It would have been the loveliest sight in the world, the familiar cliffside, the scent of brine and seaweed, the roll and crash of distant waves. If only Peter waited for them.
Strange, how Wyckhorn could feel so much like home when it had harbored such lies and hurt. What was here for her?
Nothing.
Nothing but memories left to taunt her. Nothing but tangible illusions of what might have been. Nothing but a sea of regret, its tides rising to drown her with every inch they drew nearer to the manor.
“He’s back!” The welcome drifted over distance as the young stable boy raced from the stables.
Two other servants ran to them—one taking Henry’s reins, the other helping Ella from her saddle.
“Groom them well,” said Henry, as he swung down. “They have ridden hard.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
He started for the house, and Ella hurried behind him, falling into his shadow until it melted into the larger shadow of the manor. He took the steps with a limp, then swung open the door.
“My lord, you are back—”
“Get Dunn.” Henry strode past the butler without shedding his coat or hat.
Hurried footsteps echoed between the high ceiling and the marble floors as the butler scurried to find the steward.
Silence.
Henry turned, glanced at her, wiped moisture from his face. “You may go and rest if you wish.”
She shook her head.
His eyes stayed with her as if scrutinizing every inch of her face. What did he see? What did he want to see? Did it please him or bring more disgust? In the days they had traveled back, he had spoken so little and smiled not once.
She told herself it was worry, grief, illness—but not hatred. Could he have kissed her so lovingly if there had been hatred?
As if he knew her thoughts, he glanced at the door.
Seconds later, a haggard Dunn hurried through. “My lord, thank heavens you are returned.” As if forgetting himself, Dunn grabbed Henry’s shoulders and squeezed. “Are you well, my lord?”
“Yes.” Noble lie. “Has there been a letter?”
“A letter?”
“A letter, a message—anything.”
Dunn glanced at her for the first time, as if in hesitation to render more grief. Then his hands fell back to his sides. “No, my lord. There has been nothing.”
“There will be.” Ella urged the words past a knot. “There will be.”
Henry turned away. Without sparing either of them another glance, he headed for the stairs.
God, help him.
Partway up, his sleeve brushed quickly across both of his cheeks.
The wooden blocks were scattered across the rug. Part of the tower still stood, as if the foundation had been too strong to crumble.
Henry bent. His fingers swallowed a block into his palm. My Peter. The last of his joy, the last of his sanity, the last of his peace … and now he was gone too. Peter, my son. My sweet little son.
Tears, more tears. Yet even still, they could not blind his eyes to the sight of the small bed, the wrinkled covers, the dented pillow.
God, give him back.
He dragged himself to the bedside where Peter used to whisper his prayers.
Buried his face into the bedclothes.
Anything.
Wept into the smell of his son.
God, please.
But even if He didn’t, even if He didn’t answer the prayers, even if He never brought Peter home to him …
God, I shall serve You. One last sob tore through him. It is in Your hands.
He was not coming.
Ella sat alone at the dinner table, her hands folded in the muslin lap of a fresh dress. Had she ever felt so clean?
The afternoon hours had been spent bathing, allowing a maid to comb her tresses, then retiring for a nap at Mrs. Lundie’s persistent demands. A servant had been sent for her trunk, which he returned only hours ago.
Now, Mrs. Lundie carried a bowl of soup and lowered it before Ella. “Ye must eat something, dear. Try this.”
“And Lord Sedgewick?”
“I shall hae a maid deliver something to his chamber.”
“He has not eaten well in days.”
“Och?”
“Nor has he slept.”
“Poor man.”
“And he is still unwell. Especially at night … the fever seems to return. He never says a word, but I know. I know he is unwell.”
“There, there, lass.” Mrs. Lundie gave her a pat. “Ye are getting yerself pure upset for nothing. I shall go up and see to him right noo—”
“That will be unnecessary, Mrs. Lundie.”
Ella’s skin erupted in bumps at his voice.
He brushed past Mrs. Lundie in tailcoat, pantaloons, and cravat—then took a seat at the other end of the table. Damp hair made waves about his face as if he too had recently bathed. “I shall be dining here tonight. Will you serve another bowl?”
“Ye ken I will, m’lord.” And she bustled from the room with a tune.
If Ella had possessed any fortitude at all, she would have resisted the urge to stare at him.
The ghost only hours before had transformed into a living being—so like the old Lord Sedgewick that she could almost imagine nothing had changed.
If only it hadn’t.
“You look well,” he echoed her thoughts.
“As do you.”
“You slept?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She slipped her silver spoon into the frothy soup. “Did you?”
“Pardon?”
“Sleep.” She swallowed. “Did you sleep?”
He nodded, breathed in, looked away.
Mrs. Lundie returned with soup and a glass of cocoa, and the meal resumed without further conversation.
I do not understand. During those days they had been away, there had been one upheaval after another. She’d felt torn between his love and his hatred, never knowing which he truly felt, never secure in whether his glances would be warm or cold.
Then he had kissed her.
A mistake, a tragedy—but in the chaos, it had enveloped her with a sense of peace.
She had imagined his forgiveness. She had imagined many things. She had imagined, if even for a moment, that all the past was forgotten when he had whispered the words, “Our Peter.”
But nothing was forgotten, and returning to Wyckhorn was only a necessary blow to send them both into reality.
“Excuse me.” Ella clanked her spoon into the bowl, pushed out of her chair, and fled for the door.
“Ella?”
She froze halfway over the threshold. “Yes?”
A squeak of the chair, heavy footfalls, then he stood next to her. “Take this with you.” He held out her half-eaten bowl. “I shall not have you lose your strength.”
With shaking hands, she took the bowl and escaped into the hall. The soup sloshed with every panicked step.
As soon as Peter is found, I shall leave.
She locked herself into her bedchamber and gripped the bowl.
The sooner I leave Wyckhorn, the better.
The first day had been tolerable. There were a number of reasons Becker could have been delayed. How long had it taken him to learn the whereabouts of Sedgewick’s home? And even if he had found it, could he write a letter?
The second day was more difficult. Still, if Becker had traveled by wagon, it was reasonable to assume that his journey would be prolonged. Wasn’t it?
By the third day, Ella could think of nothing. Despair threaded strings across the house, tightening all the walls, suffocating the last of hopes.
More than once, she had seen Henry take his horse and gallop away. She wondered what he did out there and if he really thought such an aimless search would do him any good.
He always came back. She expected a wild look, a senseless fear that would make him strangely similar to Ewan.
But instead, Henry’s face bore only quietness.
And peace?
At first, she thought the idea madness. But then she recognized the same peace in herself—the gentle Spirit that accompanied every prayer, the overwhelming calmness every time she opened the Bible she’d discovered in the library.
Dunn stopped in the library doorway.
“I did not realize you were in here. Excuse me—”
“Please.” Ella approached. “Do not go.”
In the days since her return, his manner had closely matched Henry’s. Courteous, considerate—but ever distant, as if they were strangers.
“Did you have something to attend to?”
“Yes,” he said. “I was merely going to draw the draperies to let in a bit of light.” He approached one wall first, pulled back the French window curtains, then crossed to the other side of the room.
“It is a mockery, is it not?”
“Miss?”
“That a day should dare be so beautiful when …” The sentence drifted.
Dunn cleared his throat. “Yes, Miss Pemberton. I quite agree.”
“Has Henry been out today?”
“Early this morning.”
“I see.”
With the last of the curtains drawn, Dunn stood very still, his eyes landing everywhere in the room.
Except her.
She wanted to apologize again, to build back a broken bridge, to restore a friendship she hadn’t realized she treasured.
But when he mumbled an excuse and left the room, she did nothing to stop him.
Instead, she changed into her half boots and took a walk outside. She strolled along garden paths that seemed less colorful, onto a seashore that lacked any vibrance. Even the wind tasted less delightful, more bitter.
Oh, Mother, Matilda. I only wish to be home.
What relief Abbingston Hall would bring to her now. Where she was loved unconditionally, where all her mistakes were forgiven readily, where she was comforted from all her pains.
Ella paused. Halfway up the slope from the beach, she turned back and glanced at the ocean.
Nothing.
Her eyes darted left, then right, then up above her where the path led toward Wyckhorn. Had she heard something? Or only sensed it?
But she didn’t spot anything out of place. She ran back into the safety of the manor nevertheless.
Her imagination was doubtless at play.
Wasn’t it?
Evening had grabbed the tail of time and locked it in a cage. The bracket clock’s hands still moved just as steadily, but time could no longer move with them.
Henry leaned his head into the wing-backed chair. Dinner roiled his stomach in protest. What had he eaten? Venison? A partridge?
No, that was the dinner before. And the dinner before that.
He tried not to think how many dinners it had been, or what his son might have eaten, or if he’d eaten at all.
From across the room, Ella turned a page.
Should have stayed away from her. Should have sent her home. Should have chosen a different room of the house to endure the evening hours.
“What are you reading?” The words were out before he could stop them.
As if startled, she snapped the book shut. “Nothing.” When he didn’t look away, her shoulders wilted. “Just The Tour of Dr. Syntax In Search of the Picturesque, something I used to read to …” Why couldn’t she speak his name?
Maybe Henry couldn’t either.
He rose and approached, reached for the book. “May I?”
“Certainly.”
He thumbed through the pages, the rhyming lines, the humorous illustrations. “It is good”—he handed it back—”that you read to him.”
“I did very little that was good for him,” she said. “You see, I knew nothing about children, only that I did not like them very much. Until I came here.”
He should have been angry at her admission. Why wasn’t he?
“And I—”
From behind, a door opened. Two servants dragged a dirty, hunched figure into the center of the room. The stable boy?
“What happened?”
“Sorry, m’lord.” Blood dripped from the boy’s nose. “I was out walkin’ one o’ the horses … the one with the sore hoof. I ne’er seen nothin’ coming at me, m’lord. I swear I didn’t.”
“Set him on the couch.”
“No.” His thin shoulders shrugged away the servants’ support. “I be fine, m’lord, but I won’t be gettin’ blood on e’erything.”
“Anything broken?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Let me see that eye.” Henry pulled him into the light of a wall sconce, inspecting the bruise that already swelled part of the eye. “Who did this?”
“I told you, m’lord. I don’t know.”
“You must have seen something.”
“The first clout came from behind … and it was sort o’ hazy after that. But I do know this.” He dug something from the waistline of his trousers. “I was ‘posed to give you this.”
Henry ripped open the paper. Messy scrawl, almost unreadable. Two thousand pounds … return of Peter Sedgewick … safe from harm … meet at the seashore tonight … midnight. There was more. What did it say?
He stepped closer to the light, squinted. Miss something … Miss … Pemberton? His eyes hurried through the sentence until bile threatened his throat.
Ella had stepped close to him. He could tell by the unsteady, half-pant of her breathing. “Henry, what does it say?”
“Two thousand pounds at midnight. The seashore.” The letter crumpled in his fist. “With one more stipulation.”
“What is it?”
The core of his being shook. “You.”