Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
The words gouged her, like a cool blade thrusting through tender muscles. Heat crawled up her neck, burned her ears, blazed her cheeks. He would see all over again what a blushing fool she was. But what did it matter now?
She was already nothing before him.
Now she was less than nothing.
The reality that he had actually pondered this, weighed the consequences of losing his inheritance, considered the inconvenience, and decided to marry her anyway was nauseating. What was she to him?
Before she'd been a promise. One he did not even care enough to keep.
Now she was a stipulation, his key to unlocking lavish possessions, a grand home, a wealthy status. What would he do—tuck her inside Sowerby House, display her on his arm like all the other ornaments he had inherited, and treat her with as much indifference as he had twelve years ago?
"I realize this is sudden."
"No, it is not sudden." She rose from the chair, stepped away from him, willed her hands not to press against her scorching face. "Indeed, this has been a matter presented to us for a very long time."
"I acted with haste. The other day in Sir Walter's office—"
"What changed?"
He hesitated.
"You made it very clear that a matrimonial bond with me would be very distasteful."
"I offended you."
"Yes."
"I did not mean—"
"To display such outrage at an engagement you should have already fulfilled?" She wished she could keep back the emotion, but it bubbled in her voice like rising lava. She shook as she backed away from him. "I am convinced that the last thing in the world you wish, Mr. Fancourt, is to marry me."
"What would you have me do?" His voice struck a new note. Deep, brutal, honest enough that she read everything in the familiar timbre. "We both know we could never love one another. That never seemed to concern you before. I did not think it would now."
He had no inkling what she had thought of him—whether she had loved him or despised him, whether she had rejoiced at the thought of their marriage or loathed the agreement entirely. He had never asked. He had never asked her anything. He had never looked at her and seen her at all.
Maybe that was her fault, because she had filled the empty space by teasing other gentlemen and hiding behind a protective wall of shyness and reserve.
But maybe the fault was just as much his.
Whatever the case, it didn't matter now.
"I had no suspicion as to the details of your father's will, and I am very regretful that I am involved with the outcome of your inheritance." She forced herself to meet his gaze as she retreated. "But as for your request, I fear I must decline. You broke our attachment twelve years ago." She turned to the parlor door and groped for the glass knob with a quivering hand. "It cannot be amended now."
Endless top hats and bonnets and shaggy heads overwhelmed the lane, as four prisoners were shoved onto the rickety wooden scaffold before Newgate Prison. A cheer rose.
"Excuse me." Simon eased past a cluster of ladies, but his shoulder must have bumped someone else, because a pile of penny sandwiches scattered at his feet.
"Lawks! You fool. You foxed fool." The tattered pieman groped for the sandwiches, but between the pushing and shoving, they were stomped before he could save them.
Simon dug several coins from his coat pocket. "Here. Forgive me."
"You ought to be the fool up there." Cursing and red-faced, the pieman jabbed a finger to the gallows then turned—
"Wait." Simon seized his patched coat, gritted his teeth when more bodies bumped into him. "Here's five more shillings if you tell me how to get inside the prison."
"Gimme the shillings first."
Simon smacked the coins into the dirty hand, then followed the pieman through the dense crowd. A stench curled his nose—unwashed bodies, pungent sewer, and the gagging odor of rotting flesh coming from the barred windows.
"That door there." With one last glare, the pieman disappeared back into the mass of spectators.
Simon hurried for the door, the temperature cooling in the shadow of the massive stone prison. He rapped six times, hard enough his knuckles sored, before the door finally slung open.
"No, ye cannae be watching from the inside windows—"
"I did not come to see the hangings."
"Eh?"
"May I speak with the prison warden?"
The white-haired Scotsman, with open sores on his face, opened the door wider. "Come in then, but hurry 'fore another tries to squeeze through."
The interior was dark, the air moist, as he was led through a grimy passageway and into a small taproom. Two men sat eating at a long wooden table, their plates steaming, the aroma of potatoes and beef a nauseating mix to the reeking prison air.
"Warden, this gent be wanting to speak wiff ye."
"I'm busy."
"Sir, I will not take up much of your time." Simon approached the table. "I would like to discuss a matter with you."
"I don't handle matters."
"I think this one you should."
"MacGill, get him out of here—"
"I imagine missing prisoners would interest you greatly." Simon spread his legs. "If not you, perhaps the magistrate—"
"MacGill, leave us. Lucan, you too."
The young, muscled blond—likely a turnkey, judging by the cudgel at his side—lifted his plate with a glower. He exited the taproom behind the Scotsman.
Wiping ale from his beard, the warden stood. "Today, I have overseen the hanging of four men, I have discovered the dead body of a prostitute in one of the quadrangles, and I have lost the keys to my own chamber, though only the devil knows where." His sharp, bloodshot eyes narrowed on Simon. "What quandary have you brought me?"
"Nineteen missing prisoners."
"From Newgate?"
"That's what I'm here to find out."
"Huh." The warden swiped two fingers through the mush on his plate, licked them, then wiped the front of his black coat. "Give me names."
"Friedrich Neale, Reginald Brownlow—"
"Never heard of the first. But then again, I don't make it a habit to memorize every bleeding name and face that walks in here."
"And the second?"
"Brownlow killed a woman. Rather bloody affair. All over the newspapers. I believe, if memory serves me, he cut her body in pieces, placed her back into her own bed, and heaped her with quilts so that she was undiscovered until the next morning."
Simon's stomach churned at the vulgarity of such a crime. No wonder Patrick Brownlow wanted his brother's name unspoken. "Did you not find it strange when Brownlow disappeared?"
"My only surprise was that the man did not meet his fate sooner." Another wipe through his food. Another lick of his fingers. "He died in his cell last May."
"He died in Marwicktow, North Carolina, five months ago. I killed him."
"Impossible."
"Eighteen other prisoners arrived with him. I don't have more names, but they were there and they were all—"
"Prisoners die in this establishment every day. I don't inspect their bodies. I don't count the remaining heads when they're gone." The warden leaned forward, his breath rancid, his weathered face twisted with a scowl. "But I can swear to the devil this, mister. No one gets out of this place unless they're set free by the Crown or carried out to the deadhouse. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes." Simon worked to control the hot rush of anger pumping through his veins. "Something I have obviously not succeeded in doing." He turned—
The warden seized Simon's coat, jerked him back, leaning over the table between them. "Listen, mister. You better not take this Banbury tale outside of these walls. The last thing I need right now is anyone breathing down my neck about something I know nothing about."
"Then you better find out about it." Simon pried away the sticky fingers. "Because I intend to." With one last warning look, Simon exited the room, nearly tripping over the Scotsman and turnkey, who had been lingering outside the door.
Listening, no doubt.
Good.
Maybe they would assist the warden in finding out about nineteen missing prisoners. Unless they all knew already.
Simon showed himself out of the stone prison walls, his lungs rejoicing at the odorless March air and the sunlight on his face. He pressed back into the crowd. He'd left his carriage on a distant street, as the current lane was impassable because of the throng of people.
Maybe he should not have come.
Not today.
But after the quiet parlor, after all the whispered lashes from Miss Whitmore, he had needed something loud and distracting to dominate his mind.
Never once had it occurred to him that she would reject his proposal.
She had always been resigned to the match before. What did it matter to her whom she married? So long as he was wealthy, so long as the match was profitable, so long as she had plenty of pin money and plenty of social opportunities and—
No. He was unfair to judge her so severely. Why had he always assumed love and marriage meant nothing to her? Was it possible she desired something more? Why did that thought surprise him?
A cracking thud from the trapdoors, chilling gasps, then raucous applause from the crowd.
Simon glanced up at the dangling bodies. Two of them were already limp, but one body wriggled while another kicked the air in panic.
He saw Friedrich Neale in the dying faces. He saw Reginald Brownlow. Men who had murdered, who would go on murdering unless they met the punishment they deserved. Why, God? They should have faced the gallows. For the innocent woman cut to pieces and buried in her bed. For Ruth, his precious Ruth. Why did they not hang —
Something cool and hard slapped at Simon's side.
Air left his lips.
He tried to gasp in another breath, to turn, to catch sight of whoever had landed the blow—but his knees sank. He smacked the cobblestones. Legs bumped into him as he groaned and lifted himself on his arms, but someone's feet scampered over his back.
He flattened on the ground. The crowd shouted and chanted above him. Pain sliced through his side like lightning bolts.
Only then did he notice.
The grimy cobblestones were turning red.
"Are you awake?"
A strong plum, berry taste slipped through Simon's lips, though his dry mouth ached for water. For the second time, he cracked open his eyelids.
A face beamed down at him, less hazy. The auburn hair, the thin features jolted recognition through Simon—but he could not summon a name.
"Who…" He licked the wine taste from his lips. "Who are you?"
"I admit I am insulted." The gentleman, dressed in a silk purple banyan, poured a second glass of port. "People do not usually forget me so easily. Here, have another sip."
"No." Simon shook his head, though the movement awakened agony in his side. He glanced down at himself. He was lying on top of a floral-patterned bed, shirtless, with blood seeping through a bandage below his left rib cage. "What happened?"
"You do not remember."
"I wouldn't ask if I did."
The gentleman laughed, set the decanter and glass on a bedstand, then crossed his arms as he stared down at Simon. "I admire you, Mr. Fancourt. Even drunk and wounded, you are very certain of yourself. A commendable attribute."
"You still did not answer my question."
"You were stabbed."
"By you?"
"You are drunk indeed, aren't you?" He poured himself a drink, walked to the bottom of the bed, and leaned against the polished bed post.
Some of the cobwebs began to fade. The drawing room at Sowerby House. Mother. Sir Walter. The gentleman at the mantel with the glass of red port—
"Mr. Oswald, at your service." As if sensing the recognition, Alexander Oswald bowed. "I was attending the execution at Newgate this evening. I saw you stabbed and was able to assist."
Doubts swarmed. In all those people, in a crowd so large, what were the chances one of his few acquaintances in London should witness the act?
"You are still contemplating the theory that it was I who attacked you."
"The rescue was convenient."
"Actually, not in the least. I followed you there."
Simon lifted off the pillow, but the air left his lungs. He placed a hand to his side, the throb of his torn skin matching the beat of his heart. "Why?"
"Curiosity mostly. I am in puzzlement why a man who disappeared to the rugged mountains of America should be so interested in returning now."
Simon glanced about the room—the hand-painted murals on the walls, the lit hearth, the silver-framed mirrors and paintings. "Where am I?"
"Hollyvale Estate."
"I need to return to Sowerby—"
"I have already sent a footman to explain the matter to your mother and children." A grin crooked the thin lips. "Do not worry. I told them you were attending a late dinner party and would enjoy a night of gambling. They shall not expect to see you until they arrive tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"For the picnic here at Hollyvale."
"I won't be—"
"Invitations have already been sent. Indeed, I daresay your mother would have forced you into attending anyway." He drained the last of his port, a small hint of redness rising to his cheeks. "After all, I am certain if your mother can persuade you into matrimony, she can persuade you into most anything." Returning his empty glass to the bedstand, Mr. Oswald forced one last smile, murmured good night, and left the chamber.
Simon sagged into the bed with his eyes closed. Weakness crept over him, then discomfort, then darkness, but he fought through them all and tried to keep himself awake.
He was not certain Mr. Oswald had spoken truth to him. If he came back to finish what he started, Simon would be awake and ready.
He hoped.
"Would you like to talk of it?"
Still in her wrapper, Georgina draped the third long-sleeve dress across her bed. "It is always so much more difficult to choose dresses for outside picnics. Which one?"
"Not the white one." Agnes crossed the bedchamber and opened the window. Warm spring air rushed into the room—filled with the faint song of birds chirping and carriage wheels clomping cobblestones on the street below. "Too many chances one might stain the hem with grass."
"The Pomona dress then?"
Agnes turned from the window, the breeze stirring her curls. "Dear, you must speak to someone about the events of yesterday."
"There is nothing to discuss."
"Why did he come? What did he want?"
"Nothing he said was of consequence." Georgina hugged the apple-green dress to her chest, as if making certain the trim was not too long or the neckline too low.
The truth was she had not the strength to look into her cousin's face.
Agnes would see everything.
The torments Georgina had slept with last night. All the doubts on whether she had done the right thing. All the taunting imaginations of what a different answer might have warranted her.
But she'd done the only thing she could do. What profit was there in gaining his name but not his heart? She had no wish for cold, passionless matrimony. His indifference would torture her. She had no choice.
"Whenever you wish to speak of it, I shall be waiting." Agnes spoke the words with softness, as if still attempting to soothe away the hurtful confessions from before. "I had better go and find my own dress if I do not wish for us to be tardy." She started from the room but paused halfway out the bedchamber doorway. "Oh, and dear?"
"Yes?"
"I forgot to mention it. When Nellie was opening the draperies and dusting the rooms this morning, she found an unexpected display of flowers."
Georgina stilled in dread. "Flowers?"
"Yes. Most dreadful things too, Nellie said. Dried yellow roses and not even sent in a vase." Agnes shrugged. "And how they ended up in the library, I daresay I shall never know."
The library. Georgina bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. What is happening?
The rusty scent of dry blood intensified as Simon peeled back the bandage. Dull pain rippled across swollen flesh. The wound was longer than he had realized, more of a deep cut than a true stabbing.
He had suffered worse from a hatchet accident his first year in America.
The day he'd met Ruth.
"I suspected you were stalwart, but not invincible."
Simon glanced to the doorway, where Mr. Oswald stood in a pristine suit and gleaming, waxed hair.
"Where are my clothes?"
"I fear they are quite beyond repair, what with all the blood. Though I doubt you may squeeze into anything of my own, I shall see about locating something for you."
Simon nodded, tucked his bandage back in place, and eased himself to the window. Outside, carriages were already arriving, and footmen were scurrying about the yard, fluttering quilts onto the grass or displaying food on the stands covered with lace tablecloths. "My family has arrived?"
"Not as of yet." Mr. Oswald approached from behind. "Do not concern yourself. I already have a suitable fabrication as to why you shall not be attending."
"That will be unnecessary."
"Oh?"
Simon turned from the window, met the man's eyes. "As soon as I get some clothes, I want to see my children."
"It will be arranged. They may see you here in your chamber. Although I assumed you would wish to keep this tragedy from them, I see the benefits of—"
"I do not lie to my children."
"I see. An honorable notion, of course." Mr. Oswald checked his watch fob, then nodded. "It shall be as you like. I will see that everything is arranged, and both your children and mother may visit here anytime they wish during your stay—"
"I will not be staying."
"You must not understand."
"I thank you, but—"
"I am offering you care and protection, as well as the services of my personal physician, until you are more than well enough to travel." Self-assuredness, intensity, perhaps even a hint of insult all flickered in the man's waiting eyes.
As if every decision was his to make. As if no one had the right or the station to refuse his goodwill. If it was goodwill.
When Simon did not respond, Mr. Oswald nodded. "I see."
He grinned, though it lacked mirth, and his tone hinted at disgust. "Although it is I who should have ill regard for you and your untimely reappearance, it is you who rejects with prejudice my small attempt at human kindness." He shrugged and headed for the door. "If you need anything at all, do tug the bellpull and a maid shall come to assist you." He tilted his head with a look of cool composure, one that belied the fire in his eyes. "I shall send up your clothes shortly, Mr. Fancourt."
When the door thudded shut, Simon returned to the edge of the bed and wrapped an arm around his aching side. One thing was certain.
Either someone he had questioned concerning the prisoners had become fearful of what Simon would discover.
Or Mr. Oswald wanted Sowerby House more than any of them realized.
Something was amiss.
For the fourth time, Georgina stole a quick glance at Agnes' profile, as her cousin stared out the sunny carriage window. Streams of light fell on the somber face, the distracted eyes.
"What is it?"
Agnes jumped, as if startled by the voice. "What is what?"
"The matter that makes you so melancholy."
"I am hardly melancholy." Agnes smiled, dismissing the gray clouds of her face for faint rays of sunshine. "It is only that such events often tire me. There are so many gentlemen, and they do seem to vex you with such attentions—"
"You must not fret on my account." Georgina grinned as the carriage pulled to a halt. "I am quite used to both encouraging or discouraging them at my pleasure."
"Yes." More clouds. "I know."
"Agnes—"
The carriage door opened, and before Georgina could question her cousin further, they were both handed down by—
"Mr. Oswald." Surprise raced through her, as she had anticipated her footman and not the host of the picnic. "Have you taken to servant duties?"
"I would take to anything that might permit nearness to you."
The flattery sent a second jolt of surprise. He was beginning to sound like all the others—and she was not certain if that delighted or disappointed.
"Are you not impressed?"
She settled her hand in the crook of his arm, as he led them across the shortly trimmed yard. Lavish tables gleamed with colorful grapes, silver dishes, endless trays of meats, cakes, nuts, and teapots. Guests already visited on various quilts, and a small group of gentlemen engaged themselves in a game of skittles under a shading elm tree. "Yes, it is all lovely."
"I was not referring to the picnic."
"Oh?"
"That might have as easily been orchestrated by a frivolous lady of the ton. In fact, it was." He laughed. "My sister."
"Then with what accomplishment am I to be impressed?"
"The weather, of course." He leaned close enough to whisper. "For although Eleanor arranged the insignificant details, I took the honors of deciding upon a date. Considering this is the first warm day of the year, I find that reason for at least a little arrogance, do you not?"
She laughed, shook her head in amusement, as her eyes traveled the length of the yard—
Simon Fancourt stood leaning against one of the white pillars on the oval-shaped porch, his face too shaded to see. But she knew by his stance. The shape of his shoulders. The height that would tower over most anyone present.
"You seem astonished."
"No."
"As you have already rejected his offer of marriage, I did not imagine his presence would affect you, else I would not have invited him."
She glanced at Mr. Oswald's face, a knot weaving in her stomach. "He told you?"
"No."
"Then how—"
"Modesty has never been one of my qualities, Miss Whitmore. I am not ashamed of my methods, but rather fiercely boastful of them."
"Which is to say?"
"What you already suspect." He grinned as he led her closer to one of the refreshment tables. "I followed Mr. Fancourt to your town house the day he proposed, and as your answer did not leave a pleasant look on his face and as you also did not know of his coming today, it is logical to assume he was rejected."
Heat flooded her face, as she withdrew her arm from his. The insensitivity of his conjectures, the reality that he had followed Simon Fancourt to her town house, spying as if she was—
"I have made you uncomfortable."
"I fear there has been some frightful miscommunication." She swallowed hard as he plucked two grapes from a platter, his eyes never once leaving her face. "If I have led you to believe an attachment has formed between myself and you—"
"You are doing it again."
"What?"
"Insulting my intelligence." He tugged her to the other side of the table, offered her a sliced pear. "We already discussed the particulars of our relationship. I am as determined against attachment as you are."
"Then how could you spy upon—"
"Believe it or not, Miss Whitmore, you are not my only interest in Simon Fancourt." Mr. Oswald glanced to the porch, where the man in question descended the stairs and headed down the drive toward an approaching carriage.
His steps were careful, his movements slow and deliberate, as if something was the matter.
She would have studied him longer, but a light hand touched her elbow.
"Brother, you did not tell me our new friend would be in attendance."
"I took care of that invitation myself." Mr. Oswald bowed. "I shall leave you two ladies to discuss the infuriating but tantalizing attributes of us gentlemen while I see to more of my guests. Excuse me."
Eleanor Oswald stepped closer to the table, one hand already balancing a glass plate of cold meats and apricot ice cream. "He does try so to be amusing, but I fear he fails miserably, do you not think?" When Georgina did not answer, the woman's brows lifted. "Unless, of course, you are one of the many who becomes susceptible to his charms." She hovered closer, dress rustling. "Though I do warn you, Alexander is much more dangerous than romantic. He would positively murder me for saying it, but there is more than one young lady lamenting because of his lacking scruples."
The overwhelming aroma of food, the sun on the back of her neck, the humming noises and chirping birds all spiraled a sense of nausea.
"I daresay, you are appearing most pale again. I do not suppose I shall have to fetch my smelling salts once more, shall I? If fainting is reoccurring, I would think you would carry smelling salts in your own reticule and never go anywhere without them."
"I do not need smelling salts nor your advice." The second the words lashed out, she regretted her tone. With a murmured excuse and a half-apologetic look, Georgina marched to another table, poured a glass of lemonade, and went in search of Agnes.
On a quilt where two older women chattered and Agnes was already entertaining herself with a book, Georgina opened her parasol and promised herself she would not search for Simon Fancourt the remainder of the day.
But her eyes would not listen.
They scanned the length of the yard until she discovered him at a nearby blanket, helping his mother to a seat while his tiny daughter clung to his trousers. The little boy was sitting cross-legged, already pulling off his shoes, but glimpsed up long enough to see Georgina staring. He said something to his father and pointed, and Simon Fancourt met her eyes.
Georgina hurried her face away and pretended interest in whatever the two elderly women were discussing. But even as she answered their question on the best military shop, or sipped the tangy lemonade, or forced a laugh when they laughed, her heart stammered with discomfort.
Perhaps even pain.
Because no matter where she went or what she did, whether in reality or only in her mind, Simon Fancourt was present to torture her.
If she wanted anything in the world, it was to be untethered from him.
And if she was not strong enough to do it by herself, she would have no qualms in borrowing Alexander Oswald's help.
Sweat dampened the back of Simon's neck, whether from the afternoon sun or a breaking fever, he could not be certain. He re-situated himself on the diamond-patterned quilt. Pain seared like an arrow being plunged in and out of his flesh.
"Maybe me can have one more?" Mercy presented her empty plate to Simon, yellow pudding and cake crumbs on her cheeks. She burped.
"Heavens, did that dreadful sound come from this child?" Mother gasped, though the tone was still gentle. "My dear girl, you simply cannot do such things. It is not proper."
"John does. Blayney does too."
"Who on earth is Blayney?"
Simon eased himself to his feet, careful not to wince. "Never mind, Mother. Come on, Mercy."
"I'll go too." John spoke around a mouthful of his own dessert, bringing his plate with him.
Failure nabbed Simon with more sharpness than the knife wound. What would Ruth have said to know Simon had allowed their children to go hungry? She would have wept to know they had been cold, sick, and growing thinner below a grimy ship deck.
Their glowing eyes, their eagerness to feast on fancy delicacies now, only drove that shame deeper. He would not fail his children again.
God help him.
"You must be Mr. Fancourt." A woman appeared on the other side of the tables, black ringlets swaying in the warm, floral-scented breeze. "I am Eleanor Oswald, as I am certain you already know."
"I didn't."
If his answer offended, she showed no sign. Instead, her smile increased, if not cunningly. "These must be your children. I have heard about them, though I confess, only in the scandal column of the Morning Chronicle ."
"You should find better pastimes."
"You are as forthright as my brother."
"Excuse me." Taking Mercy's hand, he escaped to another table, loaded her plate with a small portion of the queen currant cake she pointed at, and turned.
"Just a moment, Mr. Fancourt." Eleanor Oswald stood waiting for him, blocking his path, the muslin of her red dress rippling. "The other children are partaking of Blind Man's Bluff on the other side of the lawn. Unless you have an objection, I should like to introduce them to the game."
Simon glanced at John's face. He'd been watching the game for the last hour. "Very well." He took his son's plate. "You can eat when you're finished playing. Go on with you."
As Miss Oswald led his children away, Simon returned the dessert plates to the quilt with Mother, but he did not sit. More perspiration leaked down his temples. Underneath the borrowed coat, his shirtsleeve felt damp and sticky, as if the bandage was not enough to staunch new bleeding.
He needed to get it stopped.
The last thing he wanted was for everyone present to gawk at him with more speculations. Those who had not read about him in the newspaper were likely whispering of his disappearance twelve years ago, the inheritance he came home to, the motherless children he brought with him.
Breathing fast by the time he climbed the porch steps, Simon clutched his side, strode inside the anteroom, and found his way to a quiet corridor. He hailed a maid who was scurrying by with two pitchers of lemonade. "I wonder if you might fetch me some bandages."
She glanced him over in confusion. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."
Simon nodded at the first door he found. "Thank you. I will wait in here." He slipped into what appeared to be a smoking room, judging by the maroon velvet draperies and upholstery, the masculine Turkish rug, and the overpowering, earthy scent of tobacco.
He found a chair and sank into it, sliding his eyes shut.
He needed sleep.
Maybe more of the laudanum a maid had given him during the night.
The quietness of the room, the cushioned chair, all pulled at his tension and dulled his pounding pain. "What happened?" Words whispered through him. Her words. "You're injured, stranger."
A skinny girl with brown hair tucked behind both sunburnt ears. "Blayney had you chopping for vittles, didn't he?" A smile too big for her thin face. Hands that were calloused but gentle. "Come inside and we'll get the bleeding stopped. You'll be limping for a while, but it won't kill you."
Helping him stand, helping him walk, helping him keep his mind off the blood trailing down his leg and the hatchet still clutched in his blistered hand. "Haven't used that thing much, have you?" Entering the trading post, limping his way to a barrel. "Don't look so worried, stranger. You'll still get those vittles. By the way, my name's Ruth."
A thump jerked Simon awake.
He stood, sucked air through his teeth as the wound screamed in protest. How long had he been asleep?
He glanced at the stand beside his chair. Apparently, the maid had already come and gone, because a basin of water and a folded white bandage sat waiting for him.
He removed his coat, then his waistcoat, then untucked his shirtsleeve. A bright red circle of blood stared back at him. He unwound the bandage—
Voices.
Thumping.
A dull drone of indistinguishable words as the footsteps drew closer, then paused outside the smoking-room door.
"This little occurrence had better not repeat itself." A constrained whisper. "It is pitiful to me that you would even dare show your face—"
"I want no part of your righteous indignation, Mr. Oswald. We both know if there is a hell out there, it belongs to both of us."
"If I were you, I would concentrate on avoiding such a destiny as long as you can."
"Is that a threat?"
"Must you ask?"
Simon eased closer to the door, breath bated.
"Listen, I told you I—"
"Enough. I do not have time for your pitiful defenses. For a coward, you are exhibiting an unusual amount of bravery, and I fear it could be more detrimental to your health than you realize."
"This is the last time. I swear."
"For your sake, I hope it is."
Simon gripped the doorknob, but before he could crack open the door, a warning hissed from outside.
"Someone is coming." One pair of footsteps fled down the hall, and another continued onward and greeted someone with a low "Good day."
He recognized the response, the quiet feminine voice, one second before the smoking-room door flew open.
Simon stumbled back and blinked.
Miss Whitmore.
Everything slammed her at once. The dropping of her heart, the flames in her cheeks, the cowardice that shuffled her backward one step.
He stood in gaping shirtsleeves, blood soaking through the white fabric, staining his fingertips. He glanced down at himself, then up to her face, as if he was uncertain how to explain.
"I am sorry." The only thing she could work past her throat. "The maid said you were resting—"
"Do not go."
The command stilled her.
He reached for the tailcoat draped across the velvet chair, shrugged into it, as if propriety had not already been breached. He seemed uncertain.
Strange, because he was never uncertain about anything.
"I would ask that you do not speak of this." His throat bobbed and sweat wet his hairline. "Please."
"What happened?"
"I do not wish my mother to know."
"Know what?"
He turned his back to her, faced a stand where a small basin of water and a bandage had been placed. He dipped a rag into the vine-patterned bowl. "She has been through enough already. I have no wish to burden her further."
"Nor do I." Despite every warning, she slipped closer to him. The room was too tiny. The air too choking with tobacco and books and…him.
She had not been so close to Simon Fancourt in years and the smell had been forgotten.
But she breathed of it now, that subtle scent of soap and earth and oil paints and uniqueness. "Mr. Fancourt, I realize I am likely the last person to which you prefer to confide." She stepped around the stand. "But if you are embroiled in some sort of trouble—"
"Any trouble I find I came looking for."
"I do not understand."
"It is best you don't." He twisted water from the rag. "I don't want you involved any more than I want to bring more pain on my mother."
More pain. Somehow, hearing him say the words was numbing. He had never admitted to injuring his parents. He had never admitted to injuring her. Did he realize, all these years later, what he had done by leaving them all behind? Was he feeling guilty for it now?
He slipped his hand underneath his coat. "You had better go."
"You need a doctor."
"He has already come."
"You do not appear well—"
"Miss Whitmore." Frustration lined his words. "Please. I am asking you to leave."
She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, hating herself for the quiver in her knees, for the overwhelming desire to take the rag from his hand, peel back his coat, soothe the injury he would not speak of.
To the man who had given her so much pain, she should not have pitied his own.
But she did.
"Very well." She strode past him and paused at the door. "But you had better make haste, for you are needed outdoors."
"Why?"
She hesitated. "I fear your son has found some trouble of his own."
Too many of the guests stood gawking, the ladies with their hovering parasols and the gentlemen with their swishing sherry glasses. Their murmurs spread across the lawn, as sickening as the sea thunking the base of the ship over and over again.
Simon waded through the circle of guests. Whispered insults vibrated in his ear, breaking out his skin in more sweat.
"Shocking," someone gasped.
"What comes of raising children in savagery."
"We should have expected no less."
"Indeed, I would never leave my child alone with such creatures…"
Shouldering his way into the opening, Simon pulled to a halt.
Six or seven children all lingered together, some already being coddled by a nanny, others staring at the eleven- or twelve-year-old boy on the grass.
Some of the buttons on his blue skeleton suit were missing. His white collar was grass stained. Bloodstained too. He clamped a defiant hand over his leaking nose, despite the governess who tried to dry him with a fluttering handkerchief.
Then John and Mercy.
They stood alone, hand in hand, eyes as frantic as two years ago when the cabin had caught afire. Those flames had been easy to douse.
These, perhaps not so much.
Simon strode to them, frowning at the rip on John's new coat and the dirt smearing his cheek. "What happened?"
"I shall tell you what happened, Fancourt." An overweight, curly haired gentleman approached, his bottom lip protruding as obnoxiously as his paunch. "That ferocious offspring of yours attacked my son."
"Is that true, John?"
"The deuce it is! We all witnessed him go mad like a raging—"
"I'll hear it from my son." Simon took his child's shoulder. "What happened?"
John's cheeks whitened. His jaw set. His eyes took on that look again—the one from the hay loft, after the screams, after the oak tree.
"John, answer me."
Mercy's face scrunched. She rubbed her eyes and began to cry, while John remained as stock-still and silent as one of the tall, stubborn trees back home.
Simon faced the gentleman. "For what is happened, I am sorry."
"The deuce with your apology. It is a disgrace that you have the indecency to return here in the first place, after the dastardly life you have partaken of all these years." His jowls shook and the heat of his face fogged his spectacles. "You do not belong here, Fancourt, and if it were not for your dear mother, do not think the rest of us would pretend you did."
Simon ground his teeth. "Children, come."
"If you can call them that. I should say they are more like a little demon and she-devil—"
Rage cut through Simon, snapping a sense of control. In one fluid movement, he seized the man's coat, hoisted him off his feet, as a shocked round of gasps echoed around them.
"Put me down! Errr! Put me—"
"Say anything more about my children and I will grind your face into the dirt."
"Put me—"
"Is that clear?"
"Put me—"
"I said"—Simon shook him hard, pain radiating through his side—"is that clear?"
"Yes." A minced oath. "Yes, yes, now unhand me."
Simon forced his fingers to uncurl, stepped back, took Mercy with one hand and John with another. The guests all parted. He tried to keep his back straight, his steps strong, despite the crippling sting along his wound and the pulse of regret hammering through him.
Lord, forgive me.
Mother would despair over what had happened today. Perhaps even regret calling him home. He had never belonged here twelve years ago. What made him think he could return to society now?
Without explaining anything, without answering her breathless confusion, Simon gathered Mother from the quilt and helped her to their carriage. He lifted her inside. Then John. Then sniffling Mercy.
Only once did he glance back.
The guests had already dispersed, folding their parasols, fluttering their fans, leaning close enough to whisper to each other. Their eyes beheld him with contempt and disgust. As if he was some sort of crude painting that belonged in flames, not inside a glistening manor hall.
Except one.
In the blur of faces, a gaze locked with his, the eyes soft enough that they almost appeared tearful. Compassion glowed from her expression. Perhaps, as unfathomable as it might have been, a hint of understanding.
Which he was certain was untrue.
No one could possibly understand him less than the reserved, indifferent Miss Whitmore.
But when he climbed into the carriage, when he slammed the door shut, when he pulled Mercy into his lap and breathed the sweet smell of her sweaty curls, Miss Whitmore's eyes stayed with him.
He was comforted by their tenderness long after the carriage rolled away.