Page 25 of Too Wanton to Wed
And why did it have to be Miss Smythe, who despite her lack of valises or references and the shocking way she’d been hand-delivered to his doorstep like a copy of the London Times, had exhibited nothing short of exemplary behavior up till now. She should not have been there, but neither had she deserved to bear the brunt of his torment. She had wrested at least a sliver of conditional trust from Lillian—Lord knew, Alistair himself had failed to achieve so much—and for heaven’s sake, hadn’t his reason for seeking the governess out in the first place, been to apologize for boorish behavior?
Then he’d passed Mrs. Tumsen, clipping at a dead run down the corridor despite her crooked back, frightened as if spooked by the devil himself. She’d been summoned, she said. To the missus’s old room. Everyone had heard the call.
He’d raced ahead of her with his mind still reeling from his daughter’s accusations, only to discover Miss Smythe in his wife’s bedchamber. Holding that cursed, cursed dress...
He slammed his fist to the wall once more. This time it didn’t hurt. This time he couldn’t feel anything. Nothing at all. It didn’t even feel like his fist anymore, nor did it feel like those were his bloody knuckles, marking up the wall with each strike. His vision swam as if he were trapped in someone else’s body. Oh, how he wished he were in someone else’s body.
But instead he was here, in this godless abbey, slamming his fist into a stone wall—
“Master! Master, come with me. Please.”
Roper. Roper was talking to him. Yes, they should go. Alistair glanced up at the bloodstained wall, then down at his mangled knuckles. Dejectedly, he allowed Roper to lead him away. He was back in his own body, his own miserable life. His hand hurt. He had a dead wife. A daughter who hated him. A governess who probably wished to see him imprisoned or in Bedlam or both.
And what was he supposed to do? All he wanted,allhe wanted, was to be a good father to Lillian. Just that. Nothing more.
Why couldn’t he find a cure? He had money. Piles of gold. Whatever he lacked in scientific genius, he could hire. Mostly. He’d invited the sharpest minds in all of England to join him for a retreat, and some of them had even agreed to attend.
He desperately hoped they were men of their word. If ever there was a team who could fix Lillian, it was this group. And then she’d be cured. He’d give his daughter everything. The constellations, the sun, the stained glass he’d waited years to unveil. She’d see he was a good father, after all. He’d say,I love you, princess. I give you the world.And she’d finally say,I love you, too, Papa. They’d travel the world, just him and her, and perhaps her governess—
Oh, Lord, his forthcoming apology to Miss Smythe had just gotten a thousand times more humiliating. What could he say to her? What if she quit her post altogether? Now, when Lillian was showing the first signs of interest in education?
Or had been, before he’d intervened. But what had he been supposed to think? His hand still bore teeth marks from the night before. When he’d glimpsed the ink-stained dress and Lillian’s guilty expression, he’d had every reason to assume the worst.
No, that wasn’t the worst. The worst was knowing the truth about the day he’d rescued his screaming five-year-old daughter from the burning rays of sun. Lillian was correct—all he’d remembered was his terror and her pain. In the ensuing panic, he’d forgotten that he’d found her in the back lawn. That his little girl was standing mere feet from where her mother was buried, unable to read but more than capable of recognizing her own name...
This time, when his daughter had saidI hate youjust like every other night, he’d actually deserved it. His body shook. Perhaps he’d always deserved it. He ruined everything. With his hands, with his words, with his goddamnseed... everything he touched turned to ash.
“Master? Here’s your bedchamber. Sit in your chair and let me help you.”
He sat. He let Roper dress his wounded hand, divest him of his boots, prepare him a cup of tea.
Some men drank whiskey. Alistair did not. Good fathers did not drink their problems away, like Alistair’s had done. Good fathers focused on their children. Loved them, cherished them, despite any perceived faults. Fixed their problems. Alistair had thus far failed to fix anything at all. He was a terrible father. An even worse employer.
“She was holding the dress,” he whispered. Hopefully its curse had been broken when it ripped in two.
Roper’s scarred countenance twisted in confusion. “My lord?”
Alistair cleared his throat. “Miss Smythe. She deserves an apology for suffering my unseemly behavior. But how did she get into Marjorie’s bedchamber?”
“I can’t imagine, master. That chamber has a different key than the rest of the abbey. The only ones with access are you and—” Roper’s eyes bulged as though he were choking on his tongue. He pressed a frantic hand to his chest pockets, to his pants pockets, to his throat. “It’s gone. I had the key, and it’s gone. How did—” This time, Roper’s eyes squeezed shut and a mirthless laugh escaped his scarred lips. “Miss Smythe is indeed resourceful.” His eyes opened. He shook his head, his lips wry. “I suppose I deserved it.”
“Deserved what?” Alistair looked up from his raw knuckles. “What the devil are you about?”
Roper, for perhaps the first time in the many years of their acquaintance, looked nothing short of abashed. “When Miss Smythe knocked to be released from the catacombs, she asked me to accompany her to her quarters. I said I could not, because I was meant to wait for you.”
“I would scarcely have sacked you for showing a lady to her room.”
“I am accustomed to following your orders to the letter, and I... You are right. It was not well done of me.” Roper paused as if recalling the moment. “Miss Smythe asked to borrow the key to her chamber. She must have... selected... the wrong one. Do not blame her. And please let her know I accept full responsibility.”
“Tell her yourself.” Alistair was not at all convinced he’d comprehended Roper’s convoluted story, but he was in no mood to ply his manservant with questions. “I have my own apologies to make.”
Roper bowed his head. “As you please.”
“Go find her. Make her feel at home. I don’t want her wondering if she’s sacked, or if I’m mad as a hatter, or both. While you’re at it, call her a bath and a hot meal. Damn it all, I should never have left her alone.” He leaned back and sighed. “In the morning, go to town and see if the daywear I ordered her has arrived. If not, see if you can purchase anything that might suit. Mrs. Tumsen can take in hems if need be, but Miss Smythe sorely requires a new costume.”
“Yes, master. I will do my best.” Roper bowed once more, then took his leave.
Feeling both exhausted and horribly empty, Alistair stared at the bandaged hand in his lap. He wished he’d apologized to Miss Smythe immediately, for he certainly couldn’t face her now. Not after ripping his dead wife’s gown from her hands.
