Chapter 7 Amelia
AMELIA
I roll over in bed, my arm finding the cold sheet where Declan should be.
I sit up, my surroundings slowly sliding into place and leaving me feeling uneasy.
This is Declan’s room. Last night, when he held my hand and guided me to his bed, I didn’t feel like an intruder. Far from it. I felt adored. Special. Wanted in the way that every heroine of every romance novel ever written is wanted.
But under the circumstances, it feels wrong for me to be alone in his room.
There’s no sound from the ensuite bathroom, and no light shining from the crack around the doorway.
I don’t understand why Declan would leave me. What if his son came home and knocked on the door? What if Orla needed to speak to him urgently about something? Neither of us wants them to find out about us like this.
No. My gut is telling me that something is wrong.
Very wrong.
Declan wouldn’t just get up and go out in the middle of the night without telling me and expect me to go back to my room before Orla wakes up.
Would he?
My pulse picks up speed as I try to figure out what might’ve been going through his mind.
Did he have a change of heart in the middle of the night?
It’s the worst time to start thinking about stuff.
The time when your brain turns minor problems into nuclear explosions, so I can imagine what it would do to a situation like this.
Or perhaps he got a call from one of his sons and didn’t want to disturb me.
Yes, that would be the most logical explanation.
Panic over.
But my brain isn’t satisfied. I check the time on my cell. 05:57. Orla is probably downstairs already, kneading dough into a loaf tin ready to slide into the Aga.
I don’t know what to do. I could simply head back to my own room, shower, get dressed, make my way downstairs to start my day like any other.
But the niggling voice in my head is telling me to speak to Declan first and find out what’s going on; no point stressing over it when it could be resolved by talking.
But I’ll feel like the biggest fucking idiot if I go downstairs in my robe and find him chatting to his mother-in-law in the kitchen like everything is perfectly normal. How do I explain that one?
Oops, sorry, thought I’d grab a coffee to take back to Declan’s room.
Or I could pretend that I’m sleepwalking, detour around the kitchen table and go back to bed. Orla would sign my employment termination paperwork herself.
I glance at the phone in my hand. I’ve always prided myself on being practical like my mom, but since meeting Declan, my brain has turned to mush. Mentally shaking some sense into myself I type a message and hit send before I can second-guess it.
Where are you?
I know it makes me sound needy, but too late to take it back now.
Declan reads the message. I wait for the three little dots to inform me that he’s messaging me back, but they don’t appear. Then he goes offline.
O-kay…
Now what do I do?
I barely take a breath before doubt flares into anger. No, I’m not putting up with this shit. Not from him. Not from anyone. He told me to remember my worth, and boy am I fucking remembering it now.
I get out of bed and grab my robe, fastening it around my waist. I don’t give a fuck if he’s chatting over a cup of tea and homemade shortbread in the kitchen with Orla.
I don’t even care if I look like the arrogant New Yorker who thinks they can barge in on a private conversation and help myself to coffee.
He doesn’t get to make me feel this way. I’m not the only one with a gigantic fucking secret in this house, and I’m not carrying all the burden on my shoulders without a little help from him.
Opening the bedroom door, I hold my breath and listen.
The house is silent. I can’t tell if Orla is moving around downstairs or not, but I’m not going to let it stop me. If I bump into her first, I’ll wing it.
I sneak downstairs, my heart thudding like I just completed a morning jog around the grounds and bumped into the ghost of Christmas past on my return.
At the bottom, I’m surprised to find that there are no lights on through the double doors leading to the kitchen and conservatory, and no aroma of baking bread. What the hell is going on?
It feels like they both did a runner in the middle of the night and forgot about the new housekeeper asleep in the boss’s bed.
I check the kitchen first. As I suspected, it’s empty, and Orla’s absence in the usually inviting hub of the house prickles underneath my skin. Something is going on, and I didn’t feature on their need-to-know list. Of course I didn’t.
I’m not family.
Pulse racing, I go back to the foyer and hesitate outside the door to Declan’s study.
I can’t hear a thing. I should’ve picked up my phone before I went snooping around the house.
I could’ve tried calling him and listened for his ring tone.
But I feel too nauseous and dizzy to go back upstairs, so I do the next best thing.
I knock on the door, the sound reverberating around my skull.
No answer.
I move closer and whisper his name urgently, “Declan?”
Still nothing.
This is his personal space. I still have no idea what Declan does—he fucked me on his desk; he didn’t give me a business summary—but when my fingers close around the handle and I press it slowly, I remind myself that I’m not snooping.
I only want to know what’s going on. He owes me that much at the very least after all his promises and pillow-talk.
The first thing I notice when I open the door a fraction is that the lamp on top of the bureau is switched on and emitting a gentle glow.
Feeling more confident, I cross the threshold, my eyes automatically drifting towards the desk.
The blind is drawn, the room is shadowy, but there’s an empty brandy decanter on the desk, and Declan’s leather seat is facing the window.
“Declan?” I fully enter the room and close the door behind me with a soft click. “Is everything okay?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge that I’ve spoken.
Something about the angle of his head doesn’t sit right with me though. Panic courses through my veins. Did he come down here to work and have a heart attack?
I’m no longer pissed off about him leaving me in his bed to suffer the consequences of getting caught alone. I dart around the desk until I’m standing directly in his line of vision and cover my mouth with my hand to stifle the small scream that will bring Orla rushing into the room.
His eyes are open, but he doesn’t look at me.
“Declan?” It’s barely a whisper.
His face looks gray. His eyes are bloodshot. His lips are not turning blue, but I’ve never studied first aid, so I don’t know what any of this means. I don’t even know how to administer CPR. But it’s too late to think about it now.
I move closer, staring at his chest, willing him to take a breath and not be dead.
Is his chest moving? I’m so lightheaded, I can’t tell if I’m imagining it or not, so I take another step and place my hand on his chest above his heart. I let out a groan of relief when I feel his heartbeat against my palm.
“Thank you, God. Thank you,” I murmur a silent prayer.
I drop to my knees beside him and cover his cold hands with mine, catching a glimpse of the empty decanter. He’s drunk. Not dead.
“You can get as drunk you want, Declan, but don’t you dare fucking die on me.”
He must hear me because he rolls his head across the back of the seat and faces me with his glazed eyes. “Amelia?” he rasps.
“You weren’t there when I woke up, and I thought… Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.”
I feel stupid now for thinking that he and Orla had been sucked through a glitch in the universe, never to be seen again. I was still half asleep. I can be forgiven for my wild imagination. Now, all I need to do is get him back to bed to sleep off the liquor.
“You could’ve talked to me, you know, if something was bothering you.”
Carol always claims that people tell the truth when they’re drunk.
I realize what this means—he’s having second thoughts—but right now, I’ll deal with second thoughts and guilt.
I’ll even deal with getting fired as long as I know that he’s alive.
Anything is preferable to the panic I felt when I thought that he was dead.
He stares at me, expressionless, and then his face crumples, and tears squeeze from the corners of his eyes.
My heart doesn’t seem to know what to do with this. I swallow hard. I realize that I barely know Declan, but this isn’t the man I shared a bed with. This feels like a shell of the person who hugged me against his naked body on the beach.
“Declan…” Fuck. I don’t even know what to say. “I never wanted to … cause you any trouble. I’m sorry. If you say that you want me to leave, I’ll go. I won’t tell anyone what happened. I won’t—”
I stop when he reaches up and touches my hair. Tears are still collecting on his lashes. His head is still resting on the back of the seat. But he’s aware that I’m here. It’s a start.
Whichever way this goes.
“No… Stay…”
My heart swoops; it can handle staying.
I smile. “Of course I’ll stay. Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”
I slide an arm around his shoulders, but he swivels the seat away from me, so that I can’t help him. “Brandy.”
“You’ve had enough to drink.” Okay, so I don’t like how much I sound like my mom right now, but it’s true. I won’t help him drink himself into a coma. “You should get some sleep.”
“No!” The vehemence in his voice makes me pull away. “Ruairi… My… fucking… fault.”
“What’s your fault, Declan?”
“Ruairi,” he repeats. His lips are set into a grim line now. His eyes are dry.
“What about, Ruairi?”
He turns his bloodshot gaze on me, and there’s no recognition. Whatever is going on behind his eyes, he’s no longer in the room.
“Gone… All my fault…”
“Gone?” I whisper, praying that he isn’t saying what my numb brain thinks he’s saying.
“My son…” His shoulders heave with the force of his emotions, and tears well in his eyes. “My Ruairi… I should never have… Too late… Too fucking late.”
He tries to stand and crashes back into the seat, and I barely stop him from rolling onto the floor by throwing my body on top of him.
“Out of my way.” He pushes me weakly, but I don’t budge. “Don’t… try to… stop me.”
Anger is punching through his alcohol-soaked brain cells, and I’m scared of what he’ll do. He’s too drunk to go anywhere. He can barely even stand up. But I know how strong people can get when they’re under the influence; I’ve seen it too many times in the nightclub.
I need help. I can’t stop him on my own.
Where is his son Eoghan when I need him?
Or the driver; I don’t even know if he lives on the property. I never see him around the house; he just seems to materialize when Declan needs him.
I’m running out of options. I know how this is going to look, but right now, getting Declan to sleep this off must be my priority. I’ll deal with the backlash later.
So, I fix Declan another drink from a bottle on the cart, place it into his hand, and wrap his fingers around it, then I leave him in the study and run upstairs to Orla’s room.
“Orla?” I knock on the door. I don’t want to scare the life out of the poor woman, but I also don’t want to leave Declan alone any longer than is necessary. “Orla!” Louder now.
I wait, breathing heavily, more from fear than the exertion of running up the stairs.
I’m about to knock again, when I hear movement behind the door.
It opens, and Orla appears, clutching a robe to her chin. Her hair is messy, and I can’t think about what she’s wearing underneath the robe. She blinks at me. I’ve clearly woken her up when she’s normally the first one to stir in the house.
“I overslept,” she offers by way of an explanation. “What’s happened, Amelia?” Her eyes narrow in my direction, taking in my robe and bare feet.
“It’s Declan. He’s drunk. I need your help… please.”
She peers at the top of the stairs, then back at me, and nods. “Give me a moment.”
Thirty seconds later, she reappears wearing her glasses and house slippers on her feet. She doesn’t ask any questions. She simply follows me downstairs and into the study, where Declan hasn’t moved since I left him.
I want to cry with relief, but the brandy glass is empty, and his eyes are closed.
“Declan?” Orla doesn’t touch him. She’s eyeing him up, assessing the situation while he sleeps through it, oblivious. Then she turns her attention to me and asks, “How did you find him?”
My pulse spikes. I thought I’d have time to figure out an answer once we’d gotten Declan upstairs and into bed.
“I woke up early and heard a noise. I… came down to investigate and found him in here.”
Her eyes rake my state of undress. She knows. “I haven’t seen him like this since Niamh died.”
Bile rises in my throat. “He said something about Ruairi. About him being gone.”
I keep my eyes on Declan. I hope I’m wrong. I hope I misheard him. But Orla’s admission that she hasn’t seen him like this since his wife died is starting to freak me out.
“Help me get him up, child.”
Orla takes control. She grabs Declan’s left arm, I take his right, and we haul him forward in the seat.
The instant he realizes what is happening, he wrenches his arms free, and tries to stand, swaying precariously. His eyes are all over the place. I can’t even be certain that he recognizes either of us.
My heart breaks in two when he says, “Why Ruairi? Why my son…?”
For several long moments, Orla and I stand frozen, numb, watching him physically fall apart before our eyes.
Then Orla places herself in his unsteady line of vision and says firmly, “We’ll figure it out, Declan. We always do. But you’re no good to anyone in this state.”
She blinks behind her glasses, and I’m afraid to look too closely. If I see her tears, I’ll lose my shit too, and she needs me to stay strong. Declan needs us both.
“Open the door, child.” She gestures with her eyes for me to help.
I don’t know how she is keeping it together. Maybe she’ll crash when the enormity of the situation hits her, but for now, she’s being the matriarch she has probably always been.
Somehow, we maneuver Declan upstairs and into his room. Several times, he stumbles onto his knees, and it takes all our strength to get him upright again. But when he falls into bed and curls himself up into the fetal position, I feel like I can breathe again.
“I’ll make coffee and get him some water,” I say. “We need to keep him hydrated.”
Orla stares at my cell phone on the nightstand before dragging her eyes to meet mine. “I’ll go. You stay with Declan.” She looks as if she wants to say more but decides against it.
When I’m alone in the room with Declan, I perch on the edge of the bed and pull the covers over him. He grabs my hand and doesn’t let go.
That’s where I am when Orla comes back to the room.