Chapter Twenty-Six
Hetty
Hetty’s sleep was not peaceful, nor restorative. Each time she managed to rouse herself, it pulled her back and held her under until she submitted once more. She had never known exhaustion could be so overpowering. But she had been through so much in so little time. Perhaps this was what her body and her mind required. Rest, even if it did not feel restful. Time to heal, even if she felt worse now than she had before.
In most of her conscious moments she thought of Jasper, and how desperately she wished to get back to him and his family. But I’m with my family , the vague memories of her aunt and cousin slipping in and out of her mired mind. This feels like home, doesn’t it?
Sleep . Sleep will fix things.
And so she slept.
Once or twice, she awoke to people around her bed, though without her spectacles she could not make them out properly, and the abyss still clutched at her viciously. She felt hands upon the borders of her injury. Good, she thought, a doctor . She must need one desperately, if she felt this poorly. Bless her aunt for seeing to it.
She opened her mouth to speak, but the words came out garbled.
“Hetty, darling, drink this.” Her aunt’s hand cradled her cheek, but the pressure was too strong against her skin, almost painful, almost a threat. She poured a tepid liquid down her throat. Water, she thought, but she was too addled to think clearly. “That’s a good girl, sleep now.”
How could she argue against it, when the desire to succumb was so strong?
She closed her eyes and sank once more into the abyss.
…
The next time she woke, she knew immediately that something was wrong.
Her bones ached with the need to move. Her skin was clammy. She was hot, so hot, and her mouth was as dry as a desert. She threw the covers back. Where were her spectacles? Why was the room so bloody dark?
She practically crawled her way to the water closet and saw to her needs. When she came back, a blurry figure stood in the middle of her room, gasping at the sight of her upright.
“Hetty, you mustn’t exert yourself,” came the voice of her aunt.
“I merely used the water closet, Aunt Celia,” she said as she began feeling along her messy desk. “Where are my spectacles? I don’t know if you noticed, but I am rather useless without them.”
Her aunt made a strange, disapproving noise. “I hope you understand that we are doing this for your own good, dear.”
Hetty paused, the hair on the back of her neck standing up. “Doing what?”
“Seeing to it that you rest , you have been through so much.” Her aunt took her by the shoulders and began forcibly guiding her back into her bed.
Hetty resisted. “Am I ill?” she asked blankly, for she was confused.
“In a sense,” her aunt said as she pushed Hetty back onto the pillows and pulled the quilt back up over her shoulders, tucking in the edges and effectively imprisoning her. She stepped back, her hands on her hips. “You may not remember this, but you were in a very delicate place before you vanished and lost your memories.”
“After my father died, you mean?” She was struggling to understand her aunt’s intentions. Was she simply overprotective? Or did she think Hetty a child?
“Your grief nearly consumed you, my dear. Here, I brought you some tea.” She pressed the cup and saucer into Hetty’s hands. “Drink.”
Hetty couldn’t help but huff in annoyance before taking a small sip. “Seems a normal reaction to have after losing a parent, no?”
Even without her spectacles, she could see her aunt’s lips press into a thin, disapproving line. “Hetty—”
“All I want is my spectacles,” she argued between sips. “You can’t know how disorienting it is to be without them.” Even Jasper had understood that—long before they had warmed to each other. After she’d asked, finding them had been his first, most pressing task.
“No, I’m afraid I’m going to be quite strict about this, Hetty. Doctor’s orders. He said you must be kept in total isolation with nothing to stimulate you.”
Hetty’s nose wrinkled in confusion. “I had a doctor when I was with the Maycotts and he thought I had improved—”
“I won’t risk it.” Her aunt’s tone brooked no argument.
Hetty, somehow more exhausted now than she had felt upon waking, found she lacked the willingness to argue further. She took another, longer sip, letting the warmth spread from her throat and into her chest, unfurling the sense of panic that had been building. “How long have I been sleeping? It’s still Saturday, right?” she added, a slight jest since she felt so sluggish.
“Saturday afternoon, in fact.”
So she had slept through the night and long into the next day. How odd of her. “May I at least write a letter? The Maycotts must be worried about me. And Jasper—”
“Jasper?” Her aunt’s tone was sharp. Inquisitive.
Hetty felt herself blush. “The earl, that is, will want to know I am all right.”
Her aunt studied her briefly. “You were…close with the earl?”
Was it that obvious? “It was difficult not to be. He found me after the accident. I suppose we grew close due to our shared grief.”
“He lost someone as well?”
She nodded, unwilling to be more specific. It wasn’t hers to share. “He recognized that I, too, had lost someone long before I remembered who it was. I suspect it would be difficult for him not to notice how grief wears a person down.”
“Naturally,” her aunt replied absently. “Drink up, dear. You may dictate a letter to me, and I will ensure it reaches its destination.” She went to Hetty’s desk and pulled out a new piece of paper.
It wasn’t what Hetty wanted, but she could tell there would be no changing her aunt’s mind. Deciding it wasn’t exactly proper for an unmarried woman to write a letter to a man, she opted for the next best thing.
“Dear Helena,” she started. “Apologies for my abrupt departure from the ball. I am at Sutton House, the home I shared with my father. It would seem my injury has caught up with me at last, and I am taking a much-needed rest in order to regain my strength under the watchful eye of my aunt. Please do visit at your earliest convenience, as I find I am dearly missing every Maycott, even Aunt Adelaide. Yours sincerely, Hetty.”
By the time she was done dictating, weariness had come upon Hetty once more.
Her aunt continued writing for a few moments before looking back at her. “Done.”
“Will you make sure it reaches Mulgrave Hall?”
“I will see to it right away.”
Hetty yawned. “Perhaps you’re right, Aunt Celia. I find I’ve never been so tired in my life.”
Her aunt came to the side of her bed and leaned over her. “See, my dear, it is because your body and your mind know you are finally safe. You’ve been battling through it, but now you can rest at last.”
Hetty sank deeper into her bed. A vulnerable thought came to her. “Would you tell me about my father?”
Her aunt stiffened. “Well, what is there to tell, really?”
“I—I don’t remember anything about him,” she offered weakly. “You must have known him very well, and for longer than I did…”
“He was an artist. Very famous in certain circles. I’m told he loved traveling to exotic locales more than anything, and abhorred the French…” She trailed off. “I suppose he was a complicated man. Very protective of you…” She shook her head. “That’s quite enough delving into the past. Now get some rest, there will be more time for talking later.”
The description was odd to Hetty’s ears, but she could not pinpoint why. “The letter, Aunt Celia,” she started, already slipping into sleep. “Please…”
She could not articulate its true importance to her aunt. It would not be fair to tell her of how much she had come to care for the Maycotts. To love them, really. Not yet at least.
Her aunt patted her on the head. “The footman will deliver it. You have my word, Hetty.”
Only when she had the assurance that the Maycotts would know where to find her again did Hetty let go and allow sleep to take her, powerless as she was against the void.
Her last waking thought was the belated realization that her aunt’s description of her father was odd. It sounded like she didn’t know her brother-in-law at all.
…
“We’ll have to get her to sign it—”
“Shh, Mother, Hetty is waking.”
The room was dark. Was always dark, it seemed. Hetty’s head pounded. It was more pain than her injury had caused her when she’d awoken in Mulgrave Hall, back when it was fresh and bleeding. Her hand stretched out but her spectacles were not there.
Her aunt sighed. “I told you, darling—”
“I must rest ,” she echoed bitterly. “Haven’t I rested enough? Why am I not improving?”
Claremont brought her water, which she downed eagerly, nearly choking on the liquid.
“It takes time,” he offered, somewhat sheepishly.
“Not two nights ago, I was dancing every bloody waltz and polka at a ball.”
Her aunt tsk ed. “And likely did more damage than you realize. You’re paying the price now, though.”
“I am not some invalid who must be coddled into wellness. I would like my spectacles, and I would like to take a bloody walk.”
Claremont flinched at her tone, but her aunt stood firm.
“You are making this exceedingly difficult, my dear. But I will be blunt. You nearly lost your mind with grief before. It is why you fled from us. Madness overtook you, and we thought we had lost you for good. But by the grace of God, you returned to us, and I will not risk losing you again.”
Hetty’s whole body went cold. Had she truly gone mad? Was that why she was alone in the woods? Had there never been any pursuers at all?
“I don’t feel mad,” she said, her voice small.
“Such is the particular cruelty of madness, I would wager,” replied her aunt, her tone pitying. “It was the same for your mother, Henrietta, though perhaps your father shielded you from the truth.”
“My mother?” She looked toward the blurry figure of her cousin. “Claremont said she died of scarlet fever.”
Aunt Celia squeezed her hand. “A fiction designed to protect you. But mad Florence Davenport was, and incurably so.”
In her mind, Hetty pictured a woman she had hardly ever known, with her same dark hair and gray eyes, features she hadn’t gotten from her father. But was that all she had inherited from Florence? “Why did my father never tell me?”
“He was trying to protect you, my dear, and who could blame him? He lost his darling wife to madness. I presume he could not bear the thought of losing you to that same fate.”
“I suppose so…” she replied, her mind spinning under the weight of this new revelation. While she was able to recall faint memories of her father, fleeting images of the life they had shared together, she could not conjure anything of her mother, or how her madness had manifested. Had her father tried to shield her from it? Had she experienced what Hetty had these last few days, unmoored and untethered from her life? Had her mother been placed in a madhouse, left to succumb to it alone? The mere thought of such a loss of freedom had Hetty’s heart racing. “But I am not my mother, Aunt Celia.”
“But perhaps now you understand why we are unwilling to push you.” Her aunt caressed her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “When you behave like this, I fear you’re falling into that same madness that plagued her. I don’t know what would happen to you if you allowed yourself to get so worked up again. It was disastrous before, wasn’t it, Claremont?”
Her cousin stepped forward. Cleared his throat. “Terrible, really.”
“This is why you must rest, Hetty. Here’s a broth and some bread for you to eat. I even brought you some more tea.”
As much as Hetty wanted something substantial, she was feeling so weak she wasn’t sure her stomach would be able to handle much more than the meager fare before her. “Thank you.”
“Eat up, dear. The doctor will be back soon to check on your progress.”
She nibbled on some bread and guzzled her tea. “How long was I asleep?”
“Some hours. It is late Saturday night now. We just came by to check on you.”
“Did the footman return with a letter?”
“Hmm?” her aunt asked, still rubbing her shoulder absently.
“From the Maycotts. I assume they would have written a reply for him to come back with.” Alerting her to their imminent arrival, no doubt. It had been hard to leave Jasper’s grasp, to say nothing of Lady Viola’s.
“Oh,” her aunt replied in surprise. “He didn’t give one to me. What about you, Claremont?”
Her cousin shook his head vigorously. “Not to me, either.”
That was odd. She had expected Helena to write back. Truth be told, she’d expected to awaken to the stern outline of the Earl of Belhaven himself, come to collect her now that she had had time with her family. Hell, she thought the hint about the state of her health might have prompted some quick action on their part.
But what if they saw their duty as complete? Now that she was with her family, the Maycotts could move on with their lives. The food turned to ash in her mouth as she contemplated their silence. Had she lost them for good? Had she meant so little to them? To him ?
“Don’t fret, my dear. We shall write them another letter in the morning. Now you must be tired.”
She thought it an odd thing to say, considering how much sleep she had gotten since arriving. But then she found it was, startlingly, true. Hetty could not escape the bone-deep fatigue that had settled upon her once more.
A thought emerged from the sinking darkness of her mind.
“What were you saying before, about me signing something?”
“Oh, nothing you need to concern yourself with, darling. Just some papers relating to the property. That falls to you now that your father is gone.”
It was a reasonable explanation, she thought. Still, something lingered. Something that felt a great deal like doubt.
But she was asleep again before she could think harder on it.