Chapter 21 #3
He strode from the hall, the rhythmic thump of Parker’s cane keeping time with his steps. Hopefully he wasn’t leading a wolf to his sheep.
Charity looked up as they entered, her expression freezing the instant she saw Parker.
“Edwin?” His name was barely a breath as she straightened in the chair.
Folding his arms, Henry leaned his shoulder against the wall near the hearth, close enough to guard his sister if need be, while at the same time allowing Parker space to speak with Charity.
The man pulled off his hat, setting it on the side table before dipping a deep bow.
As he rose, his brow creased when he took in her frail form.
“Good afternoon, Miss Russell. I will not intrude on you for long. I merely came to see with my own eyes that you are well. I …” His Adam’s apple bobbed, his hard swallow audible in the quiet room. “I feared the worst.”
“That is unexpectedly kind of you, but as you see, I am recovering beneath my brother’s watchful eye.” Her gaze flicked to Henry then back to Parker, her fingers playing with the hem of the lap rug.
“I would expect nothing less, though you must understand I had to put my mind at ease.” The sharp line of his shoulders relaxed, a rare smile softening the harsh planes of his face. “I am happy to see you no longer languish.”
Charity’s eyelashes fluttered, a dusky rose spreading over her cheeks. “I appreciate your concern.” She twiddled all the more with the blanket fringe.
Henry hissed a quiet breath between his teeth.
Since when did his sister fidget like a schoolgirl in this man’s presence?
While he appreciated the life seeping back into her flesh, it irked him for Parker to be the cause.
She’d suffered enough when she’d anguished over breaking things off with him, and even more when he’d played the part of the spurned suitor all over town to gain sympathy.
“All right, Parker. I can only assume your curiosity has been sated.” Henry stepped away from the hearth, one arm sweeping towards the door. “I shall see you out now.”
“Henry!” The landing of Charity’s book on the floor clapped as sharply as his name from her lips. “Don’t be so boorish.”
A glimmer of amusement sparked in Parker’s dark eyes. “He is only being protective, which is reasonable. I would do the same were I in his shoes. Besides, I do not wish to tire you.”
Henry tensed as the man closed the distance between him and Charity, ready to spring if Parker tried anything untoward.
But Parker merely retrieved her book and—ever so gently—set it on her lap. “Should you have need of anything—anything at all—simply send me word. Despite our … past, I would do all in my power to help you.”
Charity nodded ever so slowly as she clutched the book to her chest. “I know that, and I appreciate it.”
He dipped his head, then pivoted with aid of his cane and collected his hat. With a last bow to them both, he bid good day, then clapped on the beaver-felt top hat and hobbled to the door.
Henry followed him into the corridor, jaw tight, undecided what to make of the exchange between his sister and this man.
Parker didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I won’t pilfer any silver on my way out.”
Henry gritted his teeth, trapping a frustrated retort. The man could try the patience of a saint, and God knew he didn’t come close to that title.
When they reached the front hall, Parker turned to him, face unreadable but his tone a challenge. “Take care of her, Russell. I would not see her suffer any more than she has.”
Sincerity swam just below the surface of those words, catching Henry quite off guard.
“Nor would I,” he murmured. He’d taken every measure in his power to see to Charity’s well-being, yet each had proved insufficient.
No, he could not resent the man for caring for his sister.
By his own admission he had loved her once.
And likely still did.
Without another word, Parker snugged his coat tight at his neck and opened the door, then stepped out into the first spasms of what promised to be a drenching rain.
Henry watched him swing up to his mount with a wince, disregarding the drops of water pelting his own face. Had he been wrong about the man?
He closed the door against the chill and wandered back to the sitting room, unsure what to think about anything anymore. Charity hadn’t moved a whit, the book still clutched to her chest, her face fixed on the orange glow of the fire.
Alarm throbbed in his temple, and he pressed his fingers to it. Had Parker’s visit been too much too soon? He crossed the rug, dropping to her side. “I shall see you back to your room now.”
“Not yet.” She didn’t even glance at him, just stared at the fire with a wistful purse of her lips. “It is so cozy here by the hearth.”
Henry leaned back on his haunches, doubting very much it was the warmth of the crackling logs pinking her cheeks. “Do you care for the man … Parker?”
She hugged the book all the tighter, her voice fairy light. “We were friends.”
Friends?
A loaded word, that. What did it really mean?
He thought he knew, once, but now? He stalked to the mantel, trying to make sense of it all.
Swiping away one of the candlesticks, he spun it slowly between his fingers, studying his sister.
“It was my understanding that Parker wanted more, and you did not.”
“Mmm.” At length, her gaze lifted to his. “People change, Henry. Not everyone is the villain we make them out to be.”
His fingers stilled on the candlestick. Ever since spying Parker on the street corner near the bakery, he’d thought the man a scoundrel—the potential tormentor, no less!
And yet had he not come here today, was even now riding home in a buffeting rain, not to cause trouble or distress but to simply assure himself of Charity’s well-being?
Henry white-knuckled the brass stick. How could he have been so wrong about him? And worse … oh, dear God.
If he was wrong about Parker, what about Juliet?
The candlestick clattered to the slate tiles in front of the hearth, chipping off the corner of one and sending it flying.
“Henry!” Charity cried.
He swiped up the brass holder and set it harshly on the mantel, rattling the other trinkets.
Perhaps he’d been too caught up in emotion when Charity had swooned that afternoon.
Maybe he’d been too eager to agree with the constable, allowing him to haul Juliet off without first giving her the benefit of the doubt.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. Clara had painted a portrait of Juliet as a schemer, orchestrating everything to secure his favour.
But poaching? That wasn’t clever. It wasn’t calculated.
It was reckless. Desperate. If Juliet had come to Bedford Manor with motives, she would’ve played the part of a lady.
But she hadn’t. She’d risked everything for food, not affection. That was not the mark of a schemer.
It was the mark of a survivor.
He pressed his hands to his head, squeezing in frustration.
What was the truth?
“Henry?” Charity’s voice crept up his spine like a shiver, her fingers whisper light on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine.” He forced a measured tone and turned with a fake smile, then guided her back to the chair and retucked the lap rug about her legs.
“Now, you rest here, and I shall have Mrs. Hamby bring you some tea. There is something I must do. Something I should have done long before this. Promise me you shall stay right here until I return, hmm?”
“Of course. But what is it that is suddenly so urgent?”
He clutched the back of Charity’s chair as if clinging to life itself. “I must find the truth.”