He scratched the top of his head, his eyes glassy and unfocused. But a smile broke across his lips. It was a watery smile, but a smile nonetheless.
“Can you tell me the story, Father?” she asked.
“I dragged your mother all the way to the top of that blasted mountain. She complained the whole way. But we got to the top, and the sun was setting, and the hues were all golden and yellow. Then they turned to purple, and we sat in the grass and planned our lives.”
He heaved the glass in his hand against the wall, and it shattered, the pieces falling like broken dreams to the Aubusson rug.
“Why did you do that?” Cecelia cried, covering her head with her hands. He didn’t have to be this way. He chose to be this way. He chose it every time he took a drink. Every time he let the memories overwhelm him.
“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.