Page 45 of House of Thorns
“I do believe I have something in the print room that might suffice,” she said, seeking any excuse to escape his presence, if only for a moment. “If you would excuse me?”
“Most certainly, Miss Mackenzie.” He nodded.
She left him there and slipped through the curtains. Refusing to let herself think of Nicholas, she hurried to the print room. The familiar scent of ink and paper soothed her rattled thoughts. After selecting several pages, she had calmed herself enough to return.
Lord Randall still stood by the counter where she’d left him.
“Perhaps one of these might suffice, my lord?” she queried with a distant smile.
He scarcely looked at them and selected the first. “This will do nicely.”
“Then two shillings, my lord.”
“Thank you, Miss Mackenzie.” He dropped the coins onto the counter.
A sound behind her made Olivia turn. Her father stepped through the curtains.
“Olivia, child, my how you’ve grown,” he said, his hat sliding off the back of his head.
The sight of his jagged scar was a startling one. Keenly aware of Lord Randall watching her every move, she quickly stepped up to her father and straightened his hat.
“Let’s go, shall we, Father?”
“But, we’ve a customer, child,” he objected.
“He’s made his purchase, dear father,” she assured as she pulled him toward the curtain.
Again, he stopped, but this time he looked her in the eye. “Your mother loves bluebells, child.”
So. He knows what day it is.
“I know, Father,” she whispered, searching his face.
She saw the pain in his eyes, but only for a moment. Then, he was slipping between her fingers, retreating once again into his private world.
A movement from the corner of her eye reminded her that Lord Randall still waited. She tossed him a quick glance.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord. I must see my father settled.”
The man nodded, his face unreadable as he touched the brim of his hat. “Then, good day, Miss Mackenzie.”
She watched him go, finding herself relieved when the door shut behind him. She turned back to her father and guided him to the parlor.
“Let’s play some music, shall we?” she asked.
He said nothing as she led him back to his piano. Then, once again seated on his bench before the ivory keys, she watched as his world of music swallowed him.
For a time, Olivia stood by the door, resting her head against the frame.
Her father was still there, despite what anyone else thought. She simply had but to listen to his music to know. Part of her couldn’t blame him for giving up, for living in his world of notes. The other part of her, however, didn’t agree.Shewas still here. She, his child, still needed him.
With a sigh, she brushed tears from her cheeks and headed for her room.
Feeling morose, she changed into her best dress and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She could only snort. She was so very far from the lady her mother had been. She inspected her ink-stained, calloused hands and shrugged as her father’s music drifted up the stairwell.
She might not look like her mother, but she certainly had her determination and strength—enough strength for her father and herself, as well.
With a smile, she picked up her bonnet, and by the time she returned to the shop, Mrs. Lambert had arrived.
