After the Kiss (22 page)

When Uncle Marcus’s gaze returned at last to the crackling fire, Becky breathed a sigh of relief. She reached over to touch Reggie’s arm to reassure her their hiding place had not been detected.

They watched together as, with his good right hand, their uncle traced the pheasant in flight etched on the brandy decanter that sat on the table between the two wingback chairs. His black-gloved left hand rested palm up on the arm of the chair, the fingers frozen in place like an upside-down spider missing a few legs.

Griggs, who had lost his right arm at Waterloo, had brought Uncle Marcus the refilled decanter not five minutes past, protesting, “You should not be drinkin’ so much brandy, Your Grace.”

In a slurred voice Uncle Marcus had replied, “Then next time bring me a bottle of port.”

Griggs made an unpleasant sound and said in sarcastic tones, “By all means, Your Grace.”

“Don’t call me that! I don’t want my brother’s title or the honors that go with it. Alastair can swim like a fish. The three sailors who survived said they saw him safe into the water before his ship went down. If they made it safely to the coast of Scotland, he did, too. I have no idea what is keeping him away, but mark my words, my brother is alive. I have no right to be Duke of Blackthorne.”

“Nevertheless, Your Grace, it’s duke you are. And a sodden one at that, if I may be so bold as to say it.”

“When did you ever let rank stop you from speaking your mind?” Uncle Marcus retorted.

“If you want the truth, here it is,” Griggs said. “I thought better of you than what I’ve seen, Captain. You lost your brother to the sea, and Major Sheringham in a battle that claimed too many old friends.”

Griggs refused to let Uncle Marcus interrupt. “It was not your fault the major died, despite what you think. There was nothin’ you could’ve done to save him.”

“I could have fought at his side.”

Griggs gave a Gallic shrug. “He did not want you there.”

“That was my fault, too!”

“Blame yourself, if you must,” Griggs said. “But there is no changin’ what happened. You could not save your friend from harm, Captain. And this time, sad to say, he could not save you, either.”

Uncle Marcus closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair. “Miss Sheringham will never be married now, never have a husband to care for her, or children to hold in her arms,” he said in a voice so soft Becky had to strain to hear it. “That is my fault, too.”

“You could many her yourself.”

Uncle Marcus turned to Griggs, a look of such agony on his face that Becky nearly cried out to him. Reggie’s palm trapped the sound before it escaped. She met Reggie’s eyes and nodded that she was all right, and her sister released her.

Griggs laid a hand on Uncle Marcus’s shoulder and said, “Miss Sheringham has been livin’ with her
aunt in the home she inherited from her father. There’s no reason why you couldn’t—”

“It is impossible.” Her uncle lurched from the chair, as much to escape the comfort Griggs offered, Becky thought, as from his own restlessness.

“Miss Sheringham did not want me when I was the Beau. She would never have me like this.”

Griggs’s voice turned gruff. “The Beau you will never be again. But the world did not end when you lost your beauteous looks, Captain. I never believed they mattered to you, but I see I was wrong.”

“If I were not—”

“You are still a whole man, with arms and legs and a face—scarred though it may be. That is more than many another came home with,” Griggs charged, angling his body so Uncle Marcus could not fail to see the empty sleeve where his jacket was pinned up.

Becky could not even imagine living life without one of her hands. She needed them both to paint and to play the piano and to write her wonderful stories. Griggs had used his right hand to fight, but the war with Boney was over and both men had left the army. Griggs had learned how to manage his duties as her uncle’s valet—not so different from those as his batman—with the hand he had left.

Uncle Marcus’s shoulders slumped, and his head fell forward in defeat. “I admire your courage, Griggs. I wish I had some of it.”

“You never lacked courage before, Captain. If only you would—”

Uncle Marcus whirled, completely exposing his scarred face and gnarled hand. “I am a monster, Griggs! The Beast of Blackthorne.”

Becky was afraid to breathe in the silence that followed her uncle’s anguished admission. It hurt to swallow over the frog-size lump that grew in her throat.

Griggs opened his mouth to protest, but this time Uncle Marcus cut him off.

“I know what everyone says behind my back. I know how hideous I look.”

“I expect not, Your Grace, since you haven’t allowed a lookin’ glass in this wing of the abbey since you came here. The wound has healed. It is not nearly so bad—”

“A beast belongs in a cave, Griggs. Here I will stay.”

“What about the children, Your Grace? Lady Regina and Lady Rebecca have been asking to see you.”

Becky risked a glance at Reggie to see if she was paying attention and found her sister staring back at her with a look of pain and longing in her eyes that matched Becky’s feelings exactly. They clasped hands and turned their gazes back to the shadowy room, waiting to hear whether Uncle Marcus would agree, finally, to see them.

After an interminable silence, he sighed and said, “They were never mine, Griggs. I am not necessary to their well-being. All Reggie and Becky really need at their age is a governess.”

Becky shot Reggie a frustrated look and got an angry one in exchange as Reggie pulled her hand free. How could Uncle Marcus be so stupid as to think they did not need him? Fortunately, Griggs came to the rescue. Although Becky wished he had not chosen quite the argument he did.

“No governess can manage the little demons, Your Grace. They sent the seventh one packing today.”

“Put an advertisement in the
Times
,” Uncle Marcus retorted. “Find another. Surely one woman with hair and wit can be found in all of London.”

“They need a father, Your Grace.”

Uncle Marcus scowled, a fearsome look that would have frightened Becky if it had been directed at her. Griggs did not seem to notice it.

“Alastair is their father,” Uncle Marcus said.

“The man is dead!”

“I cannot believe he is gone. I would feel more pain in here.” Uncle Marcus thumped his good hand—which held a glass of brandy—against his heart, spilling some of the liquid. “My brother is still out there somewhere.”

“It has been a year. The Bow Street runners you hired have searched the whole of Scotland—includin’ that troublesome estate where he was bound, Blackthorne Hall—and half of England, as well. The duke has not been found. You must accept the fact your brother is gone—”

“No!” Uncle Marcus threw his glass against the stone fireplace, where the crystal shattered, sending shards flying and blue flames licking at the brandy on the grate. He began pacing the room, his gloved hand curled tight against his body.

Griggs pleaded, “For the children’s sake—”

“Damn and blast, man! Do you not understand the sight of them reminds me of all I have lost? Of what I will never have? Get out!” he raged. “Leave me alone!”

Griggs left without another word.

Uncle Marcus had eventually slumped back into
his chair before the fireplace, staring once again into the fire.

Becky had felt sick inside, frightened of what the future held if he truly had abandoned them. She wanted to flee, to get as far away from this dark and lonely place as she could. She grabbed Reggie’s hand to pull her away, but her sister resisted.

That was when Reggie had told her Uncle Marcus was crying. Now that she looked more closely, she could make out a single, silvery line down his cheek reflected by the firelight.

Becky shivered—from the cold stones beneath her, of course, not from fear of her uncle, despite his recent rage. Uncle Marcus would never hurt a flea.
Well, maybe a flea
, she corrected herself, literal to a fault,
but nothing larger
.

However, with his hair and beard so wild, and cast in shadows, he did look quite fearsome. And lonely. And sad.

“He does not want us,” Reggie said flatly.

“We will have to change his mind.”

“How?”

“I will think of something.” Becky was as good at coming up with ideas as Reggie was at executing them.

“I wish Father were here,” Reggie said wistfully.

“Me, too.”

“Do you think Uncle Marcus is right? Do you think Father might still be alive?”

Becky saw the hope on Reggie’s face and hated to extinguish it. But she did not want Reggie refusing whatever plan she presented to force Uncle Marcus
out of hiding, because she believed Father might someday return and right the situation.

“Uncle Marcus is wrong,” Becky said certainly. “Father is dead.”

Reggie did not argue. Her eyes welled, and her chin quivered. Before the first tear could slip out, she turned and stared through the grate again, blinking fast enough to force it back.

Becky was not as strong-willed as her sister. Her watery eyes began to leak tears that felt hot as they dripped onto her cold cheeks.

Becky had hung on to hope for a long time herself, but when Father never came back, she knew he must have died. He would never go away and leave them for so long. She knew that because things had been different after she and Reggie were nearly kidnapped in London.

Father had scolded them less harshly after that, and had spoken to them more softly. He occasionally touched her or Reggie on the shoulder or brushed at their black curls. It was almost as though a different person—a much nicer one—had come home with them from London in place of the stern, distant father they had previously known.

Before Father left for Scotland to take care of some business at one of the Blackthorne estates there, he had called them into his library. Becky had been certain the other father, the cold and angry one, would be waiting there for them.

She had been wrong.

Father had not been sitting behind his desk, he had been standing near the door. The instant Becky entered the room, he grasped her under her arms,
swinging her playfully high above him. She shrieked once in surprise before he pulled her tight against him, so her nose settled against his throat. He hugged her for a long time, long enough for her to become aware of the strong, steady pulse in his throat and to notice he smelled of bayberry.

At last he set her down beside Reggie.

She watched as he reached for Reggie. He seemed more hesitant, less certain of himself. Reggie stood still while Father reached to pick her up, but she stared somberly—and with Reggie, as always, defiantly—into his eyes the entire time.

He did not lift her high, simply braced her against his hard chest with his arm around her hips. Reggie hesitated an instant, still staring Father in the eye, before she relented and laid her head on his shoulder. Father held her tight and rocked her back and forth. Reggie’s arms slid around Fathers neck and clasped him tight.

Becky wished she had thought to hug him back. It had all happened so fast, it had never occurred to her. Father had to pull Reggie’s hands away before he could set her on her feet.

Becky had clasped Reggie’s hand, because she could see Reggie wanted to run, to escape before she started crying. Reggie never let anyone see her crying. Her chin had wobbled before she clenched her jaw, but once the urge to escape was past, she stood firm.

Becky waited for Father to impart the admonition he never failed to give them before he traveled away from home.

“Be good,” he said.

Only this time it was a request, not an order.
There was a wry smile on his face and rueful understanding in his voice. As though he expected their high spirits to lead them astray, but hoped they would stay safe until he returned.

Becky was not certain how she knew all that from two simple words and a look. But it was absolutely clear to her that he loved her and would miss her while he was gone.

That was her last memory of Father. If only he had disappeared before that miraculous change. She would not have missed the cold and stern father nearly as much as she missed the one who smelled of bayberry and hugged her tight, and said, “Be good” in a way that really meant “I love you.”

Father was dead. He was not coming back. The house had been draped in black for an entire year. The period of mourning was ended today. It was time to start living again. All Becky and Reggie had left was Uncle Marcus, who had exiled himself to this rundown wing of Blackthorne Abbey.

One moonlit night, Becky had seen Uncle Marcus from her bedroom window wearing a black, hooded cloak, racing her father’s stallion, Blanca, across the rolling hills that surrounded the Abbey. She had tried staying up late enough to confront him in the stable. But she always fell asleep in the stable before he came.

The next morning she would be in bed, with no idea how she got there. Reggie said the groom probably brought her to the Abbey door, where the butler called the governess to carry her to bed. But since neither of them had been awake, Becky was left to speculate on the possibility that if she could some
night
pretend
to be asleep in the stable, she might discover it was Uncle Marcus, after all.

Sleeping in the stable. Of course. She should have thought of it sooner
.

“I have an idea how we can get Uncle Marcus to come out and see us,” she whispered to Reggie.

“I’m listening.”

“We can talk while we’re finding the way out,” Becky said in a hushed voice, pushing herself up to her knees and then onto her feet. Reggie followed suit. They had left a candle a little ways into the passage, and Reggie picked it up to lead the way.

“Uncle Marcus did not look dicked in the nob to me,” Reggie said when they were far enough into the passage that her voice would not carry back to him.

“Who told you he was crazy?” Becky demanded.

“The groom, and he should know. Ralph has a brother in Bedlam.”

Becky’s brow furrowed. “Bedlam?”

“A hospital for crazy people in Lambeth.”