Chapter 24 #2
Henry shifted on the cushion, leather creaking along with the crackle of wood in the grate.
Several answers sprang to mind. None of them any good.
How could he possibly explain the enigmatic Juliet in a way that would endear her to his father just as she’d captured his affections?
His father would want facts, not the merits of a headstrong woman who’d charmed him against his better judgement.
There was nothing for it but to be honest … and to start at the very beginning.
He met his father’s gaze head-on. “Remember when, shortly before you left for Italy, Carver informed us he suspected a poacher was nicking our game?”
“I do.” He wagged his finger. “But do not think to change the subject.”
“I wish I were.” A humourless chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Juliet is—or was—that poacher.”
“A woman?” His father’s brows drew into a stern line before he stepped away from the hearth. Languidly, he strolled to the drinks cart and pulled the stopper off a decanter, then glanced over his shoulder. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
Henry shrugged. “She was caught in the act. Ask Carver if you like.”
Liquid poured into a glass. The stopper clinked into the bottle.
His father’s footsteps shushed over the rug, the cushion on the chair across from him whooshing as he sat.
For a long while he said nothing, just swirled the liquid in his glass, watching the tiny whirlpool.
Then, quiet as dusk in a graveyard, he spoke.
“So, you invited a thief to reside in our home. Had I known your judgement to be this skewed, I never would have left the estate to your care.”
Henry flattened his lips, trapping a frustrated groan.
That stung. Not just because it was a slight, but because it confirmed his deepest fear.
Ever since his father had left for Italy, he had questioned himself on each decision, second-guessed every choice, all in an effort to prove his worth.
To show his father—and the world—that he’d raised an honourable man.
And yet he’d fallen short.
He ought to hang his head and beg for pardon, but self-pity would do Juliet no good.
Despite the regret burning beneath his skin, he answered with quiet steel.
“Juliet is no common thief, Father. She hunted on our land to stay alive, taking only what was needed. Margaret Brewster, the widow in the woods, is her aunt. There are too many details to go into at the moment but suffice it to say they both fell on hard times—life threatening, actually.”
His father tossed back his drink in one great swallow, then set the glass on the low table between them. “That still does not explain why she is at Bedford Manor now.”
“I have a feeling you are going to like this even less,” Henry murmured as he rose. What he must say next would be better spoken without bearing the weight of his father’s gaze.
He paced to the desk and gripped the edge. “Several months ago—four, I believe—Charity began receiving cryptic notes, then flowers, followed by more sinister means of communicating a threat.”
He blew out a low breath. Even now he could hardly believe he’d let such a travesty go on for so long.
“Someone wished her gone.” He turned, leaning against the solid wood for support.
“I tried to convince her to come to you while I sorted through who the tormentor might be, but you know Charity. She can be so … obstinate.”
“Yes. Like your mother, God rest her.” Planting his elbows on his thighs, his father steepled his fingers. His jaw stiffened, though it was hard to tell if it was from concern or a stifling of grief. “Why did you not inform me of this? I would have returned home at once.”
“Which is why I did not. You left me to manage things here, and I—” His voice caught, and he swallowed. “I did not want to be the reason you had to come back. Not again.”
His father hissed a breath. “I thought we were beyond that childhood incident. You learned your lesson. You have proven yourself responsible, or I would not have left you in charge.”
The words settled over his shoulders like a blanket Henry didn’t know he needed. His father thought he had been doing a good job. That he’d learned and grown.
But the man’s next words popped that rising elation. “Yet it appears you have taken this too far the other way. You were not meant to be God, Henry.”
Be God? Is that what had happened here? Had he shouldered responsibilities that were not his to carry?
He shoved his hands into his pockets, conscience thoroughly pricked.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said slowly, “but what else was I to do? When Mother died, everything shattered. You lost yourself in grief. Charity drifted. And I … I thought if I just kept things running—the estate in order and the books clean—it might ease your sorrow. Might bring you back to the land of the living.”
His father said nothing, just waited. The fire crackled in the grate, and for a moment, he saw himself then—barely more than a boy—trying to mimic the way his father sat in this very chair, handling correspondence with ink-stained fingers too small for a man’s pen.
“Then you left,” he continued, “and I was certain it was because I failed. So, when things went wrong again—when the letters started coming and Charity grew frightened—I could not bear to call you. I thought, if I could fix it this time, maybe it would prove I was capable.”
“Oh, Son. There was nothing for you to prove.” His father let out a long breath.
“Apparently, this conversation is long overdue. Henry, I am proud of you. You have grown into a fine man. I thank you for all the care you have shown those around you, and I know the estate will be well managed when I am gone. But being responsible does not mean refusing to ask for help. It is knowing when to ask and learning to let go of what isn’t yours.
Otherwise, you are in danger of shutting out the very ones you wish to help. ”
Henry pressed his knuckles to his mouth, the truth hitting him harder than expected.
Because that was exactly what he had done, to Juliet most of all.
When she needed belief, he’d given suspicion.
When she offered help, he’d kept her at arm’s length.
He sat back heavily, the chair groaning beneath him.
“I thought I was protecting everyone, but … maybe … I was only isolating myself. Even from God. Because as you’ve pointed out, I was carrying burdens that were never meant to be mine alone. ”
“Then perhaps it is time to set them down.”
The words loosened a knot inside him. His father was right. He didn’t have to do this alone. And now that he thought on it, he hadn’t been. God had been there, providing help even when he’d been too stubborn to ask for it, all bundled in a wild sprite of a woman.
He blew out a steadying breath. “Despite my failure to contact you, Juliet came along at the right time. Her tracking skills are impeccable, and she knows the grounds hereabouts better than Carver. So, instead of pressing charges, I made a deal with her to help me find who was after Charity.” Yet how often had he hindered even that providential aid with his doubts and second-guessing?
All because he assumed Charity was his sole responsibility.
And she wasn’t.
A sigh deflated him. “That went a bit sideways, though, as I now fear whoever has been tormenting Charity is trying to scare off Juliet as well.”
His father trapped him with an all-knowing stare. “You care for this woman.”
Care? No. That was too small a sentiment. Something far too unmatched for the way she had somehow become his very breath. Juliet challenged him in ways he’d never imagined. Infuriated him like none other. Broke him and remade him with nothing but a smile.
But he couldn’t very well blurt that out—not to the man who’d schooled him in duty since he could walk in straight lines.
So he offered the truth, trimmed and tidy. “I do.”
The words hovered, not loud, but loud enough. Like thunder far off—distant, inevitable. Whether his father brushed them away like lint or let them settle into his bones, it made no difference. Juliet had already taken root.
Henry squared his shoulders, voice steady. “But I vow I have not let my feelings stand in the way of caring for Charity, especially not when she was ill.”
“Ill? Blast it all, Henry!” His father jumped to his feet, pounding to the door and back, eyes ablaze. “My daughter has been ill, and you did not tell me of it? You take things too far!”
“I did send word about her contracting bilious fever. I suspect, however, that you left Italy before the message arrived. Furthermore, you need to know that she was also—”
A sharp rap on the door cut him off. Mrs. Hamby stepped in, face paling. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Russell, Master Henry”—she nodded at each of them in turn—“but you must come at once. The constable is in the sitting room with Miss Finch, and—”
Henry didn’t wait for the rest. He dashed past her, heart in his throat, striding down the corridor with clipped steps. Juliet had only just received her release hours ago. Surely the man wasn’t here to shove her back into that wretched rathole?
Was he?
He stormed into the sitting room where Juliet stood near a chair, more lovely than she had a right to be with her posture picture-perfect and demeanor calm despite the rough-and-tumble Mr. Fisk pacing before her.
Henry stationed himself a step in front of her, a human shield that Fisk would dare not cross if he knew what was good for him. “What is this about?” The question flew out strident and harsh.
“Henry.” His name was a growl on his father’s lips as he trailed Henry into the room.
In a much more pleasant tone, his father approached the big constable, extending his hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fisk.”
The constable gave him a hearty shake. “Afternoon, Mr. Russell. I didn’t know you were back in town.”
“I only arrived a few hours ago.” A wily smile curved his lips. “I trust you kept lawlessness from reigning in my absence.”
Fisk chuckled. “I do my best.”
“Well then.” His father retreated a step. “To what do we owe your visit?”
The constable worried his hat with his fingers as his glance flicked amongst them all. “Mr. Scather reported quite a few bottles of laudanum have gone missing. He mentioned Miss Finch’s name in association and that it could be linked to your daughter’s recent poisoning.”
Henry sucked air in between his teeth. He hadn’t gotten to that part yet.
And his father signaled his horror in the magnificent scowl he directed Henry’s way. “You did not tell me about that.”
Henry squared his shoulders. Better to go down bravely. “I was about to when Mrs. Hamby came in.”
Beside him, Juliet breathed a small groan.
Sensing the tension in the air, Fisk retreated a step. “I will let you sort this out in private, then. I’ve gotten all the information I need from Miss Finch.” His gaze narrowed on her as he clapped on his hat. “But remember, I shall be keeping a close watch on you.”
She didn’t so much as flinch, God love her. “I would expect nothing less, sir.”
Shaking his head, his father exhaled sharply. “I will see you to the door, Mr. Fisk.”
The constable dipped his head as a parting gesture, then followed the man out.
The instant they were alone, Henry turned to Juliet, barely able to keep from pulling her into his arms. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, but her lips pressed tight as she retrieved a paper from her pocket. “You need to see this.”
He unfolded the small square of paper, and the meaning of the words sank like rocks to his gut. “This cannot be true!”
Her brows raised slightly at his outburst, her voice a calm sea in comparison. “That is exactly what I thought.”
He clenched the paper in his fist. The penmanship was shaky, but the message had undeniably been written by his sister’s own hand. She was gone. To Italy. Could it be true?
Or was it a deception?