down the cobblestone street. She drew to a stop before a red-bricked building, squinting to see the sign. The paint, however, was so worn she could not distinguish the words.
It did not matter. She passed on with gaining speed, her chest taut. Lord Sedgewick’s governess. Her mind stung at such a thought. Perhaps Lucy had not been errant to establish her as a trifle impish in the mind of Dorthea Fitzherbert.
But partaking in a jot of folly was not at all the same as besmirching oneself. Or endangering one’s life. What would Father have said?
He would have doubtless been horrified. As would her mother.
No, Ella would simply have to find another way. One that did not mortify her pride. One that did not summon every ounce of courage she might possess. One that would not put her so close, so vulnerably close, to a man she loathed and feared.
“Top of the mornin’ to you, dearie.”
Ella startled. At the sight of a bent old man, however, her fears settled.
He sat on the ground, leaned back against the stone wall, with a shabby topper low on his forehead.
She offered a smile. “Good day to you, sir. I trust you are enjoying the rather splendid sunshine.”
He dragged a stained hand down his chin, delighted—it seemed—to have the attention of one so far above his station. “Just a-baskin’ in it, dearie. And yourself?”
She ignored his question as a sudden thought struck her, a thought the constable would have no doubt repressed. “Might I bother you with an inquiry, sir?”
“What it be?”
“I have heard most impressive accounts of Wyckhorn Manor, and because I am fond of painting, I should like to see the view for myself.”
“Paintin’, eh?” As if he sensed her mistruth.
“Yes.” Then she added with force, “Painting.“
“Well, ‘tis a taxin’ walk for such a young little chit, but if you were of a mind to go—”
“Yes, yes! Of a certain, I wish to go. Where is it?”
He explained that she need only follow the south road one-and-a-half miles, where she would turn onto a smaller road and gain sight of the ocean. Beyond that, she would find her destination on a great ledge overlooking the sea. “Which is rather a glum venue to paint, if you be askin’ me. Don’t you be knowin’ that Lady Sedgewick’s ghost lives in those rocks, moanin’ and groanin’ all night long?”
Her stomach plunged. “No, I had not heard.” Grabbing a fistful of her dress, she departed for the south road.
The portrait should have been removed a long time ago. His father should have disposed of it the day she left, should have burnt the remains so they would have nothing to taunt them.
But years had come and gone, and no one had touched the painting.
Henry stared at it, the tendrils of brown hair, the eyes so like his own, the cool and vacant gaze. His mother seemed to stare at him, whether with regret or indifference, he could not tell.
He had never been able to tell. Not even in the beginning, when she would enter the nursery and dismiss the governess for a few short hours. The touches were achingly brief. Even her smiles were elusive and never often enough. If only he had—
“My lord?”
Henry tore his eyes away. “Yes, Dunn?”
The steward’s attention shifted to the portrait, but his features lacked response. He cleared his throat. “A weighty pile of letters just arrived. I took the liberty of placing them on your desk.”
He nodded approval.
“A man also arrived, my lord. A Mr. Arnold.”
“The tenant?”
“Yes, my lord. It seems the fellow is most desirous to speak with you about a certain quandary.”
Henry departed the room with Mr. Dunn at his heels. “Must be grave, indeed, for Mr. Arnold to feel it necessary to come here.”
“I rather thought so myself, my lord.”
“Well.” Henry reached his study and perused the sealed letters on his desk. He tucked the one from Essex to the bottom of the pile. He would deal with letters from matrimonially minded fathers at a more convenient time. “Tell me of Mr. Arnold’s plight.”
“I could not extract any details from him, my lord, but he was a bit sooty—and very much in a hurry.”
“Why didn’t you send him in?”
“I did not wish to disturb you, and he refused to wait. I assume, my lord, that he has returned to his home.”
Henry retrieved a letter that had fallen to the floor. He planted it atop the pile. “I shall ride there now. If Peter inquires, tell him I shall be home shortly.”
“Yes, my lord. Shall I send a servant to prepare your horse?”
A small grin tugged at Henry’s lips. “No, Dunn. That is one thing I rather enjoy doing myself.”
Ella tugged the ribbons loose until the bonnet shifted to her back. She wasn’t certain what she had hoped to find, or what measure of comfort she might have gained from the mere sight of Wyckhorn Manor.
But whatever she had longed for, she was rewarded with nothing. The sight only emptied her.
Far in the distance, high upon the cliffside, the manor faced the open sea. It was tall and lofty, a likeness of Lord Sedgewick himself. A strange and rugged beauty, a pinnacle of power—yet dark and forlorn, as if death had made a home in both the house and the man.
Perhaps Dorthea was right. If only she could get inside, perhaps the answers would unfold around her. Perhaps she could reach the truth her father never could. Wouldn’t it then be worth it?
She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything, only that she had come to Northston for one reason. She had no intention of leaving without it.
Ella turned on the road, the sun warming her back. The old codger in town had been right. The walk was a trifle long. She would have done well to bring a parasol, at least.
She paused, sniffed.
Smoke?
Her eyes fell out across the sea, then to the other side of the road, where rolling terrain filled her view.
Black clouds of smoke rose in the air, appearing from behind a distant hill. No small chimney fire would render smoke to that degree.
Despite a faint warning to which she paid little heed, Ella turned to the rutted path and hastened her speed. By the time she crested the hill, her breathing came in short, raspy pants. One would have thought, with all the times she had scampered to the village back home, she would have enough wind to see her up a small rise.
Her heart caught. “Oh no.”
The small cottage below was charred and black, the last of flames licking up the timbers. Smoke hung in the air. A child’s whimper filled the silence.
Ella approached the scene.
A man stood nearer than the others, his face beet-red from the fire’s heat. Black soot smudged his clothing, his hands.
Behind him, two small children huddled in their mother’s arms. A pig lay at her side, not alarmed—it seemed—by the surrounding turmoil.
The man turned and stared at Ella.
She frowned. “I saw the smoke.”
He said nothing, only drew his gaze back to the cottage—or what remained of it.
Ella’s hands clasped. “Is there something I might do?”
“Nothin’ to do,” he said. “Nothin’ anyone can be doin’.”
“Silas.” The woman’s voice rose. “Silas, she be shakin’ again.”
He whipped off his hat and darted toward them, hastening the tiny child into his arms. “Water,” he choked. “She be needin’ water.”
“I shall get it.” Ella spotted a well and threw down the bucket. Her muscles strained as she yanked it out and bustled it toward them. “Here.”
He dipped a cloth, wrung out the water, then mopped the child’s brow. She appeared no older than three.
“What is the matter with her?”
“We don’t be knowin’,” the woman sniveled. “Only a few wee burns, but she won’t stop shakin’.”
“Perhaps the shock of it.”
The sound of hooves drew their attention.
Ella’s pulse throbbed as she watched the gentleman dismount, watched him throw his reins across the saddle.
His gaze brushed hers in confusion before he rushed forward. “What’s happened?” He took one look at the child and touched her brow. “Is she ill?”
The girl’s head fell into the father’s chest. “I didn’t want to be comin’, my lord,” he said, “but I didn’t know what else to do.”
Lord Sedgewick glanced at the cottage. “How did it start?”
“We don’t be knowin’, my lord. I was out in the field when I saw the smoke, an’ then it was …” The man’s chin ducked. “Then it was too late, my lord.”
“She’s burnt.” His eyes were on the child, but his voice lacked warmth. “Load your family into the wagon and take them to Wyckhorn. Dunn shall see to her.”
A sob of relief overtook the woman, and the farmer made a quick dash for the barn.
Ella’s legs weakened.
Lord Sedgewick turned to her, just as she’d known, and his eyes moved down the length of her dress. His brows came together. “Who are you?”
“I was walking.” Her throat dried. “I mean—I saw the smoke.”
“I did not inquire as to what you were doing or what you saw.” He came closer. “Who are you?”
“M-Miss Ella Woodhart.” The name fumbled forth. “I only just arrived in Northston.”
“You should have stayed there. This is a private road.”
Fury clapped like lightning through her blood. “I meant no harm, I assure you. I only cared to see the ocean.”
“There are plenty of places you might have done so.” The wagon drew his attention away, and he helped both woman and children into the creaking wagon bed. He removed his greatcoat and tucked it under the little girl’s head.
“My lord.” The father stood before him, small and slight under the shadow of such a larger man. “My lord, I’ll build it back with me own hands, but we haven’t anywhere else to go—”
“We’ll talk of it later.” Lord Sedgewick made a motion toward the family. “You had better make haste.”
With his hat back on his head, the farmer climbed onto the wagon seat and drove away.
Lord Sedgewick turned to her again. “As you are fond of walking, miss, I assume you shall find your way to Northston safely.”
Her teeth clenched. “You needn’t feign concern.”
“I am on horseback, else I would have escorted you to town.”
“Which I would have refused,” she said, “as I do not wish to defame my character.”
“I doubt I would inflict such consequences, miss.”
She glared at him.
A faint light of amusement touched his expression, but it vanished quickly. He was mounted and riding away before Ella could say another word.
Miss Staverley needed very little instigation to break into a gallop. She rode against the wind with ease and speed, unwinding his tension.
They could’ve been killed. Not only that, but he’d have to find suitable arrangements for the Arnold brood. Another duty demanding his attention, as if there weren’t enough already.
He rounded the curve, digging his heels deeper into Miss Staverley’s side. Guilt nipped at his conscience. He’d done it again. Didn’t even know who she was, or why she was there—but his temper had flared.
He just hadn’t expected hers to flare back.
It was obvious from her apparel that she was of a wealthy breed, though her hair had been askew and her bonnet had dangled behind her back.
What she was doing at the Arnolds’ cottage remained a mystery, to be certain. What sort of imprudent girl took strolls in the countryside—without escort, no less? And she had certainly put no effort into curbing her tongue.
Henry scowled into the wind. Her stab at his reputation had been most deliberate, as if perhaps she’d heard. He had dared to hope the village talk had ceased.
He should have known better.
With a tug of the reins, he slowed Miss Staverley’s gallop into a comfortable trot. He rode to the apothecary’s, strode inside, and asked for herbs that might alleviate a little girl’s burns.
“My heavens, whatever happened to your hem?” Dorthea had been stitching in a lavish red chair, but she jolted to her feet at the sight of her guest.
Ella peeled off her gloves. “I have taken a walk.”
“A march across Egypt, it would seem.” Dorthea frowned. “A muddy Egypt, I dare to say.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert was seated across the room with an issue of Ackermann’s Repository, which she lowered with a disapproving squint at her guest. “I presume you will not be too fatigued to dine with us tonight?”
Dorthea clapped her hands. “Father has invited Sir Charles and Lady Rutledge to visit.” She paused to whisper, half giggling, “And their son.”
Ella forced a smile. “How delightful.”
“Isn’t it, though? You must come with me at once to select a gown. I’ve been quite beside myself all day, deciding betwixt the primrose satin or the Saxon blue.” Dorthea proceeded Ella up the steps and into her bedchamber. “Sit on the bed and I shall show you the gowns. You may decide which best sets off my hair.”
“Dorthea—”
“And how shall I arrange my hair? I once heard his mother expounding on the art of hairstyles, and I should not like to disappoint when—”
“Dorthea, please.”
The girl paused, the dress sliding from her hands. “Why, Ella, you are most pale.”
“I wish to speak with you.”
Dorthea sat beside her, taking her hands. “You are trembling. Whatever is the matter?”
“I went …” She paused, looked away. “I went to Wyckhorn, and I had a most unfavorable encounter with Lord Sedgewick.”
“Does he know who you are? Has he disclosed your identity?”
“No, nothing of the sort. Yet he is as cold and wretched as I ever could have imagined. His mere presence worked to undo me.”
“How horrifying.”
“Yes.” Ella scooted off the bed, hugging her arms. “I have made a rash decision, one I despise to such a degree that it weakens my heart.”
“Ella …”
“I have decided to apply for the position at Wyckhorn.” She turned, hot tears springing to her eyes. “I fear it is the only way I shall ever attain the truth.”
The quiet laughter and conversation below stairs drifted to her room. Ella had declined the offer to join them on behalf of a vexing headache—or rather, heartache.
She glanced at herself in the mirror. The vicar back home—who spent half of his time attempting to convert her, the other half attempting to win her heart—would have said she appeared peaked and unrested. “Our bodies, Miss Pemberton, are the temples of the Holy Ghost. Thus we must do our best to remain always restored and in good health.”
As if she cared what God would want of her.
If there was a God.
Ella moved to the window. She stared out across a well-groomed lawn, watching birds flutter in and out of boughs. A governess, a governess, a governess. The degradable, sing-song words played over and over. Yet another insanity. How could she ever deign herself? She, a baron’s daughter with rich Pemberton blood flowing through her veins and heart?
It had been wise to inform Dorthea of her decision. At least now she was accountable. It would be less easy to dismiss her plan.
He didn’t care. Another thought, one that made her fingers press against the glass. Their home was gone, and all he could consider was resuming his trip to the village.
He had expressed a small measure of concern for the child, but even that was fleeting. What would he do with them now?
Ella had heard the soft pleas of the tenant. Worry and desperation had settled on the man’s face, yet Lord Sedgewick had done nothing but dismiss him. Would he throw them out?
She pulled her valise onto the bed and began to pack. For the second time, she was prepared to leave surroundings of familiarity and safety.
But that was a small price to pay for truth and justice.
Major Sir Frederick Tilbury was persistent if nothing else.
Henry crumpled the letter and tossed it across the room. Didn’t the man realize Henry had responsibilities to attend to? He couldn’t simply take off at the notice of a letter to drink tea and play boutsrimés with the major’s unmarried daughter.
He browsed through other correspondences, wrote various responses, then moved on to his ledger. He had just dipped his quill into the inkwell when a tap came at the door.
“Come in.”
A footman entered and bowed. “A visitor, my lord.”
“Who is it?”
“She does not say, my lord. I believe she mentioned the position of governess.”
He closed his ledger. “Send her in.”
The door shut and opened again in a matter of seconds.
Henry stared.
The young lady stood on the threshold, wearing a white dress and yellow pelisse, blond curls escaping from under her bonnet. Her arms hung limply at her sides, and the shade of her cheeks was especially colorless, as if she were experiencing discomfort.
A reaction he had inflicted, no doubt. “Well.” Henry rose. “Did you walk?”
“I arrived in a hackney, my lord.”
“I understand you are in search of a governess.”
“Are you?”
“Pardon?”
“A governess?”
“Oh.” A flush swept across her face. “Well, I have never been before, but I am certain I could do well at it.”
“You are very fond of children, I presume?”
Again, she hesitated.
He moved on. “What is your name?”
“Miss Woodhart.” Her chin lifted a notch. “I am two and twenty, and quite capable of managing a child.”
“Any education?”
“The best, my lord, and I am moderately accomplished in both Greek and Latin.”
“Greek and Latin?” He sank back into his chair, motioning for her to do the same. “I am quite impressed, Miss Woodhart. I wonder that you are so well versed in two languages, yet seek a position so lowly.”
“There is nothing lowly about a governess.” Her eyes flashed. “And I was previously a lady’s maid. I learned a great deal.”
“And gained a wealthy wardrobe, I see.”
“Her ladyship desired me to dress in vogue.”
“I wonder that you ever left her.”
Her mouth opened, then snapped back shut. She turned to leave—
“Miss Woodhart.” Henry came around the desk and held out his hand.
She stared at it for a long time until finally her eyes lifted to his face. She placed her gloved hand in his. “Yes, my lord?”
“Forgive my ill temper. I shall send a servant with you back to the village, and you may retrieve your things.”
“Thank you, my lord.” A pause, a strange flicker of emotion he could not place. Then she tugged her hand free and was gone, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Henry returned to his desk, yet even when he opened the ledger, the figures were a blur. Miss Woodhart. He dipped his quill for the second time. Why did it seem he knew her already? Why did something in her eyes spark recognition, as if he’d held such a gaze before?
He couldn’t place it. If he had spoken with her in the past, it must have been a brief interaction indeed, for the name meant nothing to him.
He leaned back and tugged the bellpull on the wall.
Minutes later, Dunn swept through the doorway and approached the desk. “I presume all went well, my lord?”
“As well as we might have hoped for. Though I daresay our new governess will be new in more ways than one.”
“Then perhaps she would not be suitable—”
“No, no. She will manage quite well, and I imagine Peter shall find her charming.”
“Splendid, my lord.”
“Although she never said as much, I would not be surprised to learn she at one point possessed a small fortune herself, which gives me great confidence in her ability to educate Peter.” Henry leaned back in his chair. “It does not much matter to me how she came to lose such a fortune or why she desires to work here. It only matters to me that she stays.”
“I believe that is all our hopes, my lord.”
“Let us do more than hope, hmm? See that Miss Woodhart is afforded special privileges. Put her in one of the guest rooms, the one with the view, and see that she is allowed to partake of all her meals with myself and Peter. I want her to feel as comfortable as possible. Understood?”
“Yes, but—”
“And see that she is given her own freedoms, as well. Mrs. Lundie will continue to watch over our Peter when Miss Woodhart requires her own time.”
“Yes, my lord.” Dunn’s forehead tightened. “But do you think such arrangements … well, do you think them wise, my lord?”
“Maybe not.” A familiar pang started low in his stomach. “But I am desperate.”
And no matter what happened, he didn’t want his young son to lose another woman again.
Mrs. Lundie’s wiry arms hooked on her hips. “Git doon from there, ye wee rascal, afore I be telling yer faither.”
“Tell me what, Mrs. Lundie?”
The woman whirled, her jaw slacking. “M’lord.” She pushed the frizzy gray hair away from her face. “I was just telling the wee one to be getting doon afore he hurts himself.”
A rustling of leaves from midway up the oak tree confirmed her worries.
Henry grinned. “Well, if he does not care to come down, I fear he shall never know what a great secret I have for him.”
A small branch parted. “Secret, Papa?”
“Come down and I shall tell it to you.” He turned to Mrs. Lundie, whose lined face bore signs of exhaustion.
She wiped a continual sheen of perspiration from her skin. “I dinnae be meaning to complain, m’lord, but I’m no nanny at heart. The wee little lad has been running all morning, and with I a-chasing him like I used to chase a goat in the hielands when I was a lassie myself.”
“Then I believe my surprise will be most pleasant for you as well, Mrs. Lundie.”
Peter leaped from a low limb, landed on all fours, then bounded back to his feet. “Look, Papa.” He held out a leaf that was crinkled from his tight grasp. “It is a special leaf. Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“It’s the very highest.” He raised on tiptoes. “The very, very highest leaf on the tree—”
“Lord Sedgewick!”
Henry spun around, dread slamming his stomach.
Dunn kept one hand on the door, the other clenched into a fist. “You are needed indoors, my lord.”
Henry sprinted for the manor. He hardly heard when Peter’s voice cried out to him.
Dorthea’s farewells were quiet and dejected, her smiles not given in earnest.
“Why so glum?” The door clicked shut behind the servant, who was toting Ella’s trunk with sighs of exertion.
Dorthea frowned. “Quite the reality, is it not?”
“At your prompting.”
“Oh, do not tell me such things.” Tears glittered in Dorthea’s eyes. “What shall I do if you are killed too? How can I bear such guilt?”
“You need not worry. I promise I shall not be murdered.”
“One usually cannot prevent such a thing.”
“Lucy was unaware of his true nature. I am not.”
Dorthea dabbed at her eyes, smiled for a second, then embraced her friend. “Well, you may rest assured I shall conceal your secret to my death, Miss Woodhart. Not even my parents have been told.”
“I did not doubt you once.”
The servant returned, and Ella climbed into the chaise next to him. She waved goodbye as the Fitzherbert household grew small and obscure in the distance. She derived some comfort in the colorful streets of Northston, but even that passed them quickly.
The road loomed ahead. Empty countryside surrounded them, sublime and melancholy, murmuring sounds of evening time.
The servant did not broach any topic of conversation, for which she was most grateful. She had no heart for tedious comments on the weather, the scandal of a downstairs maid, nor any other topic a servant might possibly care to discuss.
But then again, now she was only the slightest bit above a servant. Wasn’t she?
Yet only in pretense. There was a great difference.
As the road turned, the ocean view spread out to their left. Her eyes followed the coast until Wyckhorn Manor became visible on the top of the cliffside.
What am I doing? A thousand times with no answer. She was numb, but only because she repressed any feelings. She was too afraid of them. In heaven’s name, what am I doing?
When the chaise halted, the servant swung her to the ground. He said nothing, only hefted down her trunk with a grunt.
Ella ascended the stone steps. She brushed back her curls, smoothed her dress, straightened her bonnet—silly things to do, of course, because she’d already made an appearance once today. Not a very good one, to be sure. More than once she had been ready to flee Lord Sedgewick’s study, certain he had discovered her identity. What a fool she’d been to tell him of her Greek and Latin. What had she been thinking?
She knocked until the door opened, then followed the butler up two flights of stairs. Crossed swords and framed paintings decorated the halls, ancient faces with eyes that seemed to follow her.
She shivered.
“This shall be your chamber, miss.” The butler swung the door open for her. “His lordship requested you be given this room. He felt you might appreciate the solitude.”
“Indeed.”
“Master Peter’s chamber is at the end of the hall, adjacent to the nursery.” He took a step back as if in a hurry, his eyes never alighting on her face. “I believe you are to arrive for dinner presently.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, Miss Woodhart.” The butler bowed and hastened away.
She entered and surveyed her room. A four-poster bed with green curtains, a Persian rug, a writing desk, washstand, and wardrobe. Very quaint and sensible. Sedgewick had suggested it?
She approached the only window and drew back the drapes. The sea. Her fear dissipated, her courage rose. What a perfect, lovely sight.
In her moments of greatest despair, she would return to this view. She would open her heart to the beauty, tranquility, and brightness of the endless waves.
It was a comfort not anticipated, but very welcome indeed.
Whatever does one do with a child?
Ella’s pulse was frenzied. She took one step at a time—one dreadful, daunting step at a time, until she regrettably reached the bottom. How old had she been when she’d last been around a person Peter’s age? Her younger sister, Matilda, was fifteen now, herself two and twenty … which would have made Ella twelve? A mere slip of a child herself.
Besides that, the governess and her mother had seen to all of Matilda’s needs. Ella had not once satisfied her younger sister’s childish whims.
I hardly consider myself one who adores children. Ella entered a dark hall, lit only with dim chandeliers overhead. They are rather strange and devilish creatures if the village urchins are any indication.
Of course, the son of a lord would be considerably better mannered. But mannered or not, a child was a child.
“Excuse me.” Ella halted a young maid, who was dusting a flowerless vase on a stand. “Might you show me to the dining room?”
The girl directed her to impressive double doors, which were open wide as if waiting for her.
Only a weak soul would have trembled, but she did so nonetheless. “Thank you.” She spoke to the maid, more to test her voice than to execute civility. Forcing her fingers to uncurl, she entered.
A long table stretched across the room, empty chairs on either side, the tablecloth sporting several colorful dishes.
Only one pair of eyes stared back at her—small, rounded, a familiar shade of blue.
Ella stared at him. Never had she expected such a likeness of Lucy.
“You may sit down if you want to.” The voice was small and kind, the expression bashfully sweet.
Emotion clogged her throat. She took a seat two chairs away from him, then unfolded her napkin for the sole purpose of busying her hands. Did the child always dine at such a large table by himself? Or was his father usually present?
“You are the surprise.”
Ella lifted her gaze to him. “I beg pardon?”
“The surprise for me.” His blond hair was damp and brushed, his cheeks gleaming as if recently scrubbed. “Papa was going to tell me, but Mrs. Lundie told me instead. She said I should wear my best skeleton suit for you. See?”
She observed the outfit with an involuntary smile. “I see.”
“Do you like mackerel?”
“Yes—”
“I don’t. I have to eat it anyway if I want any tarts.”
She glanced at the untouched fish on his plate. “Well, since we are the only ones present, I do not think one tart would hurt.”
A beam transformed his expression, but he didn’t reach for a tart. Instead, he scrunched his nose and took a bite of mackerel. “I had better do as Papa says,” he said between bites.
Surprise poked at her insides. When had she ever dismissed a chance at mischief? She had never thought twice about breaking a rule.
The remainder of the meal was spent in pleasant, intelligent conversation—a reality which both intrigued and delighted Ella.
When the course was finished and his tart consumed, young Peter Sedgewick was the first to stand. “Tomorrow I will show you my favorite tree. I can climb all the way to the top.”
“Oh?”
He sidled closer and stood beside her chair with eyes aglow. “And Miss Woodhart?”
“Yes?”
“You are a good surprise.”
Henry locked his bedchamber door behind him, listening to the silence, loathing it. His muscles ached. God?
He ripped off his tailcoat and tossed it to the floor, wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. Would the cut be noticeable? What would he tell his son?
More lies. Always lies. He was sick of deceit.
Exhaustion drew him to his bed, but he lacked the will to rest. He reached for his Bible. The pages fell open and the words stared back at him—bold, black, never changing: “Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice. Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities.”
His insides opened up and wept, but no tears touched his eyes. He closed the book, drew it against his chest. His pain mingled with the silence, his heart with the agony of the words. When would it end?
Maybe never. Maybe it would always be like this. And had he any right to pray it would change?
No. He didn’t. His fault … everything was his fault. The blood on his lip. His wife dead. His son without a mother.
God, have mercy on me. Because he couldn’t change anything now. He couldn’t reverse that night. All he could do was make it up to Peter and keep the truth from ever leaving this house.
If that was even possible.