The footman approached Oliver, extending the silver tray that held the suddenly ominous-looking letter. Oliver picked it up and nodded his thanks to the footman. His eyes caught sight of the handwriting on the outside of the letter and his stomach twisted.
Waiting until the footman left and closed the door behind him, Oliver broke the seal.
Oliver, I am writing to you because this is the end for me.
I do not expect you to come but, nevertheless, I thought
you should know.
Frank Turner
Two sentences. His father had caused him nothing but pain for his entire five and twenty years of life and, now that he wa
s almost dead, all the man had to say to his only son was contained in two sentences. It wasn’t that he had ever truly expected his father to be remorseful for the way he had treated him, but he at least expected…well, he wasn’t sure. But it definitely wasn’t that.
Oliver folded the small letter back up and shoved it into his jacket pocket. Really, he ought to have just thrown it into the fire.
“Who’s it from?” asked Kensworth, leaning forward in his seat.
Oliver pursed his lips together and looked to the fire. “My father.”
Kensworth knew Oliver was estranged from Frank Turner, but he didn’t know why. It was an implied rule that Oliver’s home life was an untouchable topic. Well, untouchable with everyone besides Elizabeth. Kensworth knew enough, however, to understand that receiving a letter from the man was shocking.
“You don’t really expect me to be content with that short answer, do you?” Oliver just looked at him, wishing very much his friend would be content to not prod. “Well? What did it say?” Kensworth asked again.
“He’s dying, but he doesn’t expect me to go see him.”
A heavy, uncomfortable pause filled the room. “And will you?”
Oliver looked to the fireplace and watched the flames dance, running his thumb against the crack in the leather. “No.”
Chapter Six
Elizabeth finished tying her bonnet under her chin and assessed her outfit in the looking glass. Kensworth House had become her new home earlier that morning and she was a little ashamed to admit how much she was already enjoying the freedom that came along with being away from Mary. Things felt strange between them. Mary was unreasonably closed off, unwilling to share anything of herself with Elizabeth, but all too eager to manage every breathing moment of Elizabeth’s life. The space would be good for them. Maybe it would even give Elizabeth the chance to show Mary that she was a grown woman, capable of managing her own life and even—gasp—contributing to others’ lives as well. But no, Mary would probably think it was far too ridiculous a notion that Elizabeth was capable of offering wisdom to another human being.
Wonderful. Now she was stewing. Elizabeth hated to stew. It made her feel a little too unhinged and very much like her younger sister Kate. What she needed was a walk. That had to be the reason for all of her agitated feelings. She had simply been cooped up too long.
Grabbing her shawl, Elizabeth headed toward the door. Suddenly, a loud bang exploded through the air, making the walls rattle and a picture frame fall off of the nightstand. Elizabeth gasped and clutched her chest, feeling her heart pound against her palm as the reality of what she had just heard sunk in. It was a gun shot, she was certain. But, from where?
She rushed to the door and flung it open. At that exact moment, Carver was running out of his room. His eyes were wide and filled with fear, his enormous body poised for battle. He swept his gaze quickly over Elizabeth, checking for any signs of harm before he glanced down the hallway.
Their eyes met again, worry and questions reflected in both. “Rose is downstairs,” Elizabeth said, remembering she had left her sister-in-law in the drawing room earlier that morning.
Carver’s whole body went rigid. “Stay here.” His large shoulder brushed past her as he advanced toward the stairs.
He must have been mad if he thought Elizabeth was going to just stay put while he ran head first into what could be a very dangerous situation. No. She picked up her skirts and followed quickly behind Carver down the stairs. “Do you think it was an intruder?” she asked in a loud whisper, trying to let her voice carry over the loud thumping of their feet against the stairs. Should they be tiptoeing? Was announcing their presence a mistake?
Carver darted a glance back at her over his shoulder. “I told you to stay put.”
“But you knew I wouldn’t.” Perhaps he saw her as a reckless little girl, but Elizabeth was too full of concern to care.
He paused briefly, as if thinking everything through and coming to the conclusion that there was not one scenario in which Elizabeth would remain upstairs. “Fine. At least stay behind me.”
She nodded and obeyed as they approached the closed drawing room door. She could feel the pulse in her neck and hear a whooshing sound in her ears. Was an intruder on the other side of that door? Was Rose harmed?
Several petrified maids and a few nervous footmen had formed a group in the foyer. They advanced toward the drawing room door but Carver waved them away. They agreed, each looking ready to be of service to their master, but utterly dreading the idea of confronting a gunman. It was good of him not to send them in first.
Sometimes Elizabeth wished she possessed a bit more healthy fear. But the only fear that touched Elizabeth was for the safety of her sister-in-law. Because, if she was being honest, Elizabeth felt alive at the possibility of what waited beyond that door. Possibly too alive. Danger and excitement always felt like a siren calling to her. She was all too aware that was not a quality the daughter of nobility ought to possess.