Dark Surrender (22 page)

Her grip on his forearms gentled, as did her voice. “Because you’re her father and you love her,” she said quietly, each word another dash of salt into his open wound. “You’d be desperate for a cure even if she couldn’t draw a straight line. You’re a good man, and you’re trying to be a great father. I see that. I see
you
.”

Trying to be. Wanting to be. But accomplishing nothing. He stood in silence, letting her words fall upon him like dust upon a coffin. Unanswered. Because there was no answer to give.

“The thing is,” she continued softly, her breath ghostly above the folds of his cravat. “When will you find this cure? Next week? Next year? In ten years?” She lifted one of her hands and laid the palm against the side of his face. “What about the quality of Lily’s life between now and then?”

“I’m trying to
save
her life,” he ground out. “That’s precisely why it isn’t worth the risk.”

She lowered her hand. “What if you never find a cure? What if there isn’t any cure to be found? Would it all still be worth it then?”

“Never say that again,” he said furiously. He gripped her by the shoulders, then pushed her away. He did not want her touching him anymore. He did not want her opinions on childrearing. And he definitely did not want to hear poisonous negativity. His body shook as much in fear as in anger. “I
will
find a cure. I must. I shall.”

She did not reply.

Even though he could smell the soap upon her curls and hear the faint whisper of each breath, Alistair knew the truth. He was alone. Nothing would change that. Him against the world, against modern science, against God Himself if need be. For Lillian.

He would prevail or die trying.

#

Violet’s eyes snapped awake in the darkness. Morning or half-midnight, she couldn’t be certain, but something had awakened her. Something that had her heart pounding like spooked horses.

She held perfectly still. No sounds broke the stillness of the night, save the overloud whisper of her own breath sticking in her throat. No light seeped through the double layer of thick wood. Even the sullen orange embers had vanished from the fireplace. Was that what had woken her? A chill?

Not a chill—a dream. A bad one, involving a depraved cracksman with an eye for young girls. Shaking, she propped herself up on her elbows. She closed her eyes and tried to shake the sleep from her head, but only succeeded in jumbling her thoughts about even worse. Why was she dreaming about that rookery off Spitalfields? She hadn’t thought of those terrible slums in years. On purpose. It was the only way to keep her sanity. She hastened from the bed. There would be no more sleep tonight.

Why had those terrible memories returned? Her current situation was not at all the same. Trembling, she bent before a large bowl and splashed cold water on her face. Mr. Waldegrave was nothing like that monster. She did not labor here under lock and key. He was a desperate man, but a gentleman all the same. It was not in his nature to hold a guest prisoner. Was it?

She squinted through the shadows at the closed door of her bedchamber. It was locked. Of course it was locked. All the doors in Waldegrave Abbey secured themselves automatically. But she padded across the room and tested the handle to be sure.

The door was locked tight, but she was not trapped inside. She touched her fingertips to her chest. She carried her key on a chain about her neck. Why, she could walk through the door and on out of the abbey if she had a mind to. In fact, she would, just to prove she could.

She jerked her fingers through her sleep-mussed hair. Her pelisse was right over there. If she felt so vulnerable that it was causing nightmares, she should put her theory to the test at once. She shrugged into the pelisse and shoved her feet into her walking boots. The edge of her night rail poked out from below the hem of the pelisse, and the cool brass key lay atop the lapel. Thus attired, she straightened her spine and strode to her door. Seconds later, she stood in the silent corridor.

“See?” she chided herself under her breath. “Not a prisoner.”

She hesitated only a moment before making her way toward the entrance of the abbey. Despite taking care to move cautiously, her footfalls seemed to slap against the marble floor. But no one came. No alarms were sounded. All were abed. As she should be, too. Instead, she stood at the abbey’s front door. She tried the handle.

Locked.

Her heart quickened. Foolish girl. Of course it would be locked. That did not mean she was being held prisoner. It simply meant Mr. Waldegrave had a cautious nature.

She slipped the thin chain from her neck and hefted her bedchamber key in her palm. When she had picked Roper’s pocket, there had been two keys—and she had selected the wrong one. It hadn’t opened her bedchamber. It hadn’t opened the door to the catacombs. It didn’t provide access to anything except the shrine to her employer’s dead wife.

This key, on the other hand,
did
open Violet’s bedchamber. And the tunnel to the catacombs. And the art room, and the library, and the sanctuary, and the school room . . . The skeleton key accessed the entire abbey! When Mr. Waldegrave installed all the locking mechanisms at once, the locksmith must not have had time to forge hundreds of unique locks. Either that, or it was simply easier for the household to deal with just one key, particularly when one was not accustomed to doors having locks at all.

Now she understood the trust implicit in having been given a key of her own. Roper’s initial reluctance to share made much more sense. She’d been a stranger. One who had all but blown in with a gust of wind. No manservant in his right mind would hand over free reign to a trespasser.

The key slid through her fingers and caught, swinging from her upturned hand in a slow arc upon its slender chain.

She stepped forward and slipped the key into the lock on the entryway door. It fit. Slowly, she turned the key. Tiny clicks ticked in the darkness as the bolt retracted. She curled her fingers about the icy handle and turned. The door swung open, briefly blinding her with moonlight. Chilly night air rushed across the starlit lawn to ruddy her cheeks and tangle her hair. She’d forgotten both her bonnet and her gloves in her haste, but for the moment she did not care in the least.

Closing the door behind her, she stepped from the abbey and tipped her face up to the sky. Stars winked down upon her. A breeze tickled her hair. The scent of grass and flowers and recent rain enveloped her.

Freedom. And yet she still felt empty. It wasn’t her freedom she was worried about, she realized slowly. It was Lily’s. The moon was not the sun and the colors of the garden were dulled by shadow, but would that make the panorama any less magical to a little girl who yearned to greet the world at large, if only for a stolen moment? Mr. Waldegrave meant well, but it was wrong to imprison a child.

Dewdrops glinted like diamonds atop the endless green of shrubbery and blades of grass. The abbey was perhaps too remote to discern the rustle of the River Severn as it rushed toward the Ironbridge Gorge, but the night held plenty of other delights. Nocturnal creatures prowling the garden for their supper, the creak of a branch supporting a nest high overhead, the call of an owl somewhere far in the distance.

She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the crisp, clean air.
This
was what Lily needed. Violet was sure of it.

Tucking her fingers into the warmth of her pockets, she picked her way toward a stone path. While she was out, she might as well take a turn about the abbey, and imagine the view as Lily might see it.

When she reached the rear of the abbey, a muffled metallic snip pulled her up short. Violet scanned the tree line, the garden, the shadows between the buildings. She clapped a hand to her chest in relief.

Foxes were not the only nocturnal animals taking advantage of the moonlight. There, on bended knee among the roses, was Mr. Waldegrave.

She hesitated. If she continued her circuit about the abbey, she was bound to disrupt his solitude. Perhaps he preferred to be alone with the night, caring for his roses by the light of the moon. Her heart reached out to him. As a man who suffered sunsickness, this was the only time he
could
tend his garden. She doubted he would be pleased by her interruption. Their conversation in the catacombs had not gone well at all. Perhaps she should turn around and tuck herself back into bed. Perhaps—

“If you’re going to stand there staring at me all night, you might as well come closer and have a clearer view.”

She started guiltily.

He had not looked up, not before nor during his speech, but he had known she was there all along. She shook her head at her own foolishness. She hadn’t expected anyone else to be about at this hour of the night, so she supposed she had not been treading particularly silently. And now that she had been caught, he was right—she might as well join him.

As she neared, she glimpsed the rectangular white stones she’d fallen upon that very first day. These roses were more than mere jewels of his garden, then. They marked his wife’s grave. Did he fetch fresh roses for his daughter in order to bring her some beauty? Or did he frequent the roses so often because he was still mourning the loss of his long-dead wife?

“Good evening, Miss Smythe,” he said as she reached his side. His focus remained on the flowers but his scissors ceased their rhythmic shearing.

“It is a good evening,” she agreed, seating herself on the dewy grass beside him, the soft blades crunching pleasantly beneath her. “The moon is beautiful tonight. Very nearly full, I daresay.”

At this, he looked over at her with a wistful half-smile. “I’m afraid you’re a day late, Miss Smythe. It was full last night, and beautiful indeed.”

“I did miss it, then.” She took a deep breath before her courage fled with the wind. “You know who else missed it?”

His face hardened as he turned away. “That topic is closed.”

“Not for me, and not for Lily,” Violet pushed on. “She could use some beauty in her life. We all could. Look at you, for example.”

“At me? What have I to do with anything, other than being the one person who wants to keep her safe?”

“You’re outside,” she explained simply. “You are here to keep her safe. And as
you’re
not affected by the light of the moon, there’s nothing to fear.”

“Nothing to fear?” he repeated with a disbelieving chuckle. “Miss Smythe, there is far more to fear than moonlight. What if my daughter runs away, as she’s done every other time I’ve brought her out? What if she doesn’t run away, but someone
sees
her, suspects something afoot?”

“Who would be out here at this time of night?”

“You yourself arrived without warning or premeditation. All it takes is one person, Miss Smythe. Once the secret is out, there will be no more safe haven for Lillian.”

“But you took her out once to look at the stars!”

“And I learned my lesson at my daughter’s expense. I no longer take foolish risks.”

“Even if someone catches sight of a girl and her father out admiring the stars, they would have no reason to suspect Lily’s condition. She
would
be safe. She—”

“As I recall, you punctuated your arrival by tripping over my daughter’s false gravestone, did you not? Everyone who has heard of the Waldegraves is also quite aware that I do not have a daughter with whom I might admire the stars. To see me with a child in hand would inherently put Lillian at risk. Perhaps they would think, ‘Who is this young girl with Alistair Waldegrave? He has no daughter—we must rescue the girl at once!’ Or worse, ‘Look, the daughter is not dead after all. What could be so monstrous about the child that necessitates her being kept secret?’”

Violet’s fingers clenched. “Lily is not monstrous.”

He tossed his shears aside impatiently. “I know that, and you know that. But until recently, not even all my staff were in agreement on that score, so what makes you think suspicious neighbors would be any more accepting? Even the scientists and physicians I’ve consulted want to do exhaustive tests in their laboratories. They want to expose sensitive skin to direct sunlight just to document the results. That’s why they all must believe I—”

“That’s why they must believe you’ve lost your daughter,” she finished softly. “I do understand your position. I’m just not certain that keeping her imprisoned is the only option. Here’s an idea. If someone
should
chance upon us, why don’t we say that she is my daughter? No one in Shropshire knows me, and—”

“Lillian,” he interrupted, his eyes distant, “is not your daughter. She is the image of her mother, as anyone who knew her would see at a glance. And, no. I will not allow her to be taken from me. Not by superstitious neighbors nor by laboratory-dwelling scientists. I appreciate your concern for her artistic soul, but
my
concern is for her health and safety, which must come first. There is nothing to discuss, Miss Smythe. The topic is closed.”

Sighing, she fingered one of the shorn leaves that had fluttered to the ground. Although she couldn’t help but disagree with the execution, she could hardly find fault in his motives. And as he’d pointed out twice now, what did
she
know of motherhood, least of all mothering Lily? A crude reminder, perhaps, but nonetheless correct. He was right. Some risks weren’t meant to be taken.

“Father does know best.” She gave him a lopsided smile, trying to lighten the moment. “I’m just the governess. I’ll remember my place from now on.”

“You are
not
just the governess.” He leaned forward and gripped her shoulders, his expression shockingly intense. Her body thrilled at feeling his touch once again, dared to hope for more. “That is not what I meant at all. Your place is here, with . . . Lillian.”

Her heart quickened as she gazed up at him, his eyes mere inches from her own. “I should stay in the sanctuary?”

“You should be
here
,” he answered roughly, and crushed his lips to hers.