Chapter Thirty-Four #2
“Christiana?” More rustling. She approached, waiting by the side of the bed.
Up close, more details jumped out at her—the hollowness of her father’s eyes, and the pale, almost gray complexion of his face.
His mouth twisted in that habitually cruel way it had, and his bony hands snatched at her wrist, holding her in a bruising grip despite his age and infirmity.
“Let go of me,” she said, as calmly as she was able.
“So you came, eh? Did you come to gloat, seeing me like this?” His fingers tightened. “This is your future, you know. Abandoned by everyone who ought to call you family. Did you think of me when you left me for your new life?”
She wrenched her wrist free. “You were the one who sent me away, or had you forgotten that part?” The anger came easily now, scorching the remainder of her grief.
How foolish she had been to wonder if she would forgive him if he asked her to—he would never have asked, not in a thousand years.
“Or had you hoped that I would make a less favorable match? Did you expect me to make an ill match and live as a housekeeper for another man? It must have been galling to see me made a duchess while you rotted away here, unable even to call me to your side to berate me.”
His eyes gleamed. “Getting above yourself, aren’t you? All those airs and graces when you’re just like me. Mrs. Dove-Lyon told me about your gambling proclivities when you were younger. None of that money came my way, did it?”
“And what would you have done with it except lose it again?”
“You owe everything you have to me. Don’t be so ungrateful, girl. Would that fancy duke of yours have looked twice at you if Mrs. Dove-Lyon hadn’t brokered the match? Don’t be foolish.”
“Is that why you brought me back here? To tell me that I have some kind of debt to you?” She looked pointedly around the empty room.
“Did you think I would fall to my knees and weep over your passing? Loyalty begets loyalty, and you have shown me none since the day I was born. If you thought I would mourn you, then you are mistaken. Had you humbled yourself before me, perhaps I would have found it in my heart to forgive you, but that is all.”
“Humble myself? Before you?” He cackled, the sound wheezing. “We are only ever what we come from, my girl. I brought you here to remind you. Neglecting me? This is who you are. I am who you are. And you can never forget it.”
She would never have grieved him precisely.
More, she would have grieved the man he might have been, if addiction had not worn him thin and cruel.
But now she felt nothing but numbness, deep in her stomach.
His last act had not been one of kindness—it had been one of vicious anger.
She had not sent him money, so he had brought her to his side to prove he could, and to remind her that she could not escape the blood that ran through her veins.
Still, she drew herself up. “You are mistaken, Father. I will forget you the moment I leave this room, and I will never think about you again.”
“Liar,” he called after her, coughing as he did. “Liar! But then, what else could I expect from a child who’s not even of my blood?”
Christiana halted just before the door, a bolt of emotion passing through her.
The words were most likely her father’s last-ditch attempt to hurt her—and yet some part of her wondered if they could be true.
Her mother had despised her father by the end; was it truly so outrageous to think she might have been unfaithful?
What did Christiana know about her mother, save that she was Society’s darling cursed with an ugly duckling of a child?
“That’s right,” her father said when she didn’t move, malicious glee in every syllable.
“She lay with a stableboy. I almost pity the lad—he was infatuated with her, and she thought of him as nothing more than entertainment. And so you were born. Did you ever wonder why your mother couldn’t bear to look at you?
You are the product of your own lowly birth. The shame almost killed her.”
Christiana’s hand shook as she reached for the doorknob, that odd numbness spreading from her chest down through her body, until she felt nothing but awful emptiness.
It didn’t matter whether it was true. What mattered was it could be.
What mattered was her father was prepared to do and say anything to hurt her, even now. His hatred knew no bounds, and yet when she’d heard news of his illness, she had come running.
She was a fool. That ended now.
“You cannot have it both ways,” she said, relieved to hear her voice was clear and strong.
“Either I am of your blood and cursed to die like you, or I am of lowly birth and not yours at all. Which is it to be?” She turned slowly, taking him in for the very last time.
“Regardless, it has been a long time since I last considered you my father. Relinquishing the claim is the work of a moment.” Without hesitation, she opened the door and slammed it behind her.
The entire house felt as though it rattled.
And Christiana ran as though the hounds of hell were chasing her.