Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

C hristine sat on her bed with her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs. She had not slept a wink through the night, thinking only of the ball. It washed over her like crashing waves, over and over and over.

"Why did they have to see me?" she muttered, rocking back and forth. "Why did they have to walk outside right at that moment? Why do I have the worst luck in the world?"

What will this do for Irene? If I am found out, no one will want anything to do with her, and all because of me!

"Christine!"

Her father's voice sounded far away, as if calling for her from deep within a cave. Her father was some distance away; he had called from downstairs, but a muffled quality made her feel as if no one was close to her.

"Christine!"

Christine could not ignore the world or her father forever. She unfolded her legs and rolled herself from the bed. The air felt chilly, and Christine grabbed her shawl to wrap around her shoulders. The sun streamed in through the window but brought no warmth.

She left the sanctity of her room and slowly made her way downstairs. The house was deathly quiet—her father's calls had halted now that he had heard her stir upstairs. Christine padded down the wooden stairs, counting each one. She walked along the empty corridor until she came to the parlor.

Inside, her sister sat on the chaise lounge, her hands clasped on her lap and her head bent. Their father sat in his large armchair, slightly facing away from the door. His hands gripped the arms of the chair—a pipe hung from his mouth. He looked past Irene toward the window.

"Father?" Christine asked.

Cornelius Wilkinson, the Earl of Woodmore, slowly turned his head to look at his eldest daughter.

Christine swallowed the lump forming in her throat. When her father was most angry, he was silent. That silence was usually followed by an angry tirade; he could only dam his words for so long before they surged forth and took down everything in their way.

Her father studied her, and Christine was once again a young girl standing before her father. As a child, she had argued with her nanny, stolen an apple from the farmer's tree, and gotten her dress dirty before attending events. As an adult, she had been caught in scandalous pose with a rakish duke.

The look from her father was far worse this time.

"Sit," her father ordered. "Beside your sister."

Christine did as she was told, walking through the room slowly, not wanting to make any sound other than the soft pad of her feet against the rug covering the hardwood floor. She sat down by her sister, and Irene gave her a quick glance before looking back down at her feet.

Christine did not look at her father directly but studied him out of the corner of her eye. The smoke from his pipe wound its way to the ceiling, and her mind flashed to the Duke standing on the verandah. Her stomach churned at the memory of being caught out there, but her heart fluttered. She could not remember a man looking at her like the Duke had.

Cornelius stood from his chair and held the bowl of his pipe in his palm as the embers fizzled out. He used the tip of his pipe to point at Christine and Irene, but he did not speak yet.

It was a game of cat and mouse, but not one where the cat and mouse would try and outmaneuver each other. The two mice sat, unmoving, hoping that if they remained still, the cat would get bored and disappear.

"I want to know exactly what happened last night," Cornelius demanded. "I want to hear the truth about what you were doing with His Grace all alone outside. Are you… are you in trouble, Christine?"

The concern in his voice made Christine's heart melt, and she wished for a moment that she was in some trouble or that trouble followed the ball. She wanted her father to help her, but there was no helping what she had done. There was only shame.

"I'm not in real trouble," Christine replied. "It was all just a big misunderstanding."

Cornelius paced back and forth before the two women, pointing his pipe in short jabs. "How about you explain it to me, and I will see if I can understand it?"

Christine knew from the moment her father had summoned her that she would not lie to him.

"It was completely my fault, Father," Christine said.

Her father gave a quiet sigh as he paced, and the message behind it was clear: Well, yes, of course it was.

"Irene danced with His Grace, and he was terribly rude to her after the dance," Christine explained. "He left her on the dance floor without escorting her back to me. I had to give him a piece of my mind, Father."

"Of course, you did," Cornelius replied. "This is the reason why you do not have a husband."

"I don't need a husband, Father. I only?—"

"Yes, I know. I have heard it multiple times before, Christine. You want to be there for Irene because your mother can't. That does not mean you shun your happiness."

"If the men of the Ton can't deal with some challenges, then—" Christine began.

"It is not challenges; it is defiance," her father stated. "You are far too emotional for your own good, and it would not hurt you to tone it down a bit for everyone else's sake."

Christine knew every word of it was true, but she could not reason with herself and blurted, "So, I should change who I am just to please a man."

Cornelius stopped pacing and jabbed his pipe in the air toward Christine. "That is not what I am saying, and you know it. You don't need to take every word and action against you as a personal slight. Not everyone is out to get you, Christine."

"No, but most are out to get something and take advantage where possible." Christine finally looked up at her father. She knew she should not be arguing with him but could not stop herself.

"I did not come here to argue about why you do not have a husband, Christine. I came here to warn you not to ruin your sister's future."

Christine thrust herself to her feet but didn't look her father in the eye, knowing that she was already pushing it with her defiance. She was pushing herself, too, and the tears threatened to burst through.

"I don't want to ruin Irene's future," Christine said quietly, controlling the tremor in her voice. "I will do anything, anything to ensure she does not suffer because of my mistakes."

"Did she lose the ability to walk last night?" Cornelius asked.

Christine furrowed her brows. "Pardon, Father?"

"Did His Grace throw her to the ground?" Cornelius pushed.

"Of course, he didn't throw her to the ground, Father."

"His Grace danced with Irene and didn't walk ten paces with her, so you had to storm outside to argue with him, and… and… and!"

"Nothing happened, Father. I know how it must have looked, but I do not like that man, so you don't need to worry about that."

"I don't need to worry about that?" Cornelius almost laughed as he spoke the words. "Did you go out there because of Irene, or did your hate spark your little show?"

"No, it was not like that!" Christine shouted. "Yes, he left her on the dance floor, but it was also the way he looked at me and how he was dancing with Irene. They were far too close."

"Far too close?" Her father guffawed this time. "That is how you are supposed to dance! Irene, were you too close to His Grace?"

Irene continued to look at her feet and mumbled, "I don't know."

"And how did he look at you, Christine?" Cornelius demanded.

Like he wanted to devour me! Like he wanted to run his hands all over my body. Like he wanted me to be his. Why does that desire make me feel giddy?

"I don't know, Father," Christine replied. "It is hard to explain. You really had to be there."

"And I shall be there for any future balls and events because I can't trust you to maintain basic decorum, Christine."

Christine shook her head and tried to find the words, but instead of reason, she found emotion. "It's not like that! Lady Hammersmith will have twisted it, and?—"

"And now, you talk ill of others," Cornelius stated.

His words felt like a punch to the chest, and Christine slumped backward into the seat beside Irene with a thump.

"Don't blame those who saw you, Christine." Her father's voice was sharp and pointed, but there was some rounding to the blade—he was one of the few people in the world who understood her. "You put yourself in that position, and we must now deal with it."

"Wh-what must we do, Father?" Christine asked.

" We must do nothing," he replied. "I will decide the best course of action, and I expect you to do as I tell you, Christine."

"I will, Father," Christine replied. She wanted to fight but knew she had to pick her battles. If only she could remember that when her emotions took over.

Cornelius approached his eldest daughter and looked down on her. "You know I only want the best for you. For the both of you."

"I know, Father," Christine replied.

"I know," Irene said softly.

"You are both not to leave the house until we sort this matter out," Cornelius stated.

Both women nodded and agreed.

Cornelius was satisfied, and he left the room. Christine didn't know whether she should talk or not. Irene remained statue-like beside her.

"I'm sorry," Christine said.

"You were only looking out for me," Irene mumbled. "I'm glad someone is."

"I always will," Christine said. "There are men out there who want to take advantage, and I shall not let them."

Irene nodded slowly. "Mother is doing better this morning. She has been asking for you."

Christine smiled, but that smile did not hide her true feelings very well. "I shall go and visit her now. She does not need to know about any of this."

"I know," Irene replied.

She got up and left her sister in the parlor, walking the long distance to her mother's room. Their house was not particularly big compared to other lords, but the house always felt large when she visited her mother, who had been placed away from the noise.

Ethel Wilkinson, the Countess of Woodmore, suffered from a nervous illness. She had been bedridden for almost a year, and there was no sign that she would leave her bed soon. She was in an almost constant state of emotional distress, fatigue, and lethargy.

If she was doing better, it meant the emotional distress was less than usual.

Christine knocked on the door. "Mother, it's me."

"Come in, my dear."

Christine pushed the door open. Her mother's room was often clouded by darkness, but the curtains had been opened, and her mother sat up in bed. She did not present herself as ill, but her face was wrinkled and pale, her skin stretched and taught so that she looked like her own ghost, trying to warm herself in her bed.

"How are you feeling, Mother?" Christine asked.

"I am fine." Her voice was strained, as if it were painful to talk. "Everyone worries too much about me."

"You need to rest, Mother."

"I can take care of myself." Ethel tapped the bed, her movements slow. "Come and sit with me, my dear."

Christine walked over to the side of the bed and sat in the chair placed there. If there were something she could do, she would do it instantly, but the only thing that would help her mother was time. She reached out and took her mother's hand.

"What is wrong, my dear?" Ethel asked.

"Nothing, Mother."

"I can see it on your face, Christine," Ethel replied. "And I heard your father shouting. I only want to help."

"You did help." Christine squeezed her mother's hand. "You were there for me when I debuted, and I can still remember everything you did for me." Christine had to fight back the tears. "I want to be there for Irene."

Ethel gently squeezed Christine's hand, and it felt like everything. Her mother had to put in more effort to accomplish the most basic tasks.

"You are there for Irene," Ethel told her. "You only need to learn to stop fighting so hard. She needs someone to fight for her, of course, but we both know the trouble you can get yourself into when you fight so hard for what is right."

"Mother, we?—"

"I know, I know," Ethel agreed. She leaned forward to cough into her napkin. "Yes, there are men out there who will take advantage, but you must let someone get close."

"Irene knows?—"

"I wasn't talking about Irene," her mother interrupted. "You fight so hard for everyone else, my dear." She squeezed Christine's hand again. "You need someone who will fight for you, Christine."

Christine fought back the tears, but they cascaded down her cheeks and dripped to the skirt of her dress.

"You need someone to fight for you," Ethel repeated.

Christine didn't let go of her mother's hand, enjoying the feel of her mother's squeeze. When the tears finally cleared, her mother had her eyes closed.

Christine didn't want to let go of her mother. She sat by her bed, holding her hand as she slept. She did not know how long she had sat there when the door was pushed open slightly, and Irene became visible.

Irene looked at the tableau before her and smiled. Then, she looked at Christine.

"A letter has come," she whispered. "From the Duke of Aldworth."

Christine's heart froze. She thought her father's anger would be her punishment, but there was more to come. If the Duke had written them, it couldn't be good news.

Christine nodded, trying to keep the emotion from her face. She would sit with her mother for a while longer, and then she would face the music.