by Darcy Burke
Mr. Waldegrave’s eyes filled with self-reproach.
Violet pressed her hand to her mouth and tried to think of something to say that might actually help either of them.
No miracles came to mind.
“Lillian,” he whispered into the back of his daughter’s head. “Nothing was wrong. The thought was lovely. The painting was lovely. I wish you hadn’t overturned your palette on it. The water-violets were splendid. The next time you paint something, I promise—”
“I’m done painting.” Lily struggled to escape her father’s embrace. “I’m done with everything, ever. I can’t do anything right, so why bother?”
Just as she freed herself from her father’s arms, the overturned paint palette began to slide down the still-wet canvas.
Even as his daughter fled to the relative safety hidden behind her bed curtains, he remained on his knees upon the floor, watching the inexorable slide of the overturned palette with an expression of naked self-loathing.
Violet’s heart clenched in sympathy. Her brain was desperately whirring for something to say, something to do. She could think of nothing, and could only stand there and watch his pain.
He stared up at the ruined canvas in silence, flinching every time the falling palette obliterated each precious bloom as if each flower’s demise destroyed another part of his soul along with it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Master. Master!”
Alistair jerked upright so quickly his pince-nez flew from his nose to the floor. All that noise hadn’t been the pounding of his migraine after all, from struggling to memorize anatomical diagrams and minute scientific terminology.
“Come in,” he said wearily, then recalled he was the sole possessor of a key to his office. Sighing, he pushed back his chair, rescued his pince-nez, and managed to pull himself upright on sleep-prickled feet. After shaking off as many kinks as he could, he hobbled across the room and swung open the door. “Pull yourself together, man. What’s the meaning of all this racket?”
Far from abashed, his staid manservant eyed him with concern. “Master, you must cease doing this.”
Alistair rubbed the corded muscles at the base of his neck. “Doing what? Researching a cure?”
“Locking yourself in your office for ten solid hours.” Roper’s gaze held steady. “You didn’t answer my knock at noontime or for supper. You won’t do anyone any good if you fall ill.”
Alistair’s hand stilled. “Did you say—ten hours? That must make it ...”
“Half-eight, master.”
“Half—” Alistair stepped into the corridor, pulling the office door closed behind him. Half-eight meant he had but an hour to splash water on his face and get to the sanctuary to bid his daughter goodnight. He hadn’t skipped their bedtime story ritual even once in her nine years, and certainly did not prefer “epithelium” and “urticaria” to castles and princesses. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Surprise registered on Roper’s usually impassive face. “Master, I—”
“Look alive, Roper.” Alistair quirked a smile as he strode past his manservant. “I’m just ... ‘bamming’ you, to borrow a phrase.”
Roper’s surprise did not diminish. “Bamming me, sir?”
Whether his manservant’s shock was due to Alistair’s use of a slang term or the idea of his master bamming anyone in the first place, Alistair paid no mind. He ducked into the corridor, intent on a quick detour to the kitchens. Now that his stomach had been made aware of time’s passage, he could not go another minute without at least a bite to eat.
He was polishing off the last of a wedge of cheese when his housekeeper bustled in, swaddled head-to-toe against cold weather.
“Good evening, Mrs. Tumsen.”
She started guiltily. “Oh! G-good evening, sir.”
“Have a seat.” He rose to his feet. “I was just leaving.”
“Were ye, now?” Wide-eyed, Mrs. Tumsen took the offered seat. “I ... I was just ... ”
More than a bit tipsy, if the scent of her breath did not deceive. Alistair retrieved the knife from the sink in order to slice off another portion of bread and cheese. “Enjoy your holiday with your sister?”
“Ohh, did I.” Mrs. Tumsen peeled off her gloves and unwrapped her scarf, revealing flushed cheeks and a suspicious expression. Her lack of siblings was an open secret amongst the staff, and she was apparently just realizing there were no secrets from her master. “Nothing new with good old Ginny, sir, although the town is abuzz with a bit of news from Lancashire.”
“Lancashire!” He set the arranged plate before his housekeeper. “And here I might have thought London, what with the Season underway.”
“Oh, sure, London. Nobs and debs. They’re not even part of the same world as real people like us. Country folk, I mean. That is ... ”
Alistair decided to save his housekeeper before she tangled herself up any further in her explanation. “What’s the word in Lancashire these days, Mrs. Tumsen? Has all this rain been flooding the Ribble and the Lune?”
“They wish they’d got rain,” Mrs. Tumsen declared as she attacked the cheese and bread with gusto. “What they got was a fire that took out part of a school, from what I hear.”
“A fire! Are the children all right?”
“The children are fine. Seems there was violence between adults. One’s dead or injured, and one’s missing altogether. Nasty bit of business.”
“Appears so,” he agreed, reaching in his vest pocket for his fob. “All the more reason to be grateful Lillian’s safe at home. If you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to see her now.”
“Of course, of course!” Mrs. Tumsen’s cheeks reddened further, as if she’d just realized she’d been tongue-wagging at her employer. “Good day, sir!”
Alistair wore a bemused smile as he made his way to the catacombs. What had come over him lately? Burying himself in books was nothing new, but teasing his manservant and gossiping with his housekeeper ... Now there was a first!
How long had it been since he had shared meaningful conversation with another adult? After Marjorie died, he hadn’t spoken much to anyone at all. That was, until Miss Smythe arrived. Everything had changed after she arrived. Even Lillian.
But not in the way that mattered the most. He sighed.
If the past twenty-four hours had taught him anything, it was that his daughter’s belief that she wasn’t good enough was the greatest source of her unhappiness. And his as well. As her father, it was up to him to keep her happy. Once Lillian was cured, she wouldn’t be inferior to anyone on the planet. And once he found that cure, his daughter would finally have a father she could be proud of.
Smiling, he fished the key from his pocket and eased open the door to his daughter’s chamber.
Lillian was not yet abed. She was cross-legged in the center of the room, knee-to-knee with Miss Smythe—also cross-legged upon the marble floor—and giggling hysterically at some sort of rhythm game involving rhyming chants and the random slapping of one another’s hands.
He leaned against the doorjamb, content to gaze through the crack at a barrier he hadn’t yet managed to cross with his daughter. His heart gave a sharp tug. How lovely it would be to play together ... He yearned to join the fun, but had no doubt that his presence would only serve to ruin it. And when was the last time he’d heard Lillian laugh? Alistair was more convinced by the day that Miss Smythe was less a miracle-worker and more an actual angel sent from God.
Which was all the more reason to squelch his impulse to touch her, to kiss her, every time they were alone. Curse him for having been born a fallible man!
He sighed just to look at her. So lovely and so pure. She was perfection itself. He would not be the one to spoil such goodness. Keeping a safe distance was best for everyone.
He watched longingly as Miss Smythe easily swung a laughing Lillian into her arms and carried her to the bed. For four long years, it had not been thus with him and his daughter. It had been tantrums and screaming an
d plugged ears and thrashing limbs. Not smiles and tight hugs and kisses on the forehead.
Soon, he promised himself as he pushed open the door and entered the chamber. The upcoming cabal of physicians and scientists would be precisely what they needed to turn their fortunes around. He could feel it.
Miss Smythe paused at his footsteps, one hand poised to release the cord tying back the bed curtain. “Lily, your father is here! Won’t you tell him goodnight?”
All Alistair heard was silence. He did not need to see through the velvet drapery to suspect his daughter had pulled a face at the suggestion. He could only be grateful there was no more screaming.
When he reached her side, Miss Smythe took a step toward the foot of the bed to allow him better access to Lillian. His daughter’s eyes were focused on the tester across the canopy and did not move to acknowledge his presence.
“Good night, daughter. I hope you sleep well.”
Silence.
“Lily.” Miss Smythe’s voice was a low warning.
She turned her head away. “I have nothing to say to him.”
“Sweetling ...” he said quietly, beseechingly.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight.
He sighed, but did not yet take his leave. Even if she were not speaking to him, his daughter was still the most precious gift he had ever been given, and just looking at the dark lashes curled against her little cheeks filled him with an indescribable joy. Someday, she would be pleased with him, too. Please, God, someday soon.
At last, he took a step back to allow Miss Smythe room to release the bed curtain.
“Good night, Tiger Lily.”
Just as the curtain fell home against the opposite panel, his daughter’s soft voice was barely audible above the rustling velvet. “Good night, Miss Violet. I love you.”
The wide-eyed shock on Miss Smythe’s face was nothing compared to the meteorite that had just slammed into Alistair’s gut. He was not jealous of the governess. He was not. And yet, how long had he hoped, had he yearned, to hear those words from his daughter’s lips once again?
She hadn’t loved him since the morning she’d seen her own grave. He hadn’t known why, but he had known it was true. He had not earned it. The governess—Miss Smythe—had succeeded where he had not. Had conquered the war when he had yet to win a single battle. If he had ever been in want of concrete proof of his failings as a father, well, he was in want no more.
She reached out, as if to touch his arm.
He turned away before contact could be made and strode back into the welcome darkness of the catacombs. He had prayed for her help, but he did not need her pity.
She followed him from the room. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving them enshrouded in darkness. She did not move. He did not speak. She waited, without talking. And, by the grace of God, without touching. He could barely withstand his own skin without shattering. He needed a moment to think. To breathe. To remind himself that his feelings, his heart, were not his concern. Only his daughter.
“How is she?” he said at last. “Truly?”
At first he thought Miss Smythe did not intend to answer. Then he feared she was formulating a speech about what had just happened—or not happened—at his daughter’s bedside. At last, he heard a soft sigh, and quiet rustles indicating she had turned to face him, despite the darkness.
“She won’t paint.”
He found himself wishing for a candle after all, in order to read her expression, since he was obviously incapable of comprehending her words. “What?”
“I said, she won’t paint.”
“That’s ... alarming?”
“Very much so.”
He frowned. “How can not painting be that bad? Until you arrived, she’d never held a paintbrush before in her life.”
“I’d wager she never expressed herself before in her life, either. Now she has. And now she won’t.”
He snorted. It sounded to him like Lillian was expressing herself very clearly. She preferred her governess to her own father. What more was left to say?
“I suppose you have a solution?” he asked, unable to keep the uncharitable edge from his voice.
“I do.”
“Well?”
He heard her inhale deeply. Whatever she was about to suggest must be shocking indeed, if she needed to inhale that much of the dank catacomb air.
“Art comes in part from experience,” she said slowly. “But life, on the other hand, is one hundred percent experience. And Lily has experienced nothing.”
“I fail to hear a suggestion.”
“She needs to see the world. Even if for her, ‘the world’ is only her own back garden by the light of the moon.”
He took an involuntary step backward and nearly cracked his head against the crumbling wall of the tunnel. “No.”
“Let’s take her outside. After dusk, when it will be safe.”
“No.”
“Just once,” she said softly, cajolingly, as if he wasn’t well aware that “just once” was all it would take to lose his daughter forever. “Please. Just for a few moments.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” she burst out, angrily.
“Given an inch, Lillian will run away. She’s done it before, and she’ll do it again. The next time, she could die. The answer is no.”
For a long moment, the silence was so absolute that he began to imagine himself alone in the catacombs, raving like a madman to the corpses sequestered within its walls. And then she spoke.
“With all due respect,” she began, in a tone of such unveiled frustration that even he wasn’t fanciful enough to imagine any respect. “You are keeping your daughter from a potential source of happiness.”
“No,” he returned, his voice carefully modulated. “I am keeping her alive.”
“It’s not mutually exclusive,” she snapped. “Overprotection is counterproductive.”
“Is it?” His fingers shook. She had not been the one to fetch a screaming five-year-old from a patch of sunlight. She had not been the one to soothe patches of blistered skin until the welts faded to angry scars. “What do you know about it? You haven’t stood in my shoes. You’re not her mother. You’re not anybody’s mother. Until you have a child of your own, you can’t tell me how to raise mine.”
She sucked in a breath. He didn’t need a candle to realize his words had wounded far too deeply. When she spoke, her voice was uneven. “You’re right. I don’t know anything about mothers at all.”
Alistair’s hands curled into fists of frustration. Punching a hole in the catacomb wall would likely bring the whole structure down upon them. Not to mention the likelihood of God striking him down for his sacrilege. He forced his white-knuckled fingers to release their tension.
“I don’t think you understand,” he began, as calmly as he could.
“I don’t think you understand,” she interrupted, her voice tight. “It’s not for you. It’s not for me. It’s for Lily.”
“Miss Smythe—”
“I’ll be with your daughter at every moment. We’ll both be with her. And we’ll never let her out of our sight.”
He let his humorless chuckle echo along the packed soil and crumbling saints. “What makes you think mere sight can control her? Look what Lillian did to the paintings you worked so hard on. Look what she did to her own painting that she had worked so hard on. We were both right next to her, keeping her in our sight, when she lashed out and committed irreparable damage before either of us could react. Think again, Miss Smythe. How can anyone control Lillian if she can’t even control herself?”
A swish, as if Miss Smythe had turned from him in the darkness, followed by the muffled click of boot heels against the ancient dirt floor. She was walking away from him without a word? Cut, as it were?
He squinted into the darkness. “Are we done discussing?”
Her footsteps did not slow. “Lily is a child. Children act out. She—”
“She’s not a
child. She’s my child.” He pursued the retreating footsteps into the blackness. “It’s my responsibility to ensure she not act out in a way that could cause her harm, much less kill her.”
She spun around so suddenly that her hands had grasped his forearms even before he registered she’d stopped walking. “Lily is special. Did you see what she painted? How she painted? You looked, but did you really see?”
He allowed his hands to settle lightly on her hips, but his tone remained as hard as his resolve. “What are you saying, Miss Smythe? That my daughter would be Michelangelo if only she could travel the world? I know how special Lillian is! Why do you think I’m so desperate to keep her safe? To cure her?”
Her grip on his forearms gentled, as did her voice. “Because you’re her father and you love her,” she said quietly, each word another dash of salt into his open wound. “You’d be desperate for a cure even if she couldn’t draw a straight line. You’re a good man, and you’re trying to be a great father. I see that. I see you.”
Trying to be. Wanting to be. But accomplishing nothing. He stood in silence, letting her words fall upon him like dust upon a coffin. Unanswered. Because there was no answer to give.
“The thing is,” she continued softly, her breath ghostly above the folds of his cravat. “When will you find this cure? Next week? Next year? In ten years?” She lifted one of her hands and laid the palm against the side of his face. “What about the quality of Lily’s life between now and then?”
“I’m trying to save her life,” he ground out. “That’s precisely why it isn’t worth the risk.”
She lowered her hand. “What if you never find a cure? What if there isn’t any cure to be found? Would it all still be worth it then?”
“Never say that again,” he said furiously. He gripped her by the shoulders, then pushed her away. He did not want her touching him anymore. He did not want her opinions on childrearing. And he definitely did not want to hear poisonous negativity. His body shook as much in fear as in anger. “I will find a cure. I must. I shall.”
She did not reply.
Even though he could smell the soap upon her curls and hear the faint whisper of each breath, Alistair knew the truth. He was alone. Nothing would change that. Him against the world, against modern science, against God Himself if need be. For Lillian.
