He felt off-balance, as if he were dreaming. "A hotel. Right. With a slot in the door so they can look in on you whenever they please."
Her brow knitted. She did not like the remark. "I know it must be hard for you. Father has written of your distress. I wish you would not let it bother you."
His unease sharpened. "Good God, how can it not bother me? You deserve better than this. You deserve to
be free."
She sighed. "And this is why I agreed to see you, finally. I wanted to say this in person." She drew a breath. "I know it will be hard for you to hear." Another breath, and then: "I don't wish to leave. Darling, I am happy here. I
want
to stay here—for a little while, at least."
"No." It sprang out from his throat so violently, he had to stop and regroup. "Moreland has gotten to you."
"Father,
James. I have never called him anything but
Father."
Her
eyes
were large and trusting—the eyes of a puppy. Easily kicked, more easily cowed.
The thought Startled him. "So," he said. He was shaken. He had never felt venom for her. Never. "I find myself confronted by yet another woman who refuses to think badly of her father—no matter how much he might deserve it."
She made a face. "Oh, he's no saint. You mistake me if you think I have no complaints for him. But he is not responsible for what happened to me." The corner of her mouth curled upward, in an odd little grimace. "That was mostly BolancL"
"Mostly!"
"Mostly," she said firmly. "He was a brute, and deserved what he got. But . . ." Her face turned to the window, and he saw her swallow. She was not as calm as she appeared, but for some reason, it was important for her to seem so. He drew a breath and remembered the advice another woman had given him:
Everyone is brave in his own way. You must not blame others if they don't fit your mold.
"I was very young," she said. "Flighty, headstrong. So many things I regret."
"That is no damned excuse—"
"Of course not. But you warned me, didn't you? Oh, I know you introduced us, but you quickly realized how badly we suited. You warned me all the way to the church. But I refused to listen."
"It was the talk that stopped you. Those gossiping harpies—"
"You are so determined to place blame elsewhere," she murmured. "Can you not spare a little for me?"
The old rage was stirring. "It had nothing to do with you. Boland and Moreland—"
"It had
everything
to do with me." The words held the beginnings of temper. "I am not sorry I killed him—and I
did
kill him, James. I was glad to do it. I still am. I had no choice; I will not regret it. But
God
knows why I stayed with him in the first place. You are right—you may scream it from the rooftops if it makes you feel better—you offered me an escape. But did I take it? God in heaven,
why
didn't I take it? All of this could have been averted . . ." She pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head when he would have moved to embrace her. "No," she said finally, and her hand fell, a dead curling weight, to her lap. "I failed
myself.
I betrayed
myself.
I chose to stay with him, and until I know why, how can I possibly leave? How can I possibly forgive myself, if I don't understand why I chose to hurt myself so? How can I live in the world, if I don't feel certain I won't betray myself again?"
All he could do was stare. The emotions raging within him were too complex and fierce to be parsed into coherent thought. "You will stay here," he said numbly. "To—
understand yourself"
She looked directly at him. "Yes. That's it exactly. And in the meantime, you can be angry at Father all you like. But do not be angry with him for
my
sake." She came to her feet, and he realized, with a shock, that he was being dismissed. He rose clumsily, and as she noted it, she smiled. "There is something I should like to show you before you go. I should let you keep it—I think you have as much need of it as I do—but I'm too selfish to give it up." She crossed to her writing table and slid open a drawer, extracting a sheaf of letters bound in a yellow ribbon. As she pulled the end of the silk, the envelopes spilled to the floor. "Silly me!" she exclaimed, and fell into a crouch to gather them.
How freely women could move, when not corseted and trussed up like game-hens. He sank to her side. But as he reached for the first letter, disbelief had his hand closing. "What is this? These are all—"
"From Father, yes," she finished gently. "He writes me every day. Did you think he had forgotten me?"
He sat back on his haunches. He could not keep his eyes off the letters, but the thought of touching them did something queer. Made him feel light-headed and panicky. Like the prospect of touching a dragon, or reaching into a closet and brushing up against a monster. Something rare and unbelievable, the tactile proof of which might very well destroy the foundations of everything one believed. Everything one told oneself, to get to sleep at night.
"This one," she said, and picked up a piece of paper. "Read this one, please."
When his hand still hesitated, she reached out for his fingers, closing them one by one around the letter.
Then, pulling him by his wrist to his feet, she went up on tiptoes to kiss his chin.
"Please read it," she said somberly. She sat back down and picked up her knitting needles. The quiet clicking of the sticks was the only sound in the room.
He stared at the letter. Slowly he lowered himself to the seat.
My darling daughter,
Another dinnerparty. These seasonal obligations never end. Ah, well. Such is the price of politics, I'm afraid. I could have used you tonight, my dear. Your stepmother is gracious and charming, but she lacks the joie-de-vivre that you bring to a table. When an awkward moment arises, she smoothes over it, but cannot erase it. You always have had that gift. I cannot count the times your laughter made us forget our cares.
I hope you have not forgotten to laugh, at Ken-hurst. Mr. Dwyer tells me you are doing better, well enough to entertain visitors. I do not understand your reluctance to meet us. Your stepmother and I should love to see you, if you will change your mind.
I have little to write. The dinner was dull, apart from a brief interruption by your brother. He appeared with an opera dancer. She quite enjoyed the croquettes. I feared Gladstone would take offense. I should have known better. I sometimes think James could convince the Devil to take communion. God save my fellow conservatives when he comes into the title.
If you seek a reason to get well, Stella, please think on him. There is no reasoning with him, and I have all but given up the attempt. He will not forgive me fir failing you, or hear a word from me without skepticism. I think he will never be whole, until you are home with us again.
Your loving father, Moreland
The paper was trembling in his hand. Bizarre. He found himself shaking his head.
"He knows I wish to stay here," she murmured. "Until I have come to peace with all of it, I am safer away from the world."
"I can't accept that."
"No, of course not. Unlike you, Father is able to
respect
my wishes."
It stung like a slap. "Well, you've certainly chosen the sweetest letter of the bunch. I suppose the others sing a different tune."
"Oh, James." She put down the needles and held out her hand. "Give it to me. I don't even know which one it is. I chose it at random."
The paper crumpled in his fist, an ugly sound. "He will write epic poems to you, I am sure, so long as you are safely locked away. It's me he has to deal with in the flesh." He tossed the paper onto the floor "And unfortunately for him, I won't be going away."
"Stop bedeviling him," she said sharply. "You will let me fight my own battle, now."
"Oh yes, a grand battle you will wage, locked up here in the madhouse!"
She shot to her feet. "By God, it is none of your affair how I choose to live my life!"
"Your life? You call this a
UjeT
The anger that had seared him for four long years—that he had fought and endured and managed occasionally to ignore, but never, ever to extinguish—raged up within him so suddenly that he could not manage it.
"None of my affair,
is it? What the hell do you think I've been doing, these last years? Do you have any idea what I've done? The things I've done—the nights I've lain awake, the visions I saw of you—while you sat here and
searched your soul
and did not bother to so much as
write
me? Do you know how I—" His voice broke as she came toward him; to his astonishment, his eyes were welling. "Stella, have you no idea how I've suffered for you?"
She took his face in her hands, gripping hard. "It is
not about you,
James. My God—yes, I am sorry that you have mourned! But what must I say to convince you to let it go? Yes, I should have listened to you! Yes, I should have gone with you when you offered to take me away!" She blinked, and a tear slipped from her eye. "But the price for my failure is not yours to discharge. It is
mind
You will
let me have
I!"
"I cant accept—"
Her nails dug into his face. "This is the last time I will say this. I love you. I love you for trying to rescue me. I love you for what you have done with your factories. But I will no longer be your excuse. And on the day I do see you again, it will be because I am ready for it—not because you wish it."
Her blue eyes held fiercely to his a moment, and then she let go his face. Her arms came around him, and her forehead pressed into his shoulder.
He drew a shuddering breath. Haltingly his own hands lifted to her back. She was shaking. He felt a brief moment of desolation, and then the faintest, most tentative stirring of something lighter and miraculous. His arms closed tightly around her. "I love you," he said hoarsely.
"I have never doubted it," she whispered into his chest.
It came to Lydia, after her father had left for Ashmore's, that she had made an awful mistake. Ashmore knew something of her dalliance with James. What if he made mention of it? She was not sure how Papa would react. His anger, earlier, had been so unlike him. Would he think Ashmore lied to taunt him? Would he be moved to do something rash?
She found herself back in the drawing room. Sophie and Ana had gone shopping; they were assembling Anas bridal trousseau with great earnestness, now. She paced around a cast-iron pot of aspidistras and tried to calm herself. Ashmore would be discreet. He would say nothing, surely.
I should have gone,
she thought.
It was too important, not to go.
Her sisters had taken the brougham. There was no choice but to walk. She snatched up a cloak and set out by foot, startling as a man emerged from a nearby vehicle. Dread rose in her throat.
"Miss Boyce," he said. "Lord Sanburne has set me to accompany you wherever you wish to go."
Well. He would not come himself, but he would spare her a servant. "Very well," she said. "Follow, if you like."
She set a quick pace along the winding lanes of Belgravia. It took no more than half an hour to reach Ashmore's house. Sanburne's man fell back as she approached the entrance. She rang the bell with trepidation, and the door opened immediately. "I am here to see the earl," she said.
The porter ran a skeptical eye down her form. She realized that in her haste, she had not donned a bonnet or gloves. To prove herself, she unbuttoned the cloak and shrugged it off. At the sight of her fine gown, his manner changed.
"He is occupied. Perhaps you could come back later, miss."
"I believe he is with Mr. Boyce, my father."
"Oh. I was not informed to expect you, miss. Please wait."
She stood there a moment as he moved off, and then, on a sudden decision, followed him.
Around the corner and a few steps down the hallway, a noise caught her attention: muffled shouting. She recognized her father's voice. "—don't know
where
it is, but if someone rips it apart, we'll all be in a load of trouble. And if my daughter comes to one bit of harm—"
The butler came to a stop. So did she. Something about her movement drew his attention, for he looked over his shoulder and gasped. "Miss! Please let me go ahead to announce you."
"No," she said softly. "No. I have changed my mind." And turning on her heels, she quickly retraced her steps to the front door.
Outside, she turned in the direction of Oxford Street and the omnibuses.
Don't know where it is. If someone
rips it apart.
There was only one explanation she could draw from those ominous statements. Surely she was wrong.
There was only one way to find out.
Mr. Carnelly looked surprised to see her. "Hullo there, Miss Boyce." His voice seemed to come from a great distance. "Been a while."
"Yes," she said. "Mr. Carnelly, you repackaged Hartnett's things before sending them to me. Do you still have the original materials in which they were shipped?"
He frowned. "The crate, do you mean? Aye, it'll be back there somewhere. What do you want with it?"
"Only to inspect it. I fear some correspondence attached to the shipment may have gotten separated and is somewhere stuck inside it." When he made no response, she added, "The crate properly belongs to my father. I expect it will not be a problem."