Chapter 7
Thalia could not sleep, could not even try to sleep, her head buzzing with everything Rowena and Mrs. Fisher had told her earlier.
“Why did he not tell me that he was the one who found me?” she hissed to herself as she paced the floor yet again, weary to the marrow of her bones yet unable to rest. “Why would he withhold such information? Why hide that when I was pleading for some truth?”
The rest of the earlier tour had gone by in a blur, for she had been in no mood for marveling at her own taste and admiring endless rooms after hearing about Henry’s part in finding her after the fall.
She had asked Mrs. Fisher if she might speak with Henry, only to discover that he had departed Holdridge Court without telling her.
“You don’t often announce your comings and goings to each other,” the housekeeper had explained with a pitying frown. “But I can leave word that you wish to see him tomorrow? I expect he’ll be back by then.”
But tomorrow seemed too far away, even as the carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticked toward three o’clock in the morning.
It was already tomorrow, yet she had no idea if her husband had returned or not, or if she would have to delay her interrogation of him a while longer.
It was interminable, having to wait to hear what he had to say.
Why should I wait? If he will not be forthcoming, perhaps others will be… She was struck by a sudden, intense need to see her siblings, to be among truly familiar faces, to be in her own home at the very least.
Her father had also disappeared from Holdridge, but Kenneth would be able to squeeze him for information; she was certain of it.
Compelled by the desire to be anywhere else, Thalia dressed quickly, pinned a cloak at her throat, and headed out of the bedchamber before she could change her mind. If nothing else, seeing Dorothy would be a necessary, calming medicine to her chaotic mind and soul.
She had just made it down the stairs to the entrance hall, having taken at least four wrong turns on the way, when a voice called out.
Thalia jumped in fright, for she had not heard anyone emerge from one of the adjoining hallways, no footfalls at all.
Yet, right there in the entrance to the right-hand hallway was a man, tall and slender, with sharp blue eyes and well-oiled hair that was graying at the temples.
Dressed in livery, she guessed he was a member of staff.
“Your Grace, are you well?” the man repeated the question she had missed in her fright.
“I am,” Thalia replied, catching her breath. “I apologize, I do not believe I know you.”
The man bowed. “Of course, Your Grace. I had heard about the effects of your unfortunate accident. I am Mr. Baxter: the butler.” He raised his head. “Please, allow me to offer my deepest sympathies for your affliction.”
“Thank you.” Thalia hesitated, suddenly uneasy in this man’s presence. “Might you fetch a carriage for me?”
He was the butler, after all. Arranging a carriage for the duchess of the household should have been no trouble whatsoever.
“Where is it you mean to go, Your Grace?” he asked.
“To my… father’s house,” Thalia replied, though she did not see what business it was of his.
The butler moved closer, his shoes making barely a sound upon the parquet.
“With regret, Your Grace, I cannot do that. The duke has given strict instructions that you are to remain here at Holdridge until you are well again.” He offered his arm.
“Perhaps, I might escort you back to your chambers? I can have some warm milk fetched up to you? Tea, perhaps?”
“I am not a child!” Thalia snapped, backing away from the unnerving man. “If I wish to go to my father’s house, I have every right to do so. And, as the mistress of this house, you must… obey me.”
She wished her voice held more authority, but she doubted she had ever truly commanded a member of staff to do anything before. It was not in her nature to throw her status around, even as a pretense.
Mr. Baxter shook his head solemnly. “I am employed by His Grace, Your Grace. The only orders I must heed are his, and he has been very clear that you are not to leave this manor.” He paused for a moment, his tone softening as he continued, “And do not think to circumvent his wishes by asking the housekeeper or one of your maids. They, too, have received the same instructions.”
The butler had clearly tried not to make it sound like a threat but to Thalia’s feverish, frustrated mind, there was no difference; he might as well have said it with a blade to her throat or a pistol to her head.
Yet, it did not have the effect of sending a rush of fear through her. Rather, it opened the floodgates to a torrent of pure fury, feeling like an animal cornered, ready to fight even if it was her last fight.
“So, when the duke said that this was, in essence, my manor, that was a lie?” she barked, glancing at the front door, wondering how far she would make it on foot before someone caught her.
The butler sighed as if he wished he was not the one who had to deal with this. “It was not a lie, but, for the time being, you cannot leave. Please, allow me to escort you back to your chambers. Or, I could wake Mrs. Fisher and have her take you, if you prefer? I realize I am a stranger to you.”
“Where is he?” Thalia snapped.
Mr. Baxter raised an eyebrow. “His Grace?”
“Yes, His Grace! Where is he? I will not be a prisoner in my own home, I will never be that, so if you will not let me leave then you will take me to him. I do not care where he is; you will deliver me there at once,” she commanded, surprised by the ferocity in her voice.
The butler seemed to relax. “He is in his chambers.”
“Then, lead me there!” Thalia’s heart began to race wildly, for though she had promised herself that she would visit the North tower, where all of this nonsense had started, she had not yet.
After the tour, she had been too confused and angry and exhausted to make it up so many steps. But now, she would make the ascent, even if she had to crawl, even if she had to climb with the power of pure spite.
Mr. Baxter hesitated. “Perhaps, Your Grace, tomorrow would be more fitting? I could arrange for the two of you to speak in the drawing room or at breakfast?”
“I will speak to him now,” Thalia insisted, breathless with the exertion.
As much as she kept trying to deny it, the accident had taken a lot out of her. She was tired in a way she had never been tired before, her limbs leaden, her mind foggy, but she would not be dissuaded from meeting with her husband while her anger was white-hot.
“As you wish,” the butler replied, moving toward the staircase. “This way, Your Grace.”
Sweating and wheezing, quite certain that her lungs were about to burst and her legs might shatter at any moment, Thalia made it to the narrow landing at the base of the North tower’s steps. A hexagon that suggested the shape of the tower above.
There, she clung to the banister for a moment, wondering if she would ever catch her breath again.
“Might I fetch you some water, Your Grace?” Mr. Baxter asked, not even out of breath.
Thalia shook her head and pointed upward. “This is… where I was found?”
“You would have to ask His Grace,” the butler replied.
Just then, soft light spilled down the steep staircase, a shadow silhouetted at the very top. “What is all this—” Henry’s sharp voice began, before it quietened in surprise. “Thalia? Baxter? What on earth are you doing up here?”
“Her Grace wished to speak to you immediately,” the butler explained, for Thalia could not have hoped to conjure a single word from her lips. “I tried to suggest a more reasonable hour and a more reasonable meeting place, but she was rather adamant.”
Thalia wanted to tell the man not to talk about her as if she were not there, but dizziness crested through her skull, sloshing about like a cold wave that threatened to send her careening back into unconsciousness.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Henry descend. “Leave us, Baxter.” He paused. “Actually, bring some of that medicinal tea that my wife usually favors.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Baxter bowed his head and bounded off down the stairs, somehow possessing more vitality going down than he had coming up.
Slowly, Henry came closer, the contours of his unfairly handsome face jumping about in the shadows cast by the landing’s meager torchlight.
He was, once again, in a state of undress that made Thalia’s cheeks burn: his shirt loose and open at the collar, his trousers stopping at the middle of his calf, barefoot on the cold stone floor, his dark brown hair tousled as if he had been resting.
True, he was her husband, so it was not outlandish or improper for her to look, but he was not her husband, in her mind, so her eyes instinctively diverted to anywhere else.
“What did you wish to say that could not wait until morning?” he asked, leaning on the banister beside her.
Below was a steep drop that made her blood run cold, imagining how terrible things could have been if she had… rolled over the edge when she fell.
The danger might not yet have passed, she realized, as she became suddenly, keenly aware that she was alone on a precipice with the stranger who claimed to be her husband.
The man who had found her when she fell but had not bothered to mention it.
The man who seemed to be hiding things; she just could not decipher what.