Her father stepped forward and shoved Mr. Pritchens so hard that he thudded against the wall. Hitting her father back was like hitting a child who was having a tantrum. It did no good. It served no purpose. And no one felt good about it afterward. But when her father made a move to charge Mr. Pritchard, Cecelia felt obligated to step between them.
This time, her father’s shove sent her into the wall. She stood there stunned, unable to take a deep breath for a moment. But when she could, there wa
s no apology. There was only her father snarling, “Look what you made me do,” in Mr. Pritchens’ face.
“He didn’t make you do anything, Father,” Cecelia said, putting a hand on her father’s shoulder to gently pull him back.
In the past six months, she’d done so more times than she could count. And he usually took it very well. But this time, he didn’t for some reason. “He did make me do it. I would never hurt you on purpose,” he bellowed, spittle flying from his lips to land on her face.
Cecelia closed her eyes and took another deep breath. She’d taken so many deep breaths lately that they should have called her Windy instead of Cecelia. Perhaps that would be the name she chose when she began a new life. One far away from her father.
“You hurt me every day, Father. Every time you do this.”
He huffed. “Do what?” He jammed the heels of his hands into his eyes and scrubbed them.
But Cecelia had had enough. She stepped close to his face and screamed in it, just the way he had in hers. “Every time you do this!”
She was shocked at herself, so she stepped back and closed her eyes, counting to ten again. She didn’t even see the hand flying toward her face. But she felt it. The back of his hand connected with her cheek, hitting her hard enough that it spun her head and she fell to the ground.
The last time he’d hit her, he’d been immediately contrite. Not this time. This time, he fell on top of her, intent on flipping her over, probably so he could yell in her face. But she folded her arms over her head to ward off any future blows and curled into herself. Inside herself was the safest place to be right now.
Suddenly, her father’s weight shifted off her, and she looked up from between her elbows. Despite his slightness of form, Mr. Pritchens had wrestled her father from on top of her and laid him on his stomach, his left arm pulled up behind him at an almost sickening angle. Her father swore like a dockworker and threatened Mr. Pritchens.
“You don’t have to dismiss me, Mr. Hewitt,” the butler gritted out. “It’s only because of your daughter that I’m still here.” He looked up at Cecelia. “I can’t keep doing this, miss,” he said. “I want a peaceful existence. And this isn’t it.” He wrenched her father’s arm higher behind his back when he began to struggle. “Stay down,” he snarled.
He looked at Cecelia’s face, which hurt like the devil.
“You’re going to have a bruise there, miss,” he warned.
She reached up and touched the tender side of her face. “I suppose I should have come home earlier tonight.” She snorted to herself. Oh, the irony.
“How is Mr. Thorne?” Mr. Pritchens asked quietly. Her father had settled into a lump on the rug, with his eyes closed. He would be asleep in moments, she was sure.
She smiled at the memory of her day. “He’s well.”
“Nice day?” Mr. Pritchens asked, as if they were taking tea.
“The nicest,” she said. And it had been. Until her father ruined it.
Mr. Pritchens removed his pointy knee from the center of her father’s back, and her father didn’t move. He didn’t utter a sound, aside from a loud snore. Cecelia breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness.
“I suppose I should get him to bed,” Mr. Pritchens said.
“I’ll help you,” she volunteered, moving toward her father. She knew Mr. Pritchens gave the staff the nights off because this became a regular occurrence with her father. It had become normal for him.
“One moment,” he said.
Mr. Pritchens left the room and came back with a wet cloth, pressing it gently against the side of her face. “Ouch,” she complained. Her eye was already swelling shut.
“That’s going to hurt like the devil in the morning,” he mused, tipping her chin up to get a better look.
“Where did you learn to fight, Mr. Pritchens?” she asked. As small as he was, he was strong. And he could take down her father. Why, he wasn’t much bigger than Cecelia was.
“Necessity,” he admitted.
Cecelia furrowed her brows. But it hurt to do so. “My kind of necessity?” she asked.
“Yes.” He didn’t say more. Just that one word.