Page 49 of Too Wanton to Wed
“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?”
“Theywishthey’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 Lily’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 longhadit 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 Lily.
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 Lily 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.
Lily 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 Lily laugh? Alistair was more convinced by the day that Miss Smythe was less a miracle-worker and more an actual angel sent from God.
