Chapter Fourteen

F rances liked dining in the big room. She liked the color of the blue walls and the portraits of the serious people. She was not allowed to play in the dining room, but she had hidden here a few times during hide-and-seek. She could lie on the seats of the chairs when they were tucked under the table and no one would see her, unless they looked right at the level of the chairs. It was one of her favorite hiding places.

Now, she pushed the doors open and found Papa waiting for her. She wanted to run up to him and embrace him. She imagined him sweeping her up and into his arms and twirling her around. But she was afraid to try to hug him. He was still a bit scary with his serious mouth and his low voice.

“Come in,” he said, and pulled out a chair next to the one he usually occupied. “Sit here.”

She did, and he pushed her chair in, then signaled to Gables to bring her a teacup.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

She nodded, staring at her cup and sniffing. “Is this chocolate?” she asked.

Her papa smiled. She liked when he smiled. “Yes. Have you drunk it before?”

She lifted the cup and took a cautious sip. But it wasn’t too hot, and she sipped again. “Yes,” she answered, finally. “Mama drank chocolate every morning.”

He nodded. “Yes. I remember that. She always said it was her one indulgence.”

Frances nodded. Mama had said that. “What is indulgence ?” she asked. “I forgot.”

“It’s an extravagance.”

Frances frowned, and her papa laughed.

“It’s a special thing.”

She sipped her chocolate again. Then the door opened, and Gables brought in a tray.

“Let me fetch you something to eat.” Papa rose and went to the sideboard. Frances craned her neck to see what he was preparing. Did he eat porridge every morning, like her? Hopefully, he knew to put a bit of honey in it. Miss Genevieve always put a swirl of honey on top for her.

But when he returned, he had a plate with a stack of round, flat pieces of bread.

“Mrs. Donnelly has made us an American delicacy,” he told her. “These are flapjacks.”

Frances looked at her plate and then at Papa. She had never heard of flapjacks, but they smelled delicious.

“I’m told the Americans eat them with butter and maple syrup. I’ve taken the liberty of adding both.” He set a plate on the table before his chair. “Shall we try them together?”

“Yes, please,” Frances said. She watched as her father took his knife and cut a piece of the flapjack. She did the same then speared it with her fork. Still following Papa’s lead, she brought the food to her mouth. The sweet taste was even better than the first taste of honey on her porridge. She looked at Papa, who was looking at her. She nodded her approval and ate more.

They both ate in silence for a few minutes, then Papa told her about his trip to London, and how he’d wanted to return sooner, but one of the horses had not been able to run. “But now I am back for good,” he said, “and I wanted to tell you the special reason I went to Town.”

Frances set down her fork, excitement making her dance in her seat. “Papa, I know why you went to London.”

His brows went up. “You do?”

She was almost bouncing now. This must be the surprise. “To see Mama, of course!” she said. “Did she come back with you? Is that my surprise?”

The smile left his face, and he looked quite sad suddenly. Frances felt as though someone had opened a door during a snowstorm and the cold air blew right through her. An image of a woman with blonde hair, lying in muddy water, her blue eyes fixed and staring, bubbled up in Frances’s mind. She pushed it away and looked at Papa again. Why wasn’t he smiling anymore?

“Gables,” he said, turning to the butler. “Will you bring Miss Lumlee’s coat, please?”

She inhaled sharply. “Are you sending me away?” She’d forgotten he did not like to speak of Mama. She shouldn’t have mentioned her. What had she been thinking? Mama was not in London. She’d run away to her secret kingdom.

“I’m not sending you away,” he said, rising and holding out a hand. “I’ll never send you away.”

She took his hand and tried to read his expression. Was he still angry? No, but he still looked sad.

“This is your home now,” he said. “And I want to show you something.”

She wished she could eat just a few more bites of the flapjacks. She wasn’t hungry any longer, and her tummy would probably hurt if she ate more, but they were so good. Instead, she took her father’s hand and allowed him to help her put on her coat. Then they went outside and began walking away from the house.

“Can we have flapjacks again sometime?” she asked. “What is that flower called? I forgot my hat!”

“You don’t need a hat right now,” he said. “Have you and Miss Brooking been to the chapel yet?”

She shook her head, stumbling over a tree root. But he caught her before she could fall, and once she had her balance again, he began walking. She could see the chapel in the distance. She knew what chapels looked like. This one was a small gray stone building with a weathered wooden door. She thought they might go inside. Instead, he led her toward the back, where a black iron fence made a square out of the yard behind the chapel. She could see flowers in the yard and gray stones on the ground. She moved toward the gate to go in, but her father crouched before her and looked at her with his serious eyes. “Do you know what a cemetery is?” he asked.

She shook her head. The truth was, she had heard that word before, but she didn’t like it.

“That’s the cemetery for Lilacfall Abbey. There are four graves inside. Do you know what a grave is?”

Frances felt as though a little pebble landed in her tummy. “Can we go back to the house?” she asked. “I’m hungry for flapjacks.” She tried to turn away, but Papa put his hands on her shoulders. Another pebble fell into her tummy.

“Frances, I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s time we dealt with it. A grave is where we bury the body of a loved one when he or she has died. There are markers where the graves lie so we can come to the cemetery and visit. Some people like to leave flowers or other presents. The people who owned Lilacfall Abbey before your mother and I bought it buried two of their loved ones here. I buried two of our loved ones too. I want to show you.”

More pebbles tumbled down and thudded on top of the flapjacks she’d eaten this morning. Papa took her hand, but she dug her feet into the dirt. He looked back at her. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to go in there.”

“I know, but you need to see the graves. You should know where your mama and baby brother are buried.”

“Mama is not in there. She ran away from the cruel prince. She’s hiding in her kingdom, and she will come back for me.” More pebbles seemed to plop into her belly, and she clutched her middle and sank down on the grass outside the iron fence and began to cry.

*

Rory wished he had waited for Genevieve to wake before undertaking this task. He’d known it would be difficult, but he hadn’t thought about how he’d deal with a crying child. He pulled out his handkerchief, looked at it, stuffed it back into his coat, and sat down on the ground beside Frances. Chaffer would have something to say about the grass stains on his breeches, but Rory didn’t care. Frances stopped crying and looked at him, her eyes wide behind the spectacles. He drew out the handkerchief again, gingerly removed her spectacles, and dabbed at her eyes and her nose.

She sniffed. “You are sitting on the ground, Papa.”

“So are you,” he said.

She nodded. “I’m too sad to stand up.”

“I’m sad too.” He realized that he was sad. Somehow a small crack had formed in the wall he’d erected to contain his feelings, and a trickle of sorrow had leaked through. He probably should have patched that crack, but it didn’t seem right to let Frances grieve alone.

“You are?” She seemed to have forgotten about crying and was staring at him.

“I’m very sad. I never got to meet your baby brother. My son. Your mother was bringing you both here to see me when the coach overturned. Did you know that?”

She made a gesture that was neither denial nor confirmation. “Mama told her maid we were traveling to see the evil prince.”

“Is that what she called me?” Rory asked, smiling a little. He’d probably called her far worse, though not in his daughter’s hearing.

“Yes, but she was angry at me for listening. She said for me to call you Papa .”

“But you still think of me as the evil prince?”

“I did.” She shrugged.

Rory didn’t know why he did it, but he held out his arms. And then, to his shock, his daughter climbed into them, sitting on his lap, and leaning her head on his shoulder. He patted her back, feeling the rising sun warm the air as the sunlight streamed through the trees.

“I wish your mama had run away,” he said, his voice quiet. “I wish she was safe in a kingdom far away. Your brother too. For a long time, I too wanted to pretend the accident didn’t happen. But I can’t pretend anymore, Frances.”

She was quiet for a long time. “Why not?”

“Because, like you, I have the tendency to run away from my problems, but I have a daughter who needs me now. I can’t run away anymore.” He leaned back and looked her in the eyes. “I won’t leave you again. I have something important to tell you too. I think you’ll be happy about it.”

“More flapjacks and drinking chocolate?” she asked, expression hopeful.

“Better. Miss Genevieve will not leave you again either. She will be your new mama.”

“Does she know that?”

He laughed. “I asked her, and she said yes. We are marrying today.” He tilted his head toward the chapel. “Right there. Will you come?”

“Yes. Will there be cake?”

Rory grimaced. “I forgot about the wedding breakfast. We’d better go back and talk to Cook. You’ll tell her what sort of cake you want, yes?”

“Yes!”

“Up you go.”

But she clung to his neck. “Carry me back, Papa.”

“Aren’t you a little old to be carried?”

“No.”

He laughed and lifted her up. She had long, skinny legs that hung down, but she was light. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he wondered if she watched the cemetery as they walked away from it.

Another time, he promised himself. These cracks in the wall—his and hers—had to be chiseled delicately, else the whole structure would come crashing down.

Gables opened the door to the house for them, and Rory set Frances down. He intended to go to the kitchens with her and give Mrs. Donnelly the news about the cake, but a flash of blue on the stairs caught his eye. He looked up and saw Genevieve standing in the middle of the staircase, her hand on her heart, her eyes wet.

“Go ahead, Frances,” he said. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

Frances ran off, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from scolding her for racing through the house like a horse rather than a young lady. He looked up at Genevieve instead. She was incredibly lovely. She hadn’t put her hair up yet, and it hung in a curly tail down her back. Her cheeks looked pink, as though they’d been scrubbed recently, and her wet eyes were large and very green. His gaze drifted to his lips, light pink and trembling to try to contain her tears. He began to wonder if that crack in the wall had not only given him access to his grief but also to pleasure. He hadn’t forgotten about that first kiss they’d shared, and he couldn’t deny he’d felt the stirrings of desire after kissing her last night. If he hadn’t been so exhausted, he might have marveled at his feelings. He hadn’t felt any pleasure in anything for so long. Had kissing Genevieve been what first cracked his wall? Was that why he was suddenly able to feel so much more?

Whatever the cause, he didn’t want his wall cracking any further. He’d best patch it while he could.

“Don’t you start crying,” he said more harshly than he intended. “I’ve had enough of weeping females for one day.”

“Sorry.” She wiped at her eyes. “I just…” She waved a hand. “I didn’t mean to become emotional, but seeing you carrying Frances like that was rather unexpected. Was she the other crying female?”

She started down the stairs, moving gracefully, her hips swaying gently. Those hips, as well as the rest of her, would be in his bed tonight.

“My lord?”

His gaze snapped back to her face. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“What is fine?”

“Whatever it is you were asking.”

“I was asking if your daughter was crying.”

“Oh, that.” He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead. Perhaps he should have Chaffer trim it before the wedding? “I wanted to tell her the good news, but before I could, she started going on about her mother. I took her to the cemetery to see the graves.”

“I no longer wonder why she was weeping.”

“She didn’t see them, but I think I made a start toward dispelling her fantasy that her mother is still alive.”

Genevieve looked unconvinced. “Don’t be surprised if she still clings to it for a little while. She’ll let it go when she doesn’t need it anymore.”

“Her grandparents should have never allowed it.”

“I doubt they had any idea she’d concocted such a fantasy. Children often resort to telling themselves stories to help make sense of a world that is, at times, chaotic and terrifying. I think we all do, though our stories become more intricate and private as we get older.”

A shiver ran up Rory’s spine as she spoke. He felt, just for a moment, that she had seen straight into his soul. Like Frances, he had told himself stories as a child, but they hadn’t been fairytales about kingdoms and queens. They’d been explanations, if only to himself, about the reasons behind the bad things that had happened to him in life. Was he still concocting those stories? Perhaps the curse was nothing more than a story he told himself to help alleviate his guilt toward Harriet’s death. Blaming it on the witch made the constant refrain in his own mind fade into the background.

But he could still hear that chorus if he listened. She’d be alive if you hadn’t sent for her. Why didn’t you go to London? What sort of man demands his wife leave her bed so soon after birth and travel hundreds of miles?

The longcase clock in the foyer chimed seven, and Rory was snapped back into the present. “If we’re to marry at ten, we had better begin preparations.”

A throat cleared behind him, and Rory turned to see Gables pretending to be staring at the ceiling. “Did you hear that, Gables?”

“I did not, my lord.”

“Right. Miss Brooking and I are marrying today.”

Gables’s gaze cut to the governess, and Rory felt unexpectedly protective. He hadn’t considered the gossip this change to Genevieve’s situation would cause among the servants. He’d better handle it quickly. “Gables, send for the servants. I want to address everyone at once.”

The butler bowed and moved away.

“What are you about?” Genevieve said under her breath.

“Announcing our marriage,” he said. “Come and stand here. I think it will look better if you are by my side.”

“Actually, I should go upstairs and find something suitable to wear.”

“Wear that. It’s pretty enough.”

“I’ll take your preference into consideration. I should put my hair up, and where is Frances—”

“Genevieve, stand here,” Rory demanded. “One thing I’ve learned about marriage is that we must be united. We should start how we mean to go on.”

She looked at him then back at the stairs.

“If you’re having second thoughts, you have approximately two minutes to make up your mind. That isn’t enough time for me to kiss you, which means you’ll have no interference from me. If you don’t want to marry me, say it now before I make a fool of myself declaring our impending nuptials to my entire staff.”

He kept his voice level and his expression impassive. He’d practiced looking as though he didn’t care for years. Over time, he’d even learned to match his feelings to his expression. But right now, his expression was only a mask. He cared, and cared very much, about what she said next. Rory was half afraid that he cared so much that if she refused him, he might be hurt. He clenched his hands into fists, tamping down his fear at the idea of ever allowing a woman to hurt him again.

How had he allowed himself to return to this vulnerable place?

Genevieve was still looking at him.

“A minute thirty,” he said, not really knowing if thirty seconds or three hundred had passed.

Slowly, she made her way across the marble floor between them and stood directly in front of him. She looked up at him, but Rory didn’t dare lower his gaze to meet her eyes. He was petrified of what he might see, and he wouldn’t allow her to see that fear. He’d learned very young never to show weakness. He was always the bravest, always the first to agree to any reckless or dangerous scheme. He wasn’t about to let the idea of another marriage fill him with trepidation—at least, he wouldn’t let her see that it did.

She inhaled slowly then stepped away. Rory didn’t dare move his neck, but he shifted his gaze. She had moved to stand beside him. Then he felt her hand touch his, just the brush of fingertips, but it was enough to send a jolt what felt like sunshine through his hand, up his arm, and into his very core.

She’d chosen him.