Chapter 19
Nineteen
“He may not make it until the morning, they say.”
“Those poor girls. They will be left unmoored by the likely death of their father, if it comes to pass, especially the youngest daughter, who is still unmarried.”
“It was Baron Winthrop’s own fault, though none of them would ever admit it. Such a hedonistic life he has led. He would have been better off as a lifelong bachelor, so I think, indulging his whims alone without implicating other people.”
These were the last things Gabriel had heard before he retired to bed the night prior.
He was awoken some hours later at the break of dawn to the sounds of people in the courtyard below his window, horses, a carriage being brought around, and servants talking among themselves.
He dressed quickly and made his way downstairs, surprised to find James and Tiffany still awake, dressed in their evening clothes.
“You did not retire?” Gabriel asked, pausing at the base of the grand staircase.
The two lovers came apart, and James shook his head. “We began talking after the other guests went to bed.”
“Terrible tidings often put one’s life into new perspective,” Tiffany said, folding her hands in front of her.
“We were discussing our future, what would happen if one of us... If we...” Her lip quivered, but she composed herself.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. It has been a long night. I really should go to sleep.”
“Yes,” James agreed, taking Tiffany by the arm. His face was awash with concern and exhaustion. He spared a look at Gabriel, frowning. “But you have heard—”
“The carriage,” Gabriel interrupted. “Why else do you think I have come down so early?”
At that moment, they turned around, communally sensing the arrival of other people.
Rosalie and Lady Howard stood at the top of the stairs, holding hands as they walked solemnly toward the others.
They were dressed in sober colors, gray for Rosalie, a shade which made Gabriel’s heart ache with fear and yearning.
She looked unwell, holding onto the banister for strength.
He wished he could have raced up to her, held her in his arms, assured her that her father would be fine. But propriety and the truth forbid him from going to her.
“Oh,” Lady Howard said, slowing her pace but not releasing her sister. “It is so early. Why are you all awake? If it is for our sakes, you are... too kind, Your Grace. We hardly expected a formal send-off, so early in the morning...”
She kept her chin high, not showing her concern on her face the way Rosalie wore hers, but even Gabriel could sense a change in Lady Howard—grief showing through the cracks of a perfect, polished marble facade.
Lady Howard studied him for a moment when he said, “No, I wanted to be here, for you both,” and then she nodded and went ahead to see about the trunks, leaving Rosalie standing alone with them in the hall. It was the first semi-private moment between them since the messenger’s arrival.
Making good on his promise to see Tiffany to bed, or maybe sensing Gabriel’s desire to be left alone with Rosalie, James excused himself and withdrew with his betrothed, disappearing up the stairs.
“Ros...” Gabriel said her name quietly, climbing the stairs slowly to meet her where she stood. “What more have you heard? How is your father now?”
She bit her lip and looked down. “Anna and I stayed up last night waiting for the messenger to return. He had nothing new to tell us. Father fell at the salon, in front of everyone, clutching his chest. They came as quickly as they could, with the news, once his condition showed no signs of improvement. Mother sent a note along, but I can tell she was only pretending to be strong for our sake.”
Rosalie’s hands were laced tightly together in front of her, white at the knuckles. She had forgotten to put on her gloves, and this alarmed him. She raised her eyes and looked over him toward the doors through which her sister had departed, while his eyes lingered on her fingers.
“Anna says it is our parents’ own fault that they have enjoyed too much travel, too much wine, too much of everything really, and never a thought for the consequences of such a lifestyle...
I do not know whether she is right or merely frightened.
I feel... I could not think badly of my father at this time if I tried. I do not know how she does it so well.”
“People are different. You could never be like that, and you should not strive to be like that. You are perfect as you are...”
He refrained from saying too much, but his words obviously had an effect on her. Gabriel tensed as a tear fell down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away and tried to smile.
“But you need not think anything about anyone this morning,” he said gently, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and extending it to her.
She looked up at him, her fingers fumbling over the fabric they both held, not retreating from his own as they touched hers. His stomach knotted tightly. He longed to comfort her in his arms.
“But that is impossible...” she said, and he was not sure at first what she was referring to.
“I keep thinking about all the things I have not said to him, things it may not be too late to say, if his condition does not improve. And it is so many hours to London, and he had to be driven such a long way...”
“Whatever you need to say,” Gabriel said, releasing the handkerchief and climbing the remaining steps to her so he stood beside her, “you will be able to say it.”
He knew that was not true. He had not been able to say anything to Marcus, who had died abroad, or to his mother, who had died in his arms but had gone too quickly. But what was the point in telling Rosalie that? He only wanted her to feel better, even at the cost of his own soul.
“You and I both know your father will not go quietly,” he tried, smiling.
A small, wet laugh escaped her, gone as quickly as it came. “He does so love the sound of his own voice.”
“He will be talking until the end, about poetry, if I were to bet. But this is not the end.”
She nodded and looked deep into his eyes. He reached to touch her cheek, but the front doors opened, and Lady Howard emerged.
The carriage was ready to take them home to London. Rosalie gathered her skirts to go. Gabriel walked her the last few steps himself, and then outside. As he handed her up into the carriage, he closed his hand around hers, beneath her cloak where no one could see.
“Pray, send word,” he said gently, his throat tight.
“I will,” she replied.
He released her hand and stepped back, watching the carriage pull away down the long drive with both Winthrop sisters inside it, until its dark shape vanished through the gates, and they were closed behind them.
He was still standing there some minutes later when a subdued James came to stand beside him.
“They must send word once they know more,” James said, staring into the distance, his eyes red from lack of sleep.
“She said she would.”
“You are concerned for that family.”
“Yes,” Gabriel admitted.
“And for her.”
“More than anything.”
“Then you must be careful,” James warned. “You cannot explain her to me—that much I have come to understand. But if her father recovers, she will have a great deal to reckon with. And if he does not... she will have more still to reckon with. Do you understand my meaning?”
Gabriel did, though he wished it were not the case.
“Then I would suggest,” James said, not unkindly, “that you return to your bed to rest—and to consider what will happen once you go to her, in London, as you know you must eventually.”
Rosalie and Anna arrived home just after midday. Their mother met them at the entrance, and for one disorienting moment, Rosalie did not recognize the woman standing before her.
Lady Winthrop’s hair had come half out of its pins.
Her gown was likely the same one she had traveled home in, creased and unbrushed.
Her usually bright and animated face had gone gray and slack.
With a lurch of real terror, Rosalie started behind Anna.
Her mother looked like a woman who was already grieving the loss of her husband.
“Is he dead?” Anna asked plainly.
Her mother shook her head. That sad, strained face contorted in anguish, and Lady Winthrop began to cry. Anna rushed forward and seized her mother in her arms, patting her hair and saying, “There, there, now... If he is still alive, then there is hope.”
“Mama,” Rosalie murmured like a child, approaching.
Her mother reached out and grabbed her, holding her two girls tightly and shaking with her sobs.
“I have never hated poetry more,” Lady Winthrop said into Rosalie’s neck.
“Mr. Aster’s poem... He was reading when it happened—an ode to water, if you can believe it, how it rushes endlessly, never disappears, always comes back to its source.
It was a bad omen. I felt the Lord—no, the Devil in that poem.
Your father turned to me to make a joke, ask why my face had gone so pale, and then, and then... ”
“Never mind that,” came Anna’s voice, sharper than Rosalie expected. “We do not need to know what happened, not now.”
Her mother drew back, releasing her daughters, and wiping her eyes on a cloth one of the parlor maids had brought forward.
“You mean you do not want to hear it, Anna. I know you too well. But you must know what happened. When I think of my own father, when he passed, I knew nothing, and it followed me. It will follow you...”
“You are talking about him as if he is dead already,” said Anna, her eyes burning with anger.
“I said we do not need to know what happened now, standing in the hall, where the staff is watching.” Her tone softened slightly with the effort of an olive branch being extended. “Where is he now, Mother?”
“He is upstairs.” Lady Winthrop blew her nose. “Doctor Brown was already waiting for us when he arrived last night.”
“And is he awake?” Anna pressed.