Chapter 22
Owen stayed in his chamber, restless but willing to tolerate his cage only because the first time he had tried to escape, he had nearly collapsed with dizziness. His account books had never been so in shape, his correspondence so current.
The only bright spots in his otherwise mundane days were when Ivy and the girls visited.
The eldest of his sisters, Ophelia, had taken to visiting him on her own, slipping in just before supper in the nursery and staying until one of the nannies came to fetch her.
She was always bright and babbling, talking nonstop about what she did that day, but there was an undercurrent to her childish words—as if she were masking a worry she could not, or did not dare, express.
He had been laid up for exactly eight days and sixteen hours when she slipped into his room and shut the door so quietly behind her that if he had not already been sitting up and reading, she would have startled him.
“Ophelia,” he rumbled.
She began to wander restlessly around his chamber.
She usually liked to examine his stacks of books and tell him all about what she was currently reading, but today there was a little line between her brows and a pinch to her lips.
No ten-year-old should look so serious, Owen thought when she finally came to stand before him.
She clasped her hands and took a deep breath.
“Brother, I wish to talk… I wish to talk about our father.”
Owen felt his expression harden. “What is there to say? You are old enough to remember him.”
She nodded and cast her face down. “Yes.”
“Was he good to you?”
Silence was her answer, and the absence of words pierced through his ribs and straight into his heart. He had been so damned busy divesting himself from any responsibilities that had to do with his life in England that he had left his little sisters to the mercy of a loathsome man.
He thought of Barnes and what Ivy had told him, and how his former friend had protected his siblings.
If Owen had ever given any thought to his sisters at all, perhaps he would have considered what their lives might have been like here.
But he had not; he had been far too focused on his own escape and building his own life.
Burning with shame, Owen knew that at the very least, he owed Ophelia this discussion.
“What do you want to talk about? Nothing is forbidden.”
She lifted her face. “You will not think poorly of me?”
“I could never. I will never.”
She was quiet for another moment, but he did not rush her. Finally she blurted, “I hated Father and I am relieved he is dead!” Then she burst into tears.
Owen pulled her to him with his good arm and awkwardly petted her silky head while she soaked through his shirtsleeves with her tears.
When her shoulders eventually stopped shaking—he had not known so many tears could physically reside in such a small body—she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose loudly.
Her eyes were swollen and red, her cheeks shiny with wetness.
She sniffled. “I apologize.”
“There is no need to apologize, Ophelia.”
“I am a bad daughter.”
“Then I am even worse, because I hated Father, too, and the night I got word he died, I opened my finest bottle of wine in celebration.”
Her eyes widened in shock. “You did?”
“Take a seat, Ophelia.”
She pulled the chair from the other side of the table and dragged it around, so that when she sat, her little dress-draped knees were almost touching his.
“Children are raised to respect and honor their parents,” he said slowly, “and for so many lucky children, that is not a duty but a natural consequence of their love. But sometimes the people who created us are not good people. Sometimes they hurt us, and it is not fair that we should feel shame over the relief of being released from that torture. Do you understand what I am saying? You must never feel badly for no longer being trapped with a person who hurts you.” His jaw clenched. “Did he… did he hurt you, Ophelia?”
She shook her head no, a strand of hair sticking to her wet cheek. “He did not strike me, if that is what you mean.”
“Ah.” The tiniest bit of pressure eased from his chest. If his father had taken his hand to this vulnerable girl in front of him, he would have dug up his body and killed him again. “He tortured you with his words, then.”
She nodded.
“He did the same to me. He was merciless and he was cruel, and the wounds of the mind are not easily healed. Even now, his words haunt me. Diminish me. Enrage me.”
“Me as well. Sometimes I lie in bed and think that all the things he said about me are true, and that it would be better for everyone if I ran away.”
Owen took her hand in his. “You must never run away. You are extremely important to this family, and you are needed and loved. The next time you are lying in bed and his words haunt you, I want you to ask yourself: Are these my words, or my father’s words?
And if they are Father’s, you may dismiss them out of hand. Nothing he ever said to you was true.”
“How do you know?”
“It took me a very long time to learn that I was not the man he had made me believe I was. Was he cruel to your sisters?”
“Not as much as me. Mostly he ignored them. He hated us all because we were girls, but me the most.”
Because Owen had fled the country, leaving her to bear the brunt of his father’s cruelty, Owen thought with disgust. If anyone should be ashamed enough to run away, it was he.
Except he would not abandon these girls ever again.
“The youngest girls are lucky that they will have no memory of him, but you and I… we will have to work for a long time to banish his voice until it is so small that when it resurfaces, we can easily stomp it out. We do not owe him a lifetime of controlling us even in death, do we?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“I want you to make me a promise. Whenever these feelings come over you, I want you to come to me and talk about it. I will be here, and if I am away on business, I want you to write to me. I will help you see the real Ophelia. The brave, clever, and kind girl that I see every single day.”
Ophelia burst into tears again, and when she finished, he handed her his own handkerchief just as the supper bell rang.
She squeaked in alarm and dashed out of the room, leaving his heart a little more shredded than when she had first entered.
He would have to talk to Olivia and Odette—the eight-year-old twins—and gently probe about their feelings.
His father had been cruel and insidious, planting thoughts in malleable minds and letting those seeds of doubt and despair flourish, occasionally watering them with more of his poison.
Owen had worked hard to bury his feelings, but after his visit with Ophelia, he felt the strangest touch of lightness beneath his crushing guilt, and he wondered if forcing those dark thoughts into a solitary closet in his soul over the years had only aided in their growth.
Perhaps air and light were more effective in banishing evil than burying it.
The next morning Ivy blew into his room in a whirlwind of cool fall air and her signature scent of lilac and mint.
She dropped a stack of gossip rags on the table next to him and chattered about the preparations that were being made for their departure for London in two days, all the while making sure to keep a proper distance between them.
Ever since he had lost his mind and crouched at her feet and held her ankle, she had been carefully distant.
Owen wanted to blame his behavior on fever, but he had not felt feverish when he had brought his face to hers, the desire to ruck up her skirt and smooth his palms over her skin so intense that he had nearly done it.
In truth, he was grateful she was being so cautious around him. It would not do to compromise her. Society was beginning to see her in a new light, and she had already made quite an impression on Hartford. That was the plan, not the two of them ending up in his bed.
He told himself that multiple times a day: when she came in smelling fresh and laughing, a bloom of color in his otherwise dreary world; when she gossiped about the household or made snappy, insightful comments that left him dazzled by her intelligence; or whenever she bent near to arrange his reading material or gently ask about his wound.
And every day he found it just a little bit harder to cling to his reasons.
A little bit more difficult to remember exactly why he was trying so hard to keep his hands off her.
Except for the days when Barnes made his unwelcome presence known, and then Owen was nothing but reminded.
Ivy took a breath after telling him about the newest maid’s penchant for stockings—she had thirty-three pairs and spent all of her money on them, and hell if Owen knew why he found it so interesting except that Ivy had a way of holding his attention over even the most absurd things—when she halted abruptly as something out the window caught her eye.
“Oh, I did not realize the hour. I am late for—”
“Let me guess: outdoor prayer meeting.”
“Indeed.” She flashed him that dimpled grin and bounded out the door.
Owen had had enough of being suffocated in his room. His shoulder was healing well, he did not have a fever, and in two days he would be traveling to London. It was time he pushed past any dizziness and nausea and began to regain his strength.
He acquitted the room like a burglar afraid of being caught, and when he did not feel like vomiting or blacking out, he slowly made his way to the rear door.
The minute he exited and breathed in the fresh air, he felt his vigor returning.
Feeling steadier and surer than he had since the shooting, he crossed the leaf-strewn lawn to the stables and entered.
He went straight to Saxony, and the horse nickered and pushed his nose into Owen’s palm.
The tension seeped out of his shoulders as he breathed in the comforting scents of hay and leather that had come to dominate his life.
He swung open the stall door and pressed his forehead to his horse’s neck and just existed for several moments, all of the disquiet in him settling as Saxony’s heat warmed his palms.
“Missed you, rascal,” he mumbled.
“He missed you, too, your lordship.”
Owen turned to find Bernard tugging on his cap, his weathered face split into a grin. “I ought’ve known no bullet could keep you down, my lord.”
“It nearly did. A seamstress saved me.” And Ivy, who had not lost her wits while being robbed and watching the life bleed out of him, but instead had coolly directed him to the horse and taken him to the nearest place she could find help.
There were very few of Owen’s friends or even acquaintances who would have had the presence of mind to act so quickly.
Bernard nodded to Saxony. “I’ve been lettin’ him out in the fields to run, but I don’t have a rider strong enough to control him. Don’t know how the little lass did it that night. He’s restless an’ eager to ride.”
Thankfully, Owen was equally eager. It chapped him to let Bernard saddle his horse, but he was aware of his current limitations, and when Saxony was ready, prancing and excited, he swung into the saddle.
The minute he was crunching over the leaves, he relaxed into the cadence of his horse and breathed deeply. Aside from a constant twinge in his shoulder and unusual tiredness, he felt more like himself than he had in a fortnight.
He and Saxony traversed the estate, waving to workers and examining the stonework that was being fixed on the south side of the main building.
Everywhere he went, people greeted him kindly, and damned if Ivy’s gossip was not coming in handy.
Because of her, he knew the apprentice stone mason was only fourteen and had lost his father that winter, and when Owen patted the lad on the shoulder with a heavy hand and slipped him a shilling, the boy looked as if he was going to burst into tears.
He asked the grounds caretaker about his daughter, who had just had a baby named Arabella, which had caused a ruckus because that was the father’s mother’s name and the caretaker’s wife had cried for three straight days over it.
He could see the surprise on the faces of the people he spoke with, and a flash of something that looked almost like respect.
He had run from his responsibilities when it came to his sisters, and they had suffered for it.
He could imagine how his father had treated the people he employed, and Owen knew he would have work to do there as well.
Duty coiled around his chest and tightened, but for once it did not feel as if his lungs were suffocating. It felt… bearable. Not pleasant, but not nearly as bad as it had his entire life.
He was riding back to the stables from the east woods, having detoured to examine a field he was considering turning into a paddock, when he heard childish laughter.
His brows drew together as he and Saxony turned toward the noise.
As far as he knew, prayer was not typically a time when children laughed.
He weaved through the trees, following the sounds of clashing wood, whooping, and then—Ivy’s voice, calling out instructions he could not decipher. Another ten feet and he caught a flash of a white dress and a flare of sandy hair.
More curious than ever, he and Saxony slowed to a creep, until at last the scene was clear in front of him: two of his sisters—the eight-year-old twins—were sword-fighting with wooden swords.
He watched in absolute amazement as Odette expertly dodged a strike and spun with technique that would have made his old fencing master proud.
They parried, feinted, and thrust, and the entire time Ivy, with her hair messy and her dress clinging to her legs with the press of the wind, called out pointers and tips.
His other sisters watched from the side along with Miss Wixby, the new governess.
They were so engrossed in the performance before them that they did not notice him until he was almost on top of them. “What the bloody hell is going on here?”