Chapter Thirty-Four
Amelia wandered about the empty house. Without Miss Byrd’s fussing, it seemed quieter than usual. Hugh didn’t often travel for business, which meant she felt the emptiness of his absence more acutely. Especially after having Christiana’s presence for two months now.
Had it only been two months? Amelia half felt as though she couldn’t remember a time when Christiana hadn’t been a part of their life.
All her scheming had paid off—Hugh had fallen in love, if romance books had anything to say on the matter.
Amelia might not have fallen in love personally, but she knew what it looked like.
Hugh was, most definitely, infatuated. And Chris, too.
So why had he been so cold with her?
After all this, Amelia simply refused to stand by and let them throw away what was otherwise an extremely promising romance.
Which meant she had to find the cause of the problem and eradicate it.
Hugh hadn’t given her a chance to ask what the matter was before he’d left, so that left only one option.
Investigation.
Amelia did not shy away from what needed to be done; she marched into Hugh’s study and surveyed the shelves of books.
A portrait of their parents hung over the fireplace, and Amelia lingered there for a moment before crossing to his desk.
Papers littered the surface. Numbers, some scratched out and replaced by the correct figures.
Dull treatises on subjects Amelia had no interest in.
She skimmed past those, looking for letters from a former lover or something that might have put a spoke in her brother and sister-in-law’s relationship.
Nothing.
With a huff, she exited the room and did a sweep of the library.
When she found nothing there, either, she moved to the small parlor Christiana used as her office.
Unlike Hugh’s study, everything was messy.
Christiana’s mind worked in chaotic, mysterious ways.
Amelia, for all her impulsiveness, was far more similar to Hugh: she liked everything in its proper place. Christiana didn’t seem to care.
Even so, all the chaos in the world could not hide the portrait that lay in the very middle of Christiana’s desk, over all her papers.
Amelia stared down at it, her gut rioting.
Christiana had said she would destroy the painting, but evidently, she had not.
Given her lack of organizational talent, it was entirely likely she had left this painting out.
Had she been looking at it?
Regardless, if Hugh had entered this room for whatever reason, it was entirely possible that he had seen it. Likely, in fact.
And if he had seen it…
Frankly, Amelia was surprised he hadn’t gone into a towering rage. Back at the beginning, he had been thrown into rages for less. Recently, he had gotten his temper under control, but she could imagine something like this pushing him over the edge.
Only it hadn’t.
Of course, there was no guarantee that he had seen it; Amelia knew she was clutching at straws. Her brother had his moods sometimes. And yet…
Was there anything else that could convince him to be cold with Christiana? He so openly adored her, and at such a time—when she was enduring such a thing—would he really have been distant with her if something had not provoked him into being so?
Even in the early days, when he’d been angry at the world, he had never lashed out at Amelia. Perhaps Christiana was the same—he could not lash out at her, so he took refuge in that icy reserve.
Drat it all.
Amelia snatched the painting up and strode from the room, clutching it to her chest. Mrs. Barnaby would be arriving at the house shortly, to act as a chaperone now that Miss Byrd had gone; once she arrived, she would never let Amelia leave.
But if Amelia didn’t leave, Hugh would follow Christiana wrapped in his own idiocy and hurt Christiana when she needed support the most.
It simply had to be done.
“Mrs. Quince,” she said when she spotted the housekeeper. “What carriages remain in my brother’s stables?”
Mrs. Quince peered at her. When Christiana had hired the woman, Amelia had been relieved to see such a pragmatic person take Mrs. Partridge’s place, but now she regretted that a sillier, more emptyheaded lady hadn’t been chosen instead. “For what purpose, my lady?”
“I must go after my brother at once. Before it’s too late.”
“Lady Amelia, I really think—”
“No doubt my brother gave you instructions as to what I may or may not be permitted to do, but I’m a duke’s sister and you cannot stop me.
Even if I have to saddle a horse and ride off into the sunset.
” She located Jacob, her favorite footman, and smiled at him.
“Or I will go in the carriage with Jacob and a maid—as is perfectly proper—and meet my brother halfway. Rest assured I will take full responsibility for my actions.”
Elkins joined them in the hall. “Lady Amelia,” he said in lofty tones designed to inspire respect, “I cannot allow you to leave the house alone.”
“With respect, Elkins, you cannot command me. If you attempt to refuse me a carriage and a horse, I will walk to Grancott and travel post.” Which she had never done, but surely it could not be too difficult.
She held his gaze, knowing he would back down.
They all would; better she travel in safety with a footman to protect her than go entirely alone.
And Elkins had been with the house long enough to know she would do as she threatened.
“Let it be said, Lady Amelia, that I think this a very foolish course of action,” Elkins said.
“Noted,” Amelia said. “Now, then, about the carriage?”
Mrs. Quince looked at Elkins. “You mean to let her go?”
“I’m afraid containing her is rather outside our means,” Elkins said.
“The duke will be—”
“He will be relieved we ensured she left safely if she was going to leave at all.” Elkins pressed his lips together.
He had been in the household since Amelia was born, and she could have sworn he had a soft spot for her.
“Jacob, instruct the stables to prepare a carriage. Mrs. Quince, please ask Sarah to pack a bag for a few days; she will be accompanying the duke’s sister. ”
“Thank you, Elkins.” Amelia danced up on her toes and kissed the air beside his cheek. “You are a darling. I shall go and pack. And don’t worry, I will make it very clear to the duke that I am at fault.”
An amused light danced in Elkins’s eyes. “Very good, Lady Amelia.”
On the eve of the third day, Christiana finally reached Barnsley Hall.
The familiar house was lit in the light of the dying sun, and even at a distance, she could see the toll neglect had taken on the place.
Undergrowth climbed to the windows, and the facade crumbled under the weight of age and disrepair.
Only a single light burned in the window—her father’s room.
Her stomach clenched. She had been unable to eat anything all day.
Baxter put a hand on her arm. “It’ll be all right, ma’am. All you need do is sit with him.”
Could she forgive him if he apologized? That was the question burning in her mind as the coach finally pulled up by the front door, the horses snorting and steaming.
Preoccupied as she was, she barely noticed Mr. Stephens step out to greet her until he handed her down the steps.
He looked older than she remembered, though only a couple of months had passed.
If only she could have taken him with her.
He smiled at her in the fatherly way her own father never had. “Your Grace,” he said, and she started at the unfamiliarity of such a title from his lips. She accepted his hand and allowed him to hand her down from the carriage. “You look well.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stephens. The duke is kind to me.”
“I’m very pleased to hear it.”
She smiled, despite the worry coiling in her gut. “How is my father?”
“Still alive, Your Grace,” Mr. Stephens said gravely. “And in a foul temper for it. I’m here for your sake and no other.”
“This is Baxter, my lady’s maid,” Christiana said, waving her hand at her maid. “Baxter, this is Mr. Stephens, my father’s steward.”
“Welcome,” Mr. Stephens said, inclining his head. “Shall we go inside?”
“Please.” Christiana followed her former steward up the worn stone steps into the crumbling house she had once considered a home. A wave of fondness filled her for the old stone rooms, so dear to her despite their abandonment.
How her life had changed since she had last stepped foot in her childhood home. She had changed, too; she no longer wanted the same things. Her dream was not to set up alone in this house with a telescope and books and endless visions of the night sky.
Now, her dreams held a certain masked man, bared just for her, gentle when she knew he held a storm inside. He had allowed her to see his pain, and that was a gift. Her dreams involved a life with him—along with her books and perhaps even one day a telescope.
Upstairs, the state of the house was worse, the air stale and with the sharp tang of vomit. There could be no hiding that an ill person lingered here, hanging on to life by a thread.
Mr. Stephens stopped outside her father’s chambers, and bowed. “He asked for you, but he has not been in a good state of mind for the past few days. Please… don’t take anything he has to say too much to heart.”
Christiana forced a smile she didn’t feel. “He is a dying man, surrounded by the filth of his own making. What can he do to me now?”
Mr. Stephens made no reply, and Christiana stepped inside.
The room was dim, stinking of sweat and sick. The curtains were drawn, and the bed loomed at the far end of the room, her father barely visible under the sheets. For a moment, she worried he had died while left alone, but then he stirred, the material shifting.
“Who is it?” he asked, peevish to the last, his words strained and rasping.
Christiana stepped forward, adjusting her glasses. “You sent for me, Father.”