Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

The chaos was maddening.

Hefting the trunk in his arms, Simon nodded down to John. "Take hold of my coat and your sister's hand. Do not let go of either, understand?"

John's wide eyes scampered from one commotion to the next, but at the instruction, he nodded and did as he was told.

"Me cold, Papa." Mercy's whimper was barely audible amid the shouts and wind.

He choked back a sense of shame. The ship fare had cost more than he'd had—even after selling his livestock, the farm, and the last of his pelts. Had it not been for Blayney's small bag of gold dust, Simon could not have made the trip at all.

His friend would be repaid though.

Even if Simon had to work alongside Father's servants to earn the amount.

"We'll be warm soon." The promise tasted dry and empty on his tongue. How many promises had he made them of late?

We will arrive soon.

There will be plenty to eat off the ship.

It will not be cold.

We will not be sad forever.

As if to lash him for such idiocy, a suffocating pain bludgeoned his heart. His eyes stung against the salty wind. "Follow me." Shouldering his way through the crowd, he kept his eyes straight ahead, focused on some unknown thing, as if feigning he had a purpose would make it so.

Had he ever had a purpose?

Twelve years ago, on these very wharves, he had forsaken his homeland in search of such an ambition. Somehow, he'd imagined leaving all this behind, braving a new land would satisfy that hunger in the pit of his being.

But the hunger was still there.

Near ravenous now.

And he was not certain he had enough inside himself to appease the pangs. Had Father been right all along? What would the man think to see his son returned—wearing the clothes of a low-class worker, toting along two motherless children, without so much as a farthing to his name?

"Sir, look." The coat tugged.

Simon glanced to where his son pointed.

Several yards behind them, a woman lay on her back near a stack of weathered tobacco crates, her red cloak billowed around her like blood.

"Her is dead like Mama," Mercy whispered.

Before he could move, a lean gentleman charged his way to the woman, bent next to her, and swung her from the muddy ground.

"Come on." Simon nudged them forward again and marched faster, until they reached a cobbled street flanked on each side with piles of melting snow. He spotted a hackney in the shadow of an abandoned warehouse.

Muttering a prayer under his breath, he fingered the last cold coins in his pocket and started that direction. He hoped he had enough to get them to Sowerby House.

He hoped Father did not loathe the sight of him if they did.

"Are you certain you are well?"

Georgina pushed away the vinaigrette of smelling salts, the strong lemon scent increasing her nausea. With an unsteady hand, she swept back a curl in her face. Her hair was damp and gritty, as if she had—

"Pray, do not worry over your appearance now. It is far too irremediable for that." The lady across the carriage reached into her beaded reticule and fluttered out a handkerchief. "This might be of some service, however."

Georgina accepted the offering, glanced to the maid on her left, then back at the empty place where Mr. Oswald should have been. "Where is—"

"My brother is in frantic search of a doctor, quilts, and a second foot warmer. Though I daresay, the former is merely an overcaution. Indeed, every lady faints now and again." A petulant frown formed. "I do admit, you might have done so in a more convenient place. I would never think of fainting had I no one near to catch me."

"It was not my intention." She worked to keep the sarcasm from her tone. Had she ever fainted before? A dull throb struck her temples. Yes, of course she had—once.

The night in the library.

"Forgive the lack of formal introductions, but I am Eleanor Oswald." Tucking her reticule beside her, the woman burrowed her hands back inside her swansdown muff. Dressed in a deep purple dress, covered by a fur-lined mantle, Miss Oswald looked no worse for travel than if she had merely taken a half-mile stroll through Grosvenor Square—not a ship journey across the wintry North Atlantic.

Indeed, sophistication emanated from her being.

Tight black ringlets cascaded around her cheeks, her skin was fair, and her thickly lashed eyes were cool and intellectual. "And you are?"

"Forgive me. Miss Georgina Whitmore." She managed a small smile, but a sinking dread rushed through her. She glanced out the frozen carriage window. Had she truly seen him?

She prayed to heaven it had been a mistake.

He had no right to return here. Not twelve years later. Not after his father was dead and his mother blinded—not after all the things he had forsaken in one thoughtless night. Had he any idea what he had done to his parents? Had he any idea what he had done to her?

But even as the thoughts surged through her, her vision swam. She leaned closer to the window and searched the distant figures with painful fervor.

Despite everything, she almost prayed to catch a glimpse of the brown coat again.

She was a greater fool than she'd ever known.

Moonlight shimmered from the endless, lightless windows of Sowerby House.

Simon stood at the bottom step, the enormous home staring down on him as if in condemnation. He resisted the urge to rush his children back into the hackney. How much easier to run away again than to face the man inside.

"I hope you find whatever it is you seek, Son." Father's words, his disheartened tone. "But I shall be here when you do not."

The memory left an ache, but he ascended the steps anyway. He was not returning in defeat. He had come back to England for one reason and one reason alone—to find the men responsible for the death of his wife.

If Father could not understand, it would be no great surprise.

He had never understood anything else.

Asleep in his arms, Mercy stirred when Simon banged the fish-shaped door knocker. He glanced back at the jarvey who handled his trunk at the bottom of the stairs. "You can leave it here. Thank you."

The man muttered an oath and slammed it down—probably still disgruntled that Simon had coerced him into the journey with two shillings and one lucky card game—then jogged his way back to the hackney.

The door opened to a crack. "Who is it?" A squeaky, wary voice. One he knew well.

"Mr. Wilkins, it is me."

"Pardon?"

"Simon Fancourt." Reaching down, Simon squeezed his son's shoulder. "It is much too late to explain, but I should like to come in."

The door wobbled a bit, then it opened so hard it banged the wall behind. "Master Fancourt, it is you." The butler stood in a simple woolen banyan, the tassel of his nightcap over one eye, his candle shaking in his grasp. "Indeed, sir, this is a moment I never thought I would live to see. Not in all my life."

Simon ushered John inside, though his son had already grasped Simon's coat in a death grip. "Our trunk is on the step, and we will need a fire in my old chamber."

"Oh yes, sir. Of course, sir. I should be most pleased to do that and far more for you, if I can."

He worked his jaw to keep back a grin. As a child, Simon had seen the butler as bothersome and far too authoritative, despite his nervous demeanor. Now, he seemed a rather silly man with his thin stature, his fast-blinking eyes, and the long bridge of his bony nose. But true welcome, true sincerity, seemed to glow from his eager face.

Simon garnered comfort from that—even if the man had scolded him too many times for sliding down banisters.

"If you do not mind, I believe we shall steal into the kitchen and see if Cook has milk and bread for three hungry varmints."

"Oh, sir, you are hardly that. Shall I, ahem, wake a servant to prepare the meal?"

"No. I believe I have raided the kitchen enough to need no assistance now." Taking John's hand, he found his way through the dark and silent house, entered the kitchen, and awoke Mercy long enough to prepare a small feast. They ate with vigor, the warmth of heated milk and honey chasing away the chill of a long, tiresome day.

By the time they were finished, Mercy's eyes were already drooping again, and even John looked as if his head was too heavy to keep upright.

"Come. There will be a fire awaiting us upstairs." Simon lifted Mercy in one arm, then swung John into the other, ignoring the yawning protest that he could walk by himself.

The stairs creaked as Simon ascended. He found his chamber door open, the counterpane folded back on his bed, and the hearth blazing warm beneath the black-painted mantel.

"Me can have Baby now, Papa?" Mercy murmured the question as he lowered both children to the creaking bed.

In the flickering firelight, he found where the butler had placed their trunk. Simon flipped the dull hasps, opened the lid, and rummaged through the unorganized mess. Unfolded clothes, his worn Bible, his dismantled gun, a leather-bound sketchbook, and…Baby.

He lifted the doll, pushing back the memories of Ruth's nimble fingers twisting twine and husks to bring the doll alive. She had brought everything alive.

They were all a little dead without her.

Returning to the bed, he slipped Baby into Mercy's arms. "Go to sleep now, child." He smoothed back the scruffy curls, pulled the counterpane around her neck, then leaned over her to do the same to John. "Are you warm?"

"Yes, sir." His young face had lost that pleasant, sunburnt ruddiness, and the cheeks so often dimpled and smiling back home now appeared thin.

The journey had been hard. Harder than Simon had expected. The first few weeks, both children had been ill and lightly fevered—and although meals were plentiful for two months, the rations eventually lessened to meager amounts of peas, stale cheese, and boiled salted meat.

Simon swiped his hand across John's forehead, tousling the brown hair. "It will be easier for us now, Son."

"Yes, sir."

"You are a good boy." He smiled. "A little man."

At the praise, a sweet glow of pleasure brightened John's features. "One day I'll be big like you and Blayney, won't I?"

Simon nodded.

"I'll live in the mountains like Blayney did, and I'll fight bears. I won't be afraid. I'll trap things too. Like you do. I'll sell them and have lots of money to buy a gun."

"A gun?"

A cloud struck John's eyes, a sickening look. "If anyone tries to hurt Mercy…if anyone tries to make her die like Mama, I'll kill them."

"Son, I told you before. There was nothing you could do."

"She was screaming." His chin bunched, but he wrestled so hard against the tears that his face reddened. "When I was in the loft…she screamed and screamed. I think she wanted me to come."

"No."

"She needed me to—"

"John, no." Simon cupped his face. "She needed you to protect your sister. She told me you did right, hear? You did right."

Sucking in a breath, John rubbed hard at both of his eyes. He did not say anything else. Merely turned over on his side, crammed his eyes shut, and curled deeper beneath the soft counterpane.

Simon strode to the hearth and sat on the floor before the warming flames. He prayed he could erase the guilt from his son's mind.

But the truth was he could not even erase the guilt from himself.

She could not sleep.

Twice, she climbed from bed and lingered at the window, where she pressed her fingers to the frozen glass. The cold ran deep. She was tempted to rush to Agnes's chamber, slip in bed with her cousin, and weep away the confusing thoughts swirling through her.

Even if she did, Agnes would not understand. No one would.

Georgina did not understand herself.

She only knew that they stayed with her—those quiet summer carriage rides—like a pendant necklace locked about her neck. Endless times, she had tried to yank it away. She had promised her heart apathy. She had sworn to herself and to the world around her that Simon Fancourt meant nothing and never had.

But he did.

Why should that be? He had never uttered affection to her, and despite their promised marriage, he had never so much as grasped her hand. Indeed, at many social events, he seemed distracted and almost indifferent to her presence, nearly a stranger.

Yet sometimes, on those few and seldom rides, his shoulders had lost their rigidity. The carriage had swayed and jostled, the movement lulling, and the sky had burned pink and orange hues across the hay-scented countryside.

He had spoken of paintings and colors and ideas.

She had listened and said nearly nothing at all.

And in an unexplained way, it had soothed her. The soft, deep cadence of his voice. The passion in the things he said. The veracity, the fervency, in the way he looked at the world from his carriage seat—as if he possessed the desire and power to change what existed before him.

Perhaps he believed he did.

Perhaps she had believed him too.

Drawing back from the window, she shivered. She had been wrong to cast her sentiments on such a man. She had sensed something different in him, something real and intimate—but the truth was he was just like everyone else.

He had done the one thing she feared.

Abandoned her.

With a lump in her throat, she returned to bed and burrowed herself beneath the coverlet. Sleep still evaded, and when the first streaks of morning weakened the darkness, Georgina dressed without her maid and slipped downstairs. The need to talk to someone, to speak out loud what thrummed in her chest, drove her into the morning chill.

The walk from her town house to St. Bartholomew's Church was a short one, and she followed the narrow flagway until she reached a black, unlocked gate.

She pushed it open, the whine loud in the sleepy stillness, and entered the tiny graveyard. Why did she always come here?

'Twas not as if kneeling at the tombstone would bring him back.

No more than visiting the library.

Icy grass crunched beneath her feet as she walked the maze of foggy tomb chests and lichen-covered crosses.

Surprise stirred when she reached Papa's grave. A flower?

She lifted the dried yellow rose, some of the petals crumbling. Who would have left such a thing?

Perhaps the clergyman. Maybe even the old sexton who worked the grounds.

Whoever it had been, gratefulness filled her as she returned the rose and knelt before the grave. "The snow did not last long, Papa." She spoke in a whisper. "I know you did not care for it at all. While Mamma always enjoyed skating the ponds and river, you and I were much more content by the hearth."

A noise interrupted her.

She glanced about the graveyard, searched the fog, but the only thing in sight was a fluttering black bird at the top of a bare hawthorn tree.

"Simon Fancourt is back, Papa." Her pressure lessened at the words. "I know you must be surprised. I was surprised too. The truth is I rather imagined him dead or so far away he could never return—"

For the second time, a sound turned her head.

Something moved, a shadow in the fog, then a face peered around the hawthorn.

Heart tripping, she scrambled to her feet with an intake of breath. How long had a man been there? Why had she not seen him before?

Likely, he was just another worker here to assist the sexton.

Yes, that was it of course.

But he did not step out from behind the tree trunk. He did not bow and apologize for startling her, or smile away her discomfort, or ask if she needed assistance finding a grave.

He just watched her, hair long and black and blowing across his indistinct face.

Clutching her dress, Georgina hurried back for the gate and exhaled a breath when she clanged it shut behind her. She did not know who that man was.

But she was certain she did not wish to ever see him again.

The sturdy oak door, the ornate knob, all glistened in light from the hall window.

For the second time, Simon lifted his hand to knock. This time he did not withdraw in cowardice. The rap of his knuckles echoed, disturbing the late morning quietness, as a churning sensation worked his stomach.

"Father?"

Perhaps the man had fallen asleep. Twelve years ago—indeed, the whole of Simon's life—Father had been up before the dawn, seated in his study, and hard at work over his ledgers and correspondences.

The silence greeting Simon now raised alarm. Had things changed so very much in his absence?

Easing open the door, he leaned his head inside the study. The smell struck him with familiarity—paper, ink, leather, a faint trace of tobacco.

He entered and approached the massive desk. Everything was organized, pristine, and unchanged, much as he had expected.

Except the chair was empty.

"Oh—Master Fancourt."

Simon turned to the doorway.

The butler entered, looking more himself with his combed hair and tight black suit. His smile was tentative. "Mrs. Fancourt wishes me to draw the curtains in here every morning, but if you should like to be alone—"

"Father always draws them himself." Simon brought his knuckles down on the desk surface. "Where is he this morning, anyway?"

"Oh." Mr. Wilkins discolored. "Oh—I, ahem, you see he…"

"He what?"

"Perhaps you should speak with Mrs. Fancourt, sir. I took the liberty of informing her already of your arrival."

The thought of seeing Mother was considerably less formidable than a confrontation with Father. Simon smiled, nodded. "Perhaps you are right."

"Will you take breakfast with her in the breakfast room?"

"Yes. I shall fetch my children—"

"Unnecessary, sir, as I have already sent up a temporary nanny to attend to them in the nursery. Besides, I imagine the madam shall like to see you alone."

The pinched words sent another ripple of unease through Simon. He would have questioned Mr. Wilkins further, but the butler spun away in a hurry, shoes squeaking against the marble floors as he led Simon to the breakfast room.

"I shall fetch her at once, sir." Parting the breakfast-room doors, the butler gestured Simon inside.

He sighed and swept into the small room. The walls were cream, the plaster ceiling was white and intricately patterned, and the round table in the center of the room sported empty blue-and-silver dishes.

Simon went to the sideboard, filled a plate with steaming kedgeree, an egg, and a buttered piece of toast. He returned to the table, grimacing at the contrast of his worn brown coat and trousers next to the lace tablecloth.

Father would detest the sight of his prodigal returned from the pigsty.

Perhaps Mother too.

He stirred at his food, took small bites, but had difficulty swallowing. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked and tocked, the sound grating.

Did they delay meeting with him to extend his torture? What the devil was taking so long?

He ripped the napkin from his neck, ready to search them out himself, when the doors opened again.

Simon jerked to his feet as she entered.

Thinner than he remembered, Mother stood in a simple white morning dress, her hair piled atop her head with traces of silver that had not been there twelve years ago. Her gaze remained steady, fixed on something across the room, but she did not look at him.

Hurt pricked. Was he so despicable that she could not bear the sight of him?

"Simon?"

"Mother." He moved forward, debating whether a kiss to her cheek would be unsavory or welcomed. He shoved his hands into his worn pockets instead. "I received Father's letter."

"If he had known that one letter could summon you back, I daresay he would have written many years ago." She smiled, but sadness quivered at the corner of her lips. "Are you well, my son?"

"Yes." He hesitated. "I have come with my children."

"I have grandchildren? You never wrote to us of a wife."

"I did not think Father would appreciate the news."

With a slight nod, Mother shuffled forward another step, using a cane Simon had not noticed. "Would you mind seeing me to the table? I fear I need assistance for most everything these days."

He drew close to her, touched her arm, the scent of sandalwood pleasant and choking—

"Son." She turned to him. Her hand found his cheek, her breathing quickened, and tears overwhelmed the eyes that would not look at him.

Understanding struck him, as her fingers crept along his stubbled jaw, swept across his nose, eased around his hairline. "Mother, you are blind."

"You have changed."

"Mother—"

"Yes. I am."

"But Father said nothing in his letter."

"He did not write the letter."

"What do you mean? Where is he?" Simon took a step back, heart drubbing faster. "How long have you been this way?"

"Simon, I am sorry to have deceived you. It was the only way. The only way I could think of to get you back…" She sagged against her cane, face draining white.

He helped her into one of the breakfast chairs, but his thoughts raced out of control. Nothing made sense. The letter from Father had been a lie? What had she done—urged a servant to replicate the handwriting?

Simon should have known Father would not reach out to him. Nor ask him home.

"There was a carriage accident…our last trip to Tunbridge Wells." Mother buried her face in her hands, elbows on the table. "A runaway mail coach collided with our phaeton, and your father and I were both flung from the carriage."

"And Father?" The words burned. "Where is he?"

"There was an iron fence…along the road and…"

"And what?"

The words escaped in a sob. "He was impaled by the spikes."

A torrent of disbelief and numbness rushed through his body. He backed away from her racking frame. He shook his head, gritted his teeth, plunged his hands back into his pockets, and fisted the fabric.

Then he barged from the room.

This could not be true. He was far too gnashed from his last grief to bear a new one.

Georgina should not have come. She knew that.

But despite everything, she strode up the Sowerby House steps, palms dampening beneath her gloves. Was there any chance she had imagined the figure in the brown coat? Or at the very least fathomed his likeness to Simon Fancourt? Was it possible she would stride inside today, sit with Mrs. Fancourt in the drawing room, and smile over tea without the slightest mention of a returned son?

Georgina startled when the door came open, more from frayed nerves than true fright. Truly, she must get a hold of herself.

"Good afternoon, Miss Whitmore." The butler ushered her inside, though he lacked his usual smile, and took her red cloak. "I fear Mrs. Fancourt is not well today, but I shall inform her you have arrived. If you will be so good as to follow me into the drawing room—"

"No, you need not bother. If she is unwell, I shall not request a visit. I will await you here in case she has a message for me."

"Very good, miss." The butler bowed and exited, leaving the spacious anteroom in perfect silence.

Georgina found a chair alongside the wall, clasped her hands in her lap, and waited. Disappointment thronged her. What had she hoped would happen? That she'd be shown into the drawing room today, only to find Simon Fancourt standing by the mantel, dressed as he'd been twelve years ago and charmed to see her?

What nonsense.

He had never been charmed to see her in his life.

Within minutes, the butler returned with a kind word from Mrs. Fancourt, handed her back her cloak, and bid her a good afternoon for the second time.

She started down the steps, the low temperature expelling her breath in condensation. What would Agnes say when she realized that Georgina had come? She would likely scold and—

Voices.

Georgina froze, drawing her cloak tighter as the hum of words grew louder. 'Twas utter ridiculousness to think the voices indicated Simon Fancourt, but they did sound young and…had he not had children with him at the port?

A brown-headed boy rounded the stone wall beside the steps. He halted, stared up at Georgina, just as a tiny girl bumped into his side.

Then a flash of brown. The coat.

For the second time, weakness surged through Georgina's knees, but she locked them and forced in air.

"Go on. Up with you." Simon Fancourt motioned his children to ascend, and they scurried past her before he had taken one step. His eyes were wary. He was different. Taller, broader, with a set to his stubbled jaw that hinted of resilience and pain and something else she could not identify.

Why could she not move? She should smile. She should say something—anything—instead of staring at him like some sort of half-witted fool.

With measured steps, he climbed the stairs in silence. Then he paused, no longer looking at her, an arm's breadth away. "How are you, Miss Whitmore?"

"I am well." Blood rushed to her face. "And you?"

"I am home." Ragged emotions, too many to decipher, rang in his answer. He bid her good day and continued up the stairs.

Seconds later, the entrance door thudded shut. The voices were gone. The stairs empty.

Georgina hurried back to the carriage and drew the blankets over her legs. She burrowed herself into the warmth and wished the chill would leave her soul.

Because he'd spoken to her as a stranger, as if he scarcely remembered, as if she was not the woman he had once been pledged to marry.

As if, in all these years, he had not thought of her at all.