Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

" Y ou've got to help me with this, Cressida," her father said as he greeted her at the door to his estate.

Cressida forced herself to take a deep, steadying breath. It had been a week since Matthew had left for the country, and she'd seen nothing of him since then. She hadn't had so much as a letter. She was finding it difficult to get through the days. She spent hours in the sitting room at home, just staring into the fire, trying not to think about the emptiness she had felt inside from the moment he had left her.

Now she had to spend the day with her father—but how was she going to do that, knowing that her husband had left her? How was she going to act as if everything was normal when that had never been further from the truth?

"I'm here to help," she told her father. "What's the trouble?"

"Well, it's my ledger," he said fretfully. "Everything is out of balance, and I can't seem to pinpoint the reason why. I wish I knew what was behind it all, but I don't."

"Have you been tracking all your expenditures the way I showed you?" she asked him. "You know that it doesn't work if you forget to write things down, and you so frequently do forget to do that."

"I've written everything down," her father assured her. Then he paused and added, "at least, I think I have."

"And yet the numbers don't balance? You must have missed something."

"Which is the reason I so badly need you to take a look at things," he said, turning away from her and leading her toward his study, where the books were kept. "Come quickly, I've been waiting."

Cressida hurried along after him. She had worried, when she had first arrived, about how she was going to manage to keep herself together. How was she going to be sure that he wouldn't see what an awful state she was in? But now that she was here, she could see that there had been no need for worry about it. He hadn't noticed that anything was wrong at all.

She should have known, shouldn't she? That was the way things always went with her father. He was preoccupied with himself, with his own concerns. He never knew what Cressida was going through. Even when she had been a child, it had fallen to her to take care of herself.

He ushered her into the study. The ledger was open on his desk. "Shall I leave you to it?" he asked her.

She looked up at him as she sat down. "You aren't even going to stay? You're just going to leave me here to do your finances as if I was someone you had hired for the job, and not your own daughter?"

"Well—" He fumbled slightly. "It's just that…it seems a job for one person, doesn't it? I don't think you need my help here. Unless you disagree?"

"I simply would have expected you to want to stay," Cressida said. "You and I haven't seen one another in some time. Don't you want to spend time with me at all? Don't you want to know how I'm doing?"

She was surprised at herself for asking the question, for she had spent the whole ride over trying to fathom how she might prevent him from finding out how she was doing. It was something she had been sure she wanted to keep to herself. She couldn't let her father discover that his capable, reliable daughter had found herself in such a terrible situation—that she had lost her marriage the way she had, and that she was alone and grieving.

She had to be strong. She had to remain the confident, tough person he had always believed her to be. She couldn't be anything less.

She pulled the ledger toward her. "Go, if you want," she said. "I'll tend to this. I'm sure I'll find the problem quickly." Years of experience had taught her all of her father's regular expenses, so she was sure that she would be capable of combing through the books and locating the problem with relative ease.

But her father sat down. "Perhaps you're right," he said. "Perhaps I should stay. It would be good to know what you've been doing lately. Will we be able to have you and your husband over for dinner soon? It does seem a long time since I've seen you, now that you mention it."

Cressida swallowed hard. What had she been thinking, asking him to stay with her? Of course the conversation would quickly turn to Matthew, and now what was she going to tell him? How could she explain to her father that her husband had left?

She couldn't. He was used to her being the strong one, the one who didn't require any help. She couldn't disappoint him now by allowing him to see her struggle.

She tried to focus on the book in front of her, but it was a difficult thing to do. The numbers seemed to swim before her.

"Cressida?" It was Victoria. Cressida kept her head down as her sister entered the room. Having Victoria here should have strengthened her resolve—she knew that her sister needed and expected strength from her—but that wasn't what was happening. Instead, Cressida found her throat closing with emotion.

With her father, she could never be sure. But Victoria was someone who truly cared about her, who really loved her. Matthew was gone—she had let herself believe he might have feelings for her, but now it was clear that those feelings had never been stronger than his desire to keep her out of his study.

But Victoria had always loved her and always would.

Suddenly, Cressida found the tears streaming down her face. It was more than she could stand, being here with someone whose affection for her she could trust.

"Cressida!" Victoria hurried forward, dropped to her knees, and took Cressida's hands in her own. "What is it? What's the matter? Are you ill? Father, send for a physician!"

Cressida shook her head quickly. "I'm not ill," she managed.

"Then what's the matter? Oh, don't cry, whatever it is, Father and I will fix it, won't we, Father?"

Cressida looked up at her father. He looked rather taken aback, as she might have expected, but there was concern on his face. His brow was furrowed. "Shall we contact your husband, Cressida?" he asked.

Cressida shook her head. "You won't be able to," she choked out through her tears.

"What do you mean?"

"He's not in London. He's gone to live in the country."

"You're going to live in the country?" Victoria demanded. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm not going. Only Matthew. He's left me here, at his London estate." She wiped at her eyes. "He's left me alone."

"I don't understand," Victoria said. "What do you mean, he's left you alone? He's your husband."

Cressida shook her head. "He's my husband in name only," she said. "He wants our marriage to be at an end. He went to the country to get away from me. I don' know when I'm ever going to see him again. I'm alone in that big house with no one for company, and this is what the rest of my life is going to look like."

"Is this true?" Her father came to her side. "Your husband has left you?"

Cressida looked up at him. She had anticipated his disappointment, but to her surprise, he didn't look disappointed in her. He appeared to be sad, it was true, but sad in a way that—for the very first time in her memory—made her feel as if he was sad for her rather than sad about his own problems. Not disappointed in her. Disappointed for her.

"Let's go down to the sitting room and have some tea," he said. "You can tell us all about it."

"You aren't upset?" She couldn't believe it.

"I'm very upset," he countered. "Of course I am. How could I not be, Cressida? You're my daughter. I care about what happens to you. This makes me deeply unhappy. Come. I want to know what happened to cause him to do this."

Her father put his arm around her shoulders and guided Cressida out of the study. As they made their way to the sitting room, Victoria following along, Cressida found herself feeling very young.

This was what it had been like when her mother was alive. This was what it felt like to be cared for by a parent.

How long had it been since she had felt this?

They reached the sitting room and Victoria hurried off to arrange for the tea to be delivered. Cressida's father sat beside her, his arm still around her, and picked up a blanket to wrap around her shoulders. Cressida shivered as the blanket encircled her, even though it was warm. To sit here, surrounded by the love of her family, being cared for like this, made her realize just how much had been missing—and for just how long.

Victoria returned with the tea and pressed a hot cup into Cressida's open hands. Cressida took a sip, even though the tea was still too hot to drink, and closed her eyes, savoring the taste.

"Tell us everything," her father urged. "Take your time, of course—but tell us everything." His face darkened. "Did something happen between the two of you?"

Cressida was sure her father was remembering the close call with Victoria on the road to Gretna Green. "Nothing horrible," she said. "He simply…decided he didn't want to be a participant in our marriage anymore."

"For no reason?" Victoria asked. "None at all? There must have been something, even if it was foolish."

"Well, it was extremely foolish. He has a sketchbook, and he caught me looking through it." She shook her head. "I knew he was private about it, but he had let me look at it before, so I thought that surely it would be all right this time."

"That's what this was about? A sketchbook?" Her father shook his head. "What could be so private about something like that?"

Cressida thought of the picture she had seen, the one that had made her realize Matthew's true origins.

Even now, even with him having run off to the country, Cressida found herself unable to betray his secret to her father and her sister. She couldn't tell them what she had learned. It wasn't that she was embarrassed about her husband's origins—far from it. She liked knowing the truth. She felt that it helped her to understand him a little better—of course he had always tried to be the perfect son. He was illegitimate, the product of an affair his father had had with a maid. He must have spent his whole life trying to compensate for that fact.

But she cared about him—in spite of herself—enough that she wanted to protect his secret.

"He just doesn't like to share his art," she told her father. "I should have known better than to look."

It was true. But at the same time, she couldn't shake the anger she felt.

She should have known better than to look, yes—but he should have known better than to leave her. He should have known better, and he should have done better. There was no excuse for the way he had reacted.

She clung to the anger as if it was armor, protecting her from her broken heart.