But I bit back the words, even though they scalded my tongue. Adding my hysterics to Father’s would not help the situation. I knew from experience that if I was to persuade Father to do anything when he was this inebriated, I had to remain calm.
“Father,” I called, and when that didn’t gain his attention, louder still to be heard over his recriminations. “Father!” I pressed a hand to Vicar Tilby’s shoulder, telling him to let me past. “Father.”
He swerved toward me and I took hold of his free hand. “Father.” I tugged harder as he tried to pull away, prepared to duck if he swung around with his bottle. “Father, look at me,” I pleaded.
“Ella?” He blinked, as if to bring me into focus. “Ella.”
“Yes, Father,” I replied calmly. “Come—”
“Tell ’em,” he ordered. “Tell ’em.” He shook his head. “They just don’t understand. None of ’em,” he barked in Robert’s direction. “Tell ’em.”
“I will, Father. But…but I’m not feeling well.” My voice shook from the strain, making it all too easy for me to feign illness. “Could we please go home?” The last emerged as almost a whisper, and I thought I might have to repeat myself.
Father lifted his other hand, the one that still held the bottle, so quickly that I jumped, thinking he meant to strike me with it. Robert clearly thought the same thing, for out of the corner of my eye I saw him lurch forward a step. But Father only touched my cheek clumsily. “Oh, yes. Of course. Mayhap it’s the heat,” he slurred and reached up to tug at his cravat, rumpling it. “It’s swelterin’.”
I smiled tightly in agreement, though inside I felt as cold as winter.
Father turned to walk me toward the lychgate, his head held high as if he was doing a noble deed even as his footsteps veered to the right. I didn’t know if he was truly too far gone to comprehend why everyone was watching us, or if this display was meant to salvage his dignity. Whatever the case, he couldn’t seem to resist tossing one last comment at Robert as we passed, loud enough that half the people in the front of the churchyard could hear.
“She may be soon, Rockland, but she’s not yours yet.” He paused and leaned toward Robert unsteadily. “And you don’t deserve her.”
I frowned as a blush burned its way up into my cheeks, surprised I was capable of feeling any more embarrassment than I already did.
As we turned to move away, Robert murmured, “I know.”
I was surprised by the fervency of those words, but I refused to look back, lest I discover I’d heard wrong and he was mocking me.
I lifted my eyes as we neared the lychgate, and my gaze collided with the dark-haired wherry man’s—the one I now thought of as Hector. His expression was carefully neutral, his posture relaxed and uncaring, and I was grateful to him for that. I wasn’t certain I could have withstood anything else, be it disapproval or sympathy. But there was a glint of something in his eyes, something I couldn’t name, though I tried.
Father staggered, pulling my attention back to him. I gripped his arm tighter where it looped through mine and escorted him out into the street.
Chapter 14
A
s we walked home, Father blathered on in his usual meandering, nonsensical way when he was inebriated. His chief complaint seemed to be Robert and the other men’s ill treatment of him. He kept reiterating how he’d done nothing wrong. What did it matter to them if he’d had a bit to drink? I mostly remained silent, only replying in the affirmative from time to time when he demanded to know if I was listening.
But when our cottage came into view and he launched into his fourth vehement retelling of the same events, my patience grew thin. Though I knew better, I sighed and suggested that Robert and Vicar Tilby were just trying to help. It was the wrong thing to say.
“They weren’t helpin’,” he argued in his garbled voice. “They were only worried about themselves and their precious anniversary service.”
“Well, that is why everyone was there.” I didn’t know why I was arguing with him. He couldn’t be reasoned with in this state.
“I know that,” he snapped. “I’m not stupid. I know what’s happenin’.”
I nodded, keeping my gaze fixed on our cottage. I could feel him glaring down at me.
“So I had some brandy. I know I said I wouldn’, but I can control myself. There’s no reason I shouldn’ be able to ’ave some if I want it. I can stop anytime I want. This is my house. I’ll do as I please.” He kept growing angrier and angrier with each sentence, trampling on my already aching heart.
I pushed open our front gate. “Where did you get it?” I asked, pitching my voice as neutral as possible. I had to know.
“That’s none of your concern,” Father growled.
Oh, but it was.
He huffed. “You’re jus’ like them. Meddling in somethin’ that’s none of your concern. I thought my own daughter would know better.” He brushed me aside and threw open the front door.
I stood on the porch, listening to his footsteps stomp down the hall and then the slam of his study door.
Mrs. Brittle found me still standing there when she returned home. She didn’t ask me what happened, just coaxed me inside and led me down the hall toward the kitchen. She harrumphed and shook her head as we passed the closed door to Father’s study.
The kitchen was the only room in the house that ever saw a regular cleaning, and it was immaculate as always, even after a busy evening and morning of baking and cooking. I ran my hands over the scarred wooden table while Mrs. Brittle made us tea. When the liquid had cooled enough for me to take a few sips and she had settled herself in the chair across from me, she finally spoke.
“Ye mun’ have kenned this would happen,” she said gently.
I stared at the cup between my hands. “Yes.”
“Though I s’pose none o’ us thought he’d tipple at the kirk’s anniversary dinner.”
“Who gave him the bottle? Do you know?” I looked up to see her craggy face creased in a frown. “Was it Ingles?”
She tilted her head. “I dinna ken, lass. Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
They’d given Father the very thing he needed least in the world at a time when he was most vulnerable. Had they seen how uncomfortable he had been in church? Had they witnessed our exchange with Archdeacon Soames? Had they guessed how badly Father must have been wishing for a drink? Whether or not it had been intentional, I couldn’t help but feel it was.
Mrs. Brittle seemed to understand that. “Maybe it does. But there’s no’ much ye can do aboot it. Unless ye plan to tattle on all o’ ’em.”
I’d already considered that and realized I couldn’t. Too many innocent people would be hurt in the process. I wrapped my hands tightly around the cup, trying to absorb the warmth. I hated this feeling of helplessness. It weighed down my limbs even as my insides urged me to take action. Only I didn’t know what to do. My mind scrambled for purchase, frantic to clasp onto anything rather than face this pit of despair.
“Have ye written to yer relatives?”
I looked up at Mrs. Brittle, surprised she’d known I had been considering just that. That is, before I latched onto the forlorn hope of Father’s latest promise.
“Do you know anything about them?”
“Nay. Though yer mam told me once how much ye looked like yer granny.”
I was surprised by this. My mother had never told me much about her parents. I knew I had the same hair color—a lock of her hair was clasped inside my mother’s mourning brooch—but that was all.
“Write to ’em, lass,” Mrs. Brittle urged. “Ye willna ken how they’ll respond unless ye write.”
I nodded, knowing she was correct even though my stomach was tied in knots at the prospect. “But Father…”
“If ye ever owed him your silence, ye dinna anymore,” Mrs. Brittle stated firmly, though not unkindly.
In principle, she was right. But that didn’t make it any easier. Mentioning my father’s d
rinking felt like a betrayal of some kind. Although after today I supposed there was no use continuing the pretense.
Mrs. Brittle reached across the table to take my hand in a rare show of affection. “I’m old, lass. I dinna have many more years. And the way yer Father is, he doesna have many years left either.”
I knew all of this, but hearing her declare the bald truth troubled me.
“Ye need to plan noo, lass. Afore it’s too late.” Her voice turned wry. “And afore ye have no choice but to accept whatever Master Rockland offers ye.”
I looked up in surprise.
Her black eyes were hard.
“You don’t like him?”
“’Tis no’ for me to say,” she replied, lifting her chin, and then proceeded to do just that. “But I didna like the way he treated ye when he ran off and married that lightskirt from London. I dinna care how much he lived to rue it. That didna make any difference for you.”
I was surprised to hear her describe Olivia as a lightskirt. I didn’t know whether she understood exactly what the term meant. There had been some vague suspicions that Olivia had been unfaithful to Robert, but none that anyone had discussed openly with me. Not that they would have, since I was a gentlewoman and Robert’s former intended. However, all gossip on that subject had ceased after the carriage accident that killed her and the child she carried. Did Mrs. Brittle know more than she was saying, or was she just repeating an oft-heard phrase?
“Me point is, ye need options, lass. I dinna want ye acceptin’ an offer from Master Rockland because ye dinna have a choice.”
She was right, of course. I had contemplated the very same thing. The last thing I wanted was for Robert to marry me out of a sense of obligation.
I didn’t know who would inherit the cottage upon Father’s death, but I was well aware it wouldn’t be me. In truth, since Erik’s passing, I wasn’t even certain Father had changed his will. But regardless, as a rule, young, unwed daughters didn’t inherit property, and I couldn’t very well go on living here with some distant male relative I’d likely never met. Even if I could, my mother’s dowry was long since spent and the small income Father still received from his family would stop upon his death. Our property had never generated income—which now seemed a foolish oversight on my parents’ part, given the fact that neither of their families approved of the match. So the stark reality was I would have no money to support myself. If my mother’s family did not help me, I would be forced to search for work as a governess or lady’s companion—or wed Robert. That is, if he even asked.
“I’ll write my grandfather and great-aunt,” I told Mrs. Brittle.
She patted my hand in approval. “Noo, do ye wish me to make ye a wee bit o’ supper?”
I declined, not certain I could stomach it. “I doubt Father will either.” He also hadn’t eaten anything at the church dinner—the better to fill his gut with brandy.
I retreated to my room upstairs to lie down, but sleep eluded me. Stupid as it seemed, I found myself worrying about Father. He had begun to imbibe rather early and quickly, and he was closed away in his study alone. If something happened to him, would we even know before it was too late? He could stumble and hit his head, or fall on something sharp, or simply sleep too deep and never awake.
I strained to hear any sound from below, just to reassure myself he was well, but the cottage was quiet. Mrs. Brittle had gone to bed early, and Father was apparently still. But was that because he was in trouble or because he’d merely drank himself into a stupor?
I flopped over on my other side, agitated with myself for worrying so. Father didn’t deserve my concern. I should just be able to forget him and close my eyes.
But I’d realized long ago that love and family were complicated. One couldn’t simply stop caring because the person didn’t merit it.
I sighed and gave up. Rolling over, I pushed myself up from the bed and made my way downstairs on silent feet. At the door to Father’s study, I pressed my ear against the wood, listening for any sign of movement. When I didn’t hear anything, I slowly turned the knob and opened the door.
Everything in the room was cast in muted hues from the hazy light of dusk filtering through the curtains. Father sat slumped over in his chair, his head resting against his chest as it rose up and down evenly with his breaths.
I watched him for a moment, wishing I understood. The one time I’d drunk too much wine at a dinner at Greenlaws, I’d felt wretched afterward. Erik had laughed at me and told me brandy or whiskey would be much worse. To live day after day like that seemed more akin to torture than escape, but then I hadn’t ever drunk enough to reach true forgetfulness.
I considered trying to wake him, knowing he would end up with a terrible pain in his neck if he slept that way all night, but then decided against it. The last thing I wanted was another confrontation. If I woke him from a sound slumber now, I was sure to get one. So I left him where he was.
I wandered through the cottage, not yet ready to return to tossing and turning in my bed. In the waning light I could squint my eyes and almost pretend the furnishings and artwork we’d sold to pay our bills were still there. Their images were still fresh enough in my memory to form shadowy apparitions out of the fuzzy light. The landscape of Dedham Vale still hung above the table in the front hall. The Hepplewhite chairs still sat in the dining room. And in the drawing room the pianoforte still stood in the corner, waiting to be played.
That is, until I crossed to where it had once stood and felt the slight indentation in the floor it had left behind. I brushed the toe of my slipper over the worn floorboards, wondering when the last time was that someone had stood in that spot. Perhaps it had been my mother, happily directing the servants where to position her instrument, just beside the window so that she would have the optimum amount of light to read her music by. I could almost see her pressing her hands together to contain her excitement.
I turned away abruptly. I was doing it again. Mrs. Brittle had warned me of the dangers of conjuring up ghosts. Our memories were powerful things. They had the ability to both comfort and cause great pain.
I lifted aside the soft mint-green drapes and stared out at the fens. Fog had begun to gather as the temperature dropped, climbing up from the waterways through the reeds. It cast a bleary, unearthly quality over the landscape, one that caused tingles to run up my spine, warning me to stay safe inside.
That thought alone should have deterred me, but suddenly I felt confined by the cottage—its shabby rooms and musty air and heavy silence. It pressed in around me like a weight pushing down on my chest. My limbs actually physically ached with the need to move.
In my current frame of mind, it was impossible not to wonder, even if briefly, whether these sensations were being caused by the Lantern Man and the power he might have held over me. Either way, I suddenly didn’t care. I wanted out. I wanted to be free of this house and its bittersweet memories. Of Father and his blind destruction. Of my foolish, stupid hopes. I decided I much preferred the company of the Lantern Man, whoever he might be, than my own despondent thoughts.
I stole through the house to the back door and snatched up the lantern. The air outside was cool and damp against my bare arms, a welcome relief from the oppressive atmosphere inside. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs, and deliberately slowed my steps as I crossed the lawn, taking time to savor the tranquility surrounding me. It was like standing in a void between two maelstroms—one within and one without. With each step I took toward the marsh, I could feel the prickling of anticipation.
I stopped at the edge of the fen, reminding myself I didn’t have to go in. I could stay here on the lawn, cocooned in this in-between space. There was little chance the Lantern Man would leave the marsh, and almost none that Father would come outside. I could make this place all my own.
But that was the trouble, wasn’t it? I was too often on my own, separated from others in all the ways that really mattered, and I was tired of it. Tired of not belonging an
ywhere with anyone, merely a visitor in other people’s lives. It would be nice to choose something for myself for once. To seek out something rather than running away, even if that something was the Lantern Man. To take the risk, reckless though it might be, instead of cushioning myself, waiting for the next blow.
I breathed deep of the musty scent of the Broads, and strode into the fen. As my foot touched the pliant earth of the marsh path a soft breeze gusted through the tendrils of my hair that had escaped from their pins. They tickled against my ears and neck like fingertips brushing gently over my skin.
I walked with a slow and careful tread, knowing there was no need to rush, or even to search. The Lantern Man would find me. All I needed to do was not stray from the path or become lost in the fog, so that eventually I could find my way back.
I strolled for what must have been five or ten minutes, long enough for me to begin to question the wisdom of my actions. Not only had I willfully entered the fens on a misty night, knowing how perilous they could be, but I was also seeking out the Lantern Man, a man who had proved he was clearly up to nothing good.
I was on the verge of turning back when he appeared, materializing in the corner of my eye to the right. Once again, he seemed to step out of the heart of the bog, with the mist swirling around him and his dark cloak.
I swiveled to face him, startled by his proximity. Before I could lift my lamp, he reached out and with a flick of his wrist the flame flickered out. My breath caught in my throat as we were plunged into darkness.
Chapter 15
I
blinked, trying to adjust my vision. The Lantern Man stood over me, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. It appeared this time he’d left his lantern behind.
Secrets in the Mist Page 13
