Chapter 18
The smell of bodies, of rot filled the air around Theodore. He could hear a gurgling, bubbling rasp of breathing. The distant sound of unsavory people arguing. A baby crying.
“I am ashamed of myself,” he repeated, the words falling from his lips even as the world around him faded. “It is my fault she is dead.”
His felt as though someone had let all the air from his body and then laid a heavy beam across his shoulders. He could not bring himself to look at Harriet, at the fury and shame he knew he would see when he did.
He heard the soft sound of footsteps and felt something warm and gentle touch the side of his face. The skin of her fingers was smooth, the gentleness of her touch made something in him recoil. I do not deserve this.
Honey and cinnamon washed over him. He breathed deeply, letting the scent fill his senses as his heart tumbled around his chest.
“You do not precisely seem to be a killer, Theodore.” Her voice was like a sunny day, warm and soothing.
“You cannot know that.” Theodore hated himself for being too weak to pull away from Harriet’s touch, for wanting the comfort it offered.
“Then tell me what happened.” Her words were firm, but not commanding. “I want to understand. Please.”
Slowly, he looked up, his eyes finding hers. There was no anger, no fear in her green eyes. He saw no judgement, only a quiet understanding that felt like a kick to his stomach.
“I…” He did not know where to begin.
Memories poured into his mind, tumbling around like marbles in a box. Rose as a toddler, a girl, a young lady. Her smile, her rapier sharp wit. Her laughter.
“What happened?” Harriet’s voice was an anchor, keeping him tethered to the present.
He clung to it like a ship fighting not to be swept out to sea. “My father raised me… like him. He was cold, exacting. Appearances mattered above everything. He punished anything he thought showed weakness.”
You are a man, not a woman, act like it. His father’s words echoed in his head; he felt the sting of a switch against the backs of his thighs. We will keep going until you stop this little display.
Harriet’s fingers stiffened against his cheek, and the flash of anger he saw in her eyes pushed his father from his mind. “That is no way to treat a child.”
“I was an heir, not a child.” He gave her a bitter smile as he repeated his father’s words. “A duke must be strong, he must be competent and he must lead.”
“Cruelty does not make those things.” Harriet’s hand moved from his face, lingering for a moment above his chest before she took his hand in hers. “It only masks a lack of such things.”
Theodore felt her rub the thumb of her hand across his skin and continued, “Rose was the opposite of him in every way. I expect that she takes after our mother, though I cannot say for certain. She died when Rose was born and I have almost no memory of her. Regardless, my Father kept us apart. It is why I was sent to Harrow as early as possible.”
Theodore felt his shoulders sag. “Rose wrote to me, and while I wrote back, I was careful. I knew Father read our letters and any effusiveness on my part would be punished.”
Rose was always the brave one. He saw Harriet’s jaw clench and kept speaking, words pouring from him.
“When I was three and twenty and returned from my tour, Rose showed me that painting, she told me she had something to tell me.
And I… I told her I would speak to her later.
I brushed her aside thinking that it could wait.
Rose always had something important to say, caught in some flight of fancy.
She was wild and free. My father hated it, and he punished us both whenever he thought she was being a corrupting influence.
I told myself it was nothing truly important.
Theodore remembered Rose’s panicked eyes, the look that still haunted his dreams. “When my father told me that Rose had been sent to the continent to continue her education. I was glad at first – I knew she had longed to study art with some of the master’s in France.
I was surprised Father had agreed, he had always shown resistance to the idea.
I trusted him. My letters from Rose had become increasingly sparse over the years, so when I did not hear from her, I was not surprised. ”
I thought it was my fault, that she had tired of me.
He could not bring himself to say it aloud.
“Years passed and I learned to stop asking after Rose. My father died, I inherited the duchy, and without him there, I stopped worrying so much about propriety and order. Then a year into my tenure, I found the letters.”
Anger surged within him and he felt his eyes darken. Every one of his muscles shifted as though he were a panther preparing to pounce. To his surprise, Harriet did not recoil from him, she stayed where she was, sadness filling her eyes.
“So many letters, all unopened and unread. I opened the most recent one, which was an entreaty to meet her and her daughter.” He winced.
“As was the previous letter, and the one before that. I left that night, and after several days travel found her at a workhouse in Abingdon.” His voice caught on a lump in his throat, anger fading as the smell of the place boiled up in his mind.
“She was little more than skin and bones, but as soon as she saw me, her eyes lit up.”
You came. He could hear her weary voice in his head, the hope that had broken his heart into thousands of pieces. I knew you would.
Harriet had let out a gasp, and he saw her eyes fill with tears as her free hand covered her mouth. His hand slipped from her grasp as he moved away from her, gritting his teeth.
“She told me the truth of things. A rake had forced himself upon her, she had become pregnant and when she asked our father for his help, he shunned her.” Theodore shook as the rage welled up within him.
“He blamed her for it. He sent her away with nothing but the clothes on her back and then made up a story to hide the scandal. She needed him and he abandoned her.”
“But it was not her fault! And even if she had fallen pregnant of her own volition, there are ways to hide such things.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harriet wrap her arms around herself.
“By the time I found her, it was too late. She had spent most of her time in workhouses, and though I paid for the finest doctors money could buy, they could not save her. I carried her from that place, took her to the family cottage in the Peak district. It had always been her favorite place, and it was not far away.” His words were clipped with pain and anger as he remembered how weightless his sister had felt in his arms and the way he had feared that the slightest breath would break her bones.
“I stayed by her side until she died; I did what I could to make her comfortable in those last few days.” He closed his eyes as he remembered the wet gurgle of her dying moments.
“Phoebe saw everything, though I tried to keep her from it. She would not be parted from her mother’s side.
Rose asked me to care for her daughter, and I agreed.
I failed her once. I refused to fail her again. ”
“You did not fail.” He sensed Harriet move close to him.
He opened his eyes. “I did. I understand the importance of order now, of control. I had to keep her daughter safe, had to make sure she could live the life her mother had been robbed of. It is the least I can do.”
“None of this is your fault.” Harriet held up two fingers and shook her head emphatically. “Only two men are to blame, and neither of them are here.”
“My father was a monster.” And so am I. He did not realize he had spoken the last aloud until Harriet said, “No. You are not.” Harriet’s voice would brook no argument.
He took a step towards him. “I am. You do not know what I have done.”
She tilted her chin up, her lip trembling. “Then tell me.”
This will show you the truth. He nodded slowly, rolling his shoulders back and towering over her. “I found the man who did this to her, and I took everything from him: his land, his titles, his wealth. It was retribution, and I enjoyed every moment of it.”
“That does not make you monstrous. It makes you human. If anyone hurt the people I loved, I would hunt them to the ends of the Earth and make them pay.” Harriet closed the distance between them, putting a hand on his chest, her cheeks rosy with defiance.
“You did not do anything wrong, Theodore. Bad men made evil choices; choices that are so wholly foreign to the man you are that it would not occur to you that someone could make them.”
“Rose could still be here. Phoebe would not be an orphan. She would have a family.” He could not bring himself to shirk away from her touch.
“She has a family.” Harriet insisted. “She has me, and she has you. It is clear you love her deeply; it is a matter of showing it to her.”
“And what if I cannot?” His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper as his heart beat slowly against her hand.
“I know you can.” She smiled at him. “I saw you with the horses, I have seen you show kindness and care.”
“Are you saying I should treat her like a horse?” Theodore raised his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth shifting upwards.
“Not quite.” Harriet laughed softly, shaking her head and moving a little away from him; he felt the absence of her hand at once and fought not to go to her.
“Though I suppose a little. Move slowly, give her time and stay on her level. It is rather intimidating constantly having to look up to someone. Be kind to her, compliment her when she has done well.”
“I do not know how.” Iron filled his veins as he thought of how Phoebe skittered away from him, the way she would not look at him.
Rose had done the same, at least before she was sent away. And yet, she still wanted you in her life.
“Then we shall have to practice.” Harriet tapped a finger against her lips thoughtfully, jerking him back to the present. “Do not focus on what is wrong, but rather what is good.”
“But if you only compliment, how will anyone improve?” Theodore folded his arms across his chest.
Harriet gave him a flat look, half exasperated and half amused. “She is a child, not your staff. If you want her to excel, you must bolster her confidence. Point out what she is doing well. Encourage her to use those traits to improve.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is.”
“Rose always said the same. Phoebe reminds me a little of her, though she is not quite as outgoing.” He leaned against a wall nearby.
“What was Rose like?” Harriet asked, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear and perching on the end of his desk.
“She had the most amazing laugh.” His voice was hoarse, and as he began to speak, the weight moved from his shoulders deep into his chest. “Her smile… had a way of spreading itself, whether or not you’d intended to smile.
She was clever, witty. She loved animals.
She was always bringing home little injured creatures; nursing them back to health. ”
“A love you both share.” Harriet’s smile made his stomach swoop, and the weight in his chest eased.
He nodded. “She was always happiest when she was making art. She had so much talent, so much potential. People wanted to commission work from her, but Father said it was beneath her station. She did it in secret, under a different name. I was so proud of her; I wish I had told her.”
“That is what you should share with Phoebe. Rose lives on in your stories of her, in her artwork.” Harriet shifted and for a moment, he thought she would close the distance between them again. “You do not have to let the past keep her from you. Either of you.”
Theodore’s eyes drifted to the wall in the direction of the room he knew housed Rose’s paintings. “I will speak to Phoebe.”
“Thank you.” Harriet stood and straightened the creases in her skirt, moving to the doorway as she did.
“You need not thank me; I am only doing my duty.” Theodore shrugged.
“That is not what I am thanking you for.”
A little while later, Theodore found himself standing outside the music room, Rose’s painting tucked under his arm. Phoebe was inside, idly playing on the pianoforte. The medley was clumsy.
Point out what she is doing well. Theodore swallowed the ways he could think that she would improve. “Is that Chasing the Squirrel?”
Phoebe started and jerked round to face him, eyes wide. She nodded, her eyes going immediately to the floor. He ignored the stab of pain in his chest and took a step into the room. He saw her tense, and hesitated.
Carefully, he knelt down, adjusting the painting as he did so. Harriet had made this seem so easy, but as he knelt before his niece, the familiar knot of words stuck in his throat.
Horses. The thought made him smile. He gently slid the painting towards Phoebe, removing the cloth covering as he did. He did it slowly, not wanting to startle her and said nothing. He simply waited.
As soon as his niece saw the painting, she froze, her eyes wide. Tentatively she reached a hand towards it, her mouth open slightly. He saw her fingers tremble as she reached towards it.
“It was your mother’s.” Theodore imagined he was talking to a frightened animal, his voice gentle and soft, even as it broke on the word ‘mother’.
“Now it is yours.” He gestured towards the painting.
For a moment, nothing happened. Theodore prepared to stand, but as he shifted his wait, Phoebe slowly turned from the painting. He froze, his heart speeding up.
Seconds or perhaps hours might have passed as his niece raised her face, and for the first time, met his gaze. Theodore could not keep the surprise from his face.
His jaw slackened, his brows raised to his hairline.
Phoebe stepped towards him, hesitated and then threw her arms around him. He returned the embrace gingerly. “Thank you,” she whispered.
His mind reeled, and he tightened his embrace, holding her close to him. She felt so tiny in his arms that he feared he would break her.
He could almost hear his sister’s voice in his mind, mingling with Harriet’s. I told you so.
This miracle was not his doing, he knew that. It was his wife’s.