Page 78 of Indecently Employed
She’d only just begun to steady her emotions when her ears pricked up at the sound of determined footsteps on the gravel outside.
A preternatural instinct spurred her off the floor. She’d barely concealed herself behind the stack of covered crates when the door to the dovecote wailed on its hinges as the owner of the footsteps opened it.
Right away she realized she felt even sillier, hiding like this, than she had on the floor, which brought about a surge of anger. It washisfault, writing her mother’s horrible brother like that. First he had taken away her governess, and now he was tossing her aside as if she were nothing. Her whole body prickled with fury. And Miss Abbotts—she had been kind and patient, intelligent and quietly assured. Would he eventually cast her aside as well, as easily as he had Charlotte’s mother?
“Charlotte?” She could tell, having known him for a time now, that he was tentative. But even so, his deep voice still made him sound authoritative. She hated it.
She took the quietest of breaths, not yet ready to reveal herself.
No, she didn’t hate it. Or him. Not usually, anyway. But by God, she did right now. She flexed her fingers, touching them to her thumbs one by one as she silently counted down, backward from twenty.
“Come now, sweetheart. I know you’re in here. Theo saw you.”
Anger rose in her once more, but she shut her eyes and resumed her count. She heard him shift his weight and let go of the door, which screeched quietly before it came to a halt in its usual place, halfway closed.
… three, two, one.At the end of her countdown she drew a deep breath, held it, then slowly released it. In full control of herself once more, she hastily wiped at her eyes, then wiped her hands on her skirt. Her placid façade thus restored, she stepped out from behind the crates, her expression relaxed, her gaze detached.
“Ah,” said her father as she appeared in front of him. He crossed his arms, then seemingly thought better of it, and placed his hands in his pockets instead. Charlotte stared at him, noting how the wide set of his eyes and sharpness of his cheekbones resembled her own face. She’d never doubted that he had sired her. Their appearances were too similar. And there was something else, something she dared not voice, least of all to him—this yearning to understand the world. To decipher the mystery of being. Her father’s path had taken him deep into art and history, diving into the beauty that humans were capable of producing. Wondering at the condition of man as depicted in paintings and arias.
Charlotte, on the other hand, had long ago abandoned that path. Instead, she looked for the darkness in people, that whichwas front and center more often than not, forging her way through the brambles and thorns of the inevitable bleakness that was life. Alone. As ever.
“And what did you make of your uncle, then?” he said, punctuating the question with a barely concealed grimace.
She considered lying, just to torment him. But then she thought of how disappointed Miss Abbotts—that is, Mrs. Sedley—would be to hear of that. She glanced about, taking note of a long crack in the plaster ceiling, then looked back at her father. She blinked.
“I never knew Nan—your mother’s people were so…” He took a step closer to her, waving a hand in the air as he searched for the best way to describe Mr. Jutton.
“Dull?” she offered, raising her eyebrows. “Dreary? Tiresome? Soulless?” She drew out the last descriptor, enjoying the feel of it on her tongue.
“Well, I was going to say repulsive, but let’s go with yours. Far more charitable.”
She felt the tiniest flutter. A spark of hope? She looked away from him again.
He stepped closer and hung his head. Charlotte said nothing, allowing the silence to build and thicken. He deserved to feel the weight of it, the guilt. A part of her found it pleasing, but at the same time, she nurtured that little spark, sheltering it safely in her heart.
Finally he looked up, his blue eyes shining with unshed tears. She was taken aback; she had never seen that before.
“I’m sorry. My…” He ran a hand over his mouth, smoothing his mustache with one finger. “My darling girl. You deserve so much better than me. That’s why I had written to him. Being a Sedley is a fraught undertaking, of which I am the epitome. Even during my most irresponsible days, I had told myself I wouldnever bring another Sedley into the world, that I would never subject another person to what I experienced as a youth.
“But when I discovered that I had, in fact, done just that…” He looked down to the floor as he shifted his weight. “I did not think myself worthy of the task at hand, worthy of the…” He sighed and crossed his arms. When he started again, his voice was firm, though melancholic. “I can never undo what I’ve done, allowing myself to forget your mother and not caring whether something might’ve resulted from our… association.”
Embarrassment came on quickly, despite her attempts to stave it off, and she turned to the side, not wanting to think about her mother in this way, with him. Or of how he’d stolen Miss Abbotts away from her in the same manner. Perhaps her uncle was not the one in the wrong; perhaps the Juttons would provide the better home for her. But that would mean living with dull, horrid people with dull, horrid auras in dull, horrid Shilbottle. She could barely stomach the thought. She swallowed hard, and turned back to her father.
“I’m sorry, Charlotte. I amsosorry. For the hurt, the lack of recognition, any financial struggle you ever had. If I could…” He drew a breath and looked up to the ceiling of the dovecote. “No, I cannot make things different. And yet, here I am, truly grateful to know you now. To name you as my daughter, to see my own stubborn nature within you, to see your mother’s eyes come to life once again.”
The hot sting of tears hit her quite unexpectedly. She did not wish to move, so she instead allowed them to roll down her cheek.
“And I’m sorry for not being up to snuff, as it were, but I am your father. That is, I would like to be your father.” His voice was strained, but he kept on, tears welling in his own sad eyes. “If you’ll have me. If you’ll stay. I want nothing more than to preserve this family—my family. I should not have written Mr.Jutton. Perhaps society would judge you more leniently were you to go with him, and be brought up properly, as a Jutton, instead of some scandalous Sedley hoyden. But of all the things I’ve done in my life of which I’m not proud, writing to him was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”
Charlotte remembered the day before her cousin Harmonia’s wedding, when he’d taken her to the occult shop and nearly bought out the entire place for her. How he’d smiled out the carriage window after they’d left, when he thought she wasn’t looking.
All at once, she released the sob she’d been holding back, no longer caring if he saw her like this. In that moment, she missed her mother more than anything.
“My girl,” he whispered as he stepped forward, his arms open.
Without thinking she fell against him, openly weeping, her shoulders shaking. He enveloped her with his arms, and he made a low shushing sound as she bawled, her tears wetting his coat. It was not her mother’s embrace; he possessed none of her softness, nor her scent. But Charlotte clutched at his sleeves and buried her head against his chest all the same.
For the first time in several months, she felt safe. She felt at home.
