The Magic Between Us (Faerie)

by Tammy Falkner

  “You’re welcome,” he said softly.

  Mr. Pritchens should have come to open the door for her by now. Where was the man?

  A thud sounded from the other side of the door.

  “What was that?” Marcus asked.

  “One of the maids moving furniture to clean behind it, I’m sure,” Cecelia said with a breezy wave of her hand.

  “At this time of the night?” He reached for the door handle, but she covered his hand with hers.

  Her eyes looked everywhere but at him as she rushed to say, “You know, I forgot that I’m supposed to be staying the night at Ainsley’s house.”

  He pulled back a little to look down at her face. “Why are you staying there?”

  “We wanted a little time to catch up. And she wants to talk to me about your brother. I’m pretty sure there’s a courtship going on there that no one knows about.”

  “Allen and Ainsley,” Marcus said with a snort. “There’s a match for you.” He shuddered to think of how arguments in their household might be won, with two such strong-minded individuals in residence. Ainsley had a tongue sharp enough to cut glass, and Allen was no slouch when it came to quips. “They’ll kill each other within a year,” he said with a laugh.

  She started down the steps. “Ainsley will be waiting for me,” she said.

  “Are you certain you want to go there at this time of the night?” It was well past dinnertime.

  ***

  Well, she certainly didn’t want to go home, not with the evidence of her father’s drinking audible from outside the house. She didn’t want Marcus, of all people, to see what her father had become.

  By now he would be deep in his cups and belligerent. The thump they’d heard was probably her father throwing himself at one of the footmen. Or shoving furniture. Or trying to thrash Mr. Pritchens. Pity washed over her. Poor Mr. Pritchens. He’d been forced to deal with her father all day while she’d had a wonderful day with Marcus. She couldn’t leave the poor butler with her father the rest of the night. But she couldn’t let Marcus go inside the house, either. Not now.

  “Walk with me to Ainsley’s house?” she asked, tugging his fingers to get him away from the door.

  “I certainly wouldn’t let you go alone,” he grumbled. He probably knew something wasn’t right. He was a smart man. It didn’t take a genius to realize that something was off.

  They walked in silence down the lane until they came to Ainsley’s father’s house. It was small and quaint, and what it lacked in grandeur it made up for with happiness.

  Marcus knocked on the door and waited with her for the butler to open it. “Miss Hewitt,” the man said, shocked at her arrival.

  “Miss Hewitt is here to see Miss Packard,” Marcus said.

  She could speak for herself. She really could. Cecelia squeezed Marcus’s hand and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Without waiting for his response, she slipped through the door, closing it solidly in Marcus’s bewildered face.

  She leaned against the closed door as Ainsley’s butler looked at her as though she were bound for Bedlam. But just then, Ainsley skipped down the stairs in her nightrail and robe. She stopped on the middle step and said, “Cece, are you all right?”

  The butler watched the two of them closely, and Cecelia nodded her head toward him to warn Ainsley not to say anything that could get back to her household.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Cecelia said. “I know you said to come after dinner, but I got busy with Father and we lost track of time.”

  Ainsley nodded slowly. “I’m glad you finally arrived,” she said. She pointed down the corridor. “I was just on the way to get some warm milk. Come with me.”

  Cecelia nodded at the butler and walked behind Ainsley, her arms crossed over her chest. She was suddenly freezing. Her perfect day appeared to be over. Reality was returning to the forefront of her life. When no one was about, Ainsley began to warm some milk on the wood stove and asked, “Who are you avoiding? Your father or Marcus?”

  Cecelia rocked her head side to side as though weighing her next words. Perhaps she was. “Both?” she asked. “Make one of those for me, will you?” She pointed to the pan of milk.

  Ainsley nodded. “I came to see you today. Your father said you were out.”

  Cecelia nodded. “Was he foxed yet?”

  Ainsley shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Good.”

  “Where were you?” Ainsley asked cautiously.

  “I went with Marcus to his grandfather’s cabin in the woods and we stayed there all day.”

  Ainsley’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t!”

  Cecelia couldn’t bite back a smile. “I did!”

  “What did you do there?”

  Cecelia grinned. “We didn’t play cards,” she laughed.

  “And?” Ainsley prompted as she poured warm milk into a cup and handed it to Cecelia.

  “We didn’t organize the wardrobes.”

  “Did you clean the linens?” Ainsley giggled.

  “The linens!” Cecelia cried. There was bound to be some evidence of their day because they hadn’t changed the linens. What the devil was she going to do? She supposed that could wait until the morning. No one would be there before tomorrow.

  Ainsley’s brow arched. “And why are you worried about the linens?” she prompted.

  Cecelia said quietly. “You know, they say it hurts the first time, but it really didn’t. Only for a moment.” An uninhibited tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Oh, Cece,” Ainsley crooned, pulling her friend into her arms. Cecelia could always count on Ainsley. She didn’t ask too many questions. And she always knew when to keep her opinion to herself and just listen. Ainsley set Cecelia back from her after a brief hug and said, “What was it like?”

  “Beautiful,” Cecelia breathed. And it had been. It had been everything she’d ever dreamed it would be. “He was warm and sweet and thoughtful, and he kept telling me over and over that he loved me.”

  Ainsley suddenly looked worried. “Is that why you did it? Because he made you feel like it was the next logical step?”

  Cecelia shook her head. “No, I just wanted one day. And I asked him specifically if we could spend it that way. He wants to marry me.”

  Ainsley groaned out her name. “Cece,” she said. “Of course he wants to marry you. You’re amazing. When is the wedding?”

  Cecelia shook her head. “We’re not getting married.”

  Ainsley’s brows narrowed. “Why not?”

  “There’s too much at stake. His world. My world. There’s no way we could make it suit.” She rushed on to clarify. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love him, because I do. I love him more than anything.” She clutched her fist to her chest. “But I can’t marry him.” She took a deep breath and plunged on. “When he walked me home, my father was already foxed. I could hear furniture crashing inside.”

  “So you had him bring you here?”

  “Well, I wanted to see you anyway. To tell you about it all.”

  Ainsley’s face softened. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

  “Thank you for listening.”

  “Was it terrifying?” Ainsley asked, her grin nearly infectious.

  “It’s a rather daunting appendage,” Cecelia murmured.

  “Isn’t it, though?” Ainsley asked.

  Cecelia put her hands on her hips and glared at her friend. “And just what do you know of it?”

  “Not much,” Ainsley admitted. Her cheeks got all rosy and she said, “Allen kissed me today. I mean, really kissed me. And the… umm… appendage… was hard to mistake.”

  Cecelia laughed. “How was the kiss?”

  “Hot enough to scorch my hair,” Ainsley said, holding up a lock of her hair. “Was he gentle with you?” she asked softly.

  “He’s Marcus,” Cecelia scoffed. “Of course he was.”

  “At least he wasn’t a bumbling idiot.”

  “He’d never done it before, either. So, we
had to figure things out together.”

  Heat crept up Cecelia’s cheeks. She wouldn’t tell Ainsley everything.

  “What if there are consequences?” Ainsley asked. “Will you marry him then?”

  Consequences? Cecelia hadn’t even thought about consequences. Goodness, what if they’d created a child?

  “Forgot about that little detail, did you?” Ainsley chided.

  “Completely,” Cecelia muttered.

  “Marcus is a good man. He’ll take care of whatever needs to be taken care of.”

  Cecelia knew he would. But she really didn’t want Marcus to have to take care of anything.

  “I need to get home. I don’t want to leave Mr. Pritchens alone with my father all night. Just in case.”

  “I’ll have one of the footmen walk with you,” Ainsley said.

  “No need. There’s no one about. I’ll run directly home.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Completely.” Cecelia crossed the room and hugged her friend tightly. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “You’re welcome.” Ainsley patted Cecelia’s back. “Now run home. Send for me if you need anything.”

  Cecelia went out the front door, holding a lantern in her hand as she walked down the road. She heaved a sigh of relief when she saw that the lights of her home had all been doused.

  She slipped through the open door and closed it behind her. But she didn’t realize what a mistake it was to come home until a bottle hit the wall directly beside her head and shattered all over the floor.

  “Where have you been?” her father bellowed.

  Sixteen

  Cecelia closed her eyes tightly and counted to ten.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Five.

  Six.

  Seven.

  Eight.

  Nine.

  Ten.

  She could count to one hundred and when she opened her eyes, her father would still be there in all his drunken glory, and she would still hate him just as much.

  The first time he’d raised his hand to her was just after her mother’s death. That had been a slap across the cheek when she’d chastised him for having another glass of wine.

  The second time had been a little more direct and couldn’t be explained away as a rash on her face. She’d had a bruise across her cheekbone that required her to stay at home and out of sight for a sennight.

  Mr. Pritchens stepped between her and her father. “Mr. Hewitt,” he began, his voice shaking with rage. “Miss Hewitt went to fetch something for one of the upstairs maids. She has a terrible megrim. It was at my request.”

  “Are you daft, man?” her father bellowed. “We have servants for running errands.”

  All the servants would be in bed at this time of the night, but her father didn’t know or didn’t care about anyone’s comfort but his own. “I volunteered,” Cecelia said. “Everyone else was in bed.”

  “Why didn’t you go yourself, Pritchens?” her father snarled. “You sent my daughter out in the dead of night to run an errand?”

  Mr. Pritchens gritted his teeth and said, “I was somewhat preoccupied.”

  Her father kept Mr. Pritchens busy every night for what seemed like the whole night. But her father paid no heed to how much discomfort he caused everyone else.

  Her father stepped forward and shoved Mr. Pritchens so hard that he thudded against the wall. Hitting her father back was like hitting a child who was having a tantrum. It did no good. It served no purpose. And no one felt good about it afterward. But when her father made a move to charge Mr. Pritchard, Cecelia felt obligated to step between them.

  This time, her father’s shove sent her into the wall. She stood there stunned, unable to take a deep breath for a moment. But when she could, there was no apology. There was only her father snarling, “Look what you made me do,” in Mr. Pritchens’ face.

  “He didn’t make you do anything, Father,” Cecelia said, putting a hand on her father’s shoulder to gently pull him back.

  In the past six months, she’d done so more times than she could count. And he usually took it very well. But this time, he didn’t for some reason. “He did make me do it. I would never hurt you on purpose,” he bellowed, spittle flying from his lips to land on her face.

  Cecelia closed her eyes and took another deep breath. She’d taken so many deep breaths lately that they should have called her Windy instead of Cecelia. Perhaps that would be the name she chose when she began a new life. One far away from her father.

  “You hurt me every day, Father. Every time you do this.”

  He huffed. “Do what?” He jammed the heels of his hands into his eyes and scrubbed them.

  But Cecelia had had enough. She stepped close to his face and screamed in it, just the way he had in hers. “Every time you do this!”

  She was shocked at herself, so she stepped back and closed her eyes, counting to ten again. She didn’t even see the hand flying toward her face. But she felt it. The back of his hand connected with her cheek, hitting her hard enough that it spun her head and she fell to the ground.

  The last time he’d hit her, he’d been immediately contrite. Not this time. This time, he fell on top of her, intent on flipping her over, probably so he could yell in her face. But she folded her arms over her head to ward off any future blows and curled into herself. Inside herself was the safest place to be right now.

  Suddenly, her father’s weight shifted off her, and she looked up from between her elbows. Despite his slightness of form, Mr. Pritchens had wrestled her father from on top of her and laid him on his stomach, his left arm pulled up behind him at an almost sickening angle. Her father swore like a dockworker and threatened Mr. Pritchens.

  “You don’t have to dismiss me, Mr. Hewitt,” the butler gritted out. “It’s only because of your daughter that I’m still here.” He looked up at Cecelia. “I can’t keep doing this, miss,” he said. “I want a peaceful existence. And this isn’t it.” He wrenched her father’s arm higher behind his back when he began to struggle. “Stay down,” he snarled.

  He looked at Cecelia’s face, which hurt like the devil.

  “You’re going to have a bruise there, miss,” he warned.

  She reached up and touched the tender side of her face. “I suppose I should have come home earlier tonight.” She snorted to herself. Oh, the irony.

  “How is Mr. Thorne?” Mr. Pritchens asked quietly. Her father had settled into a lump on the rug, with his eyes closed. He would be asleep in moments, she was sure.

  She smiled at the memory of her day. “He’s well.”

  “Nice day?” Mr. Pritchens asked, as if they were taking tea.

  “The nicest,” she said. And it had been. Until her father ruined it.

  Mr. Pritchens removed his pointy knee from the center of her father’s back, and her father didn’t move. He didn’t utter a sound, aside from a loud snore. Cecelia breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness.

  “I suppose I should get him to bed,” Mr. Pritchens said.

  “I’ll help you,” she volunteered, moving toward her father. She knew Mr. Pritchens gave the staff the nights off because this became a regular occurrence with her father. It had become normal for him.

  “One moment,” he said.

  Mr. Pritchens left the room and came back with a wet cloth, pressing it gently against the side of her face. “Ouch,” she complained. Her eye was already swelling shut.

  “That’s going to hurt like the devil in the morning,” he mused, tipping her chin up to get a better look.

  “Where did you learn to fight, Mr. Pritchens?” she asked. As small as he was, he was strong. And he could take down her father. Why, he wasn’t much bigger than Cecelia was.

  “Necessity,” he admitted.

  Cecelia furrowed her brows. But it hurt to do so. “My kind of necessity?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He didn’t say more. Just that one word.
r />   “Yet you stay.” She looked into kind, old gray eyes.

  “I wouldn’t leave you here for anything,” he admitted. “Not alone.”

  “When I have my own household someday,” Cecelia began, “will you come and manage it for me?”

  His tired eyes brightened. “I live for the day.”

  She nodded.

  He pressed the cold cloth tightly to her eye, and she winced again. “Keep it on there. It’ll help.” He patted her shoulder twice, then squeezed. “Go to bed. I’ll take care of your father.”

  “Slap him around a few times while you’re at it, will you?”

  He heaved a sigh. “I would if I thought it would help.” He looked Cecelia in the eye. “We’re going to have to get some help for him.”

  She nodded. “Someone to slap the bottle out of his hand.” She tried to laugh. But it came out more as a sob.

  Mr. Pritchens cocked his head to the side and pressed his lips tightly together. “If that’s what it takes.”

  “It won’t help. Not unless he wants to change. He used to be an amusing drunkard.”

  He gently probed at her cheekbone. “Not amusing now,” he murmured, anger flashing in his eyes.

  “You’re certain you can get him to bed by yourself?” she asked.

  “Quite,” he said, gritting his teeth as he looked down at her father. “Go to your chambers. I’ll see to him.”

  Cecelia was halfway up the stairs when he called out to her. She turned back. “What should I tell Mr. Thorne when he comes to call tomorrow?”

  “What makes you think he’ll come to call?” she asked, her heart leaping at the thought.

  He smiled. “He’ll come.”

  She sighed heavily. “Tell him I’m not accepting callers.” She turned to go upstairs.

  “He’ll ask for a reason,” Mr. Pritchens called to her back.

  “Tell him I’m ill, for goodness’ sake, Pritchens,” she called back. She couldn’t let Marcus see her looking like this. And it would look even worse tomorrow, if history was a good indicator.