“An apology?” Catherine repeated, her jaw falling slack. Still, she clung onto her wrist that bore no injury, as if he had burned her skin. “Why would I apologize?”
“She’s mad,” Margaret muttered, clutching onto him. He laid a hand across her back and waist, holding her tight, keeping her safe.
“It was a madness put there by my father. It bred… it grew… until she was no longer human at all,” Theodore whispered. “Tell me, Catherine.” She jerked at his use of her name. “Was it all to punish me for beinghisson?”
He nodded at the chains on the wall where she had held him prisoner and hurt him.
“You should have died,” she suddenly spat. “If you had died when he did, it would never have needed to happen. You should have died in those flames. As he did!”
“He died in a fire?” Margaret muttered, her fingers closing tight on his arm. He held his hand over hers, trying to offer some sort of silent comfort in the midst of all this horror.
“He did,” Theodore whispered. “I was young, I barely remember it, but I remember…” He closed his eyes. The fire had taken hold fast. Mrs. Lancaster and the rest of the staff had been screaming.
Mrs. Lancaster was the one who had got him out of the house. They had run into the stable yard together, taking cover from the flames. His father had never made it out of the house, yet his mother had.
“We were amazed when you came out of the house,” Theodore said to Catherine. “You came out… so calmly…” He asked a question next that he had been terrified to ask his whole adult life. “Were you the one to start the fire, Mother?”
It was the first time he could remember calling her that.
She wailed, a broken thing, rather than a human at all. She fell against the wall, shaking her head and clutching her chest.
“It was supposed to kill you both!” she spat.
Theodore needed to hear no more. He took Margaret’s hand and dragged her out of the cellar, as far away from his mother as he could possibly get her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Your Grace!” a voice cried. “The constables. They’re here.”
Margaret looked around as she stumbled out of the Dowager House, clutching as tightly onto Theodore’s hand as she possibly could.
The brightness of the day was shocking now, after the darkness of the cellar. The world had turned white with snow, though the blizzard had softened, so it now looked like clumps of cotton were falling gently from the sky.
Margaret stumbled across the clean blanket of white with Theodore beside her, as three constables, all dressed in a military-style uniform, jumped off their horses. They followed a very tall man who Margaret recognized at once.
It was the figure who had been watching her from the gardens of the estate.
“Thank you, Leonard.” Theodore nodded. For the first time, Margaret heard Theodore’s attempt to keep his voice level. It was difficult for him, but he managed it all the same as he wrapped an arm around her and she willingly bundled herself into his chest. “You no longer need to watch my wife. I’ll keep her safe. Please, go with the constables. There is a man unconscious down there who will also need to be arrested.”
Leonard nodded and hastened to the house.
Margaret looked up at Theodore. The discovery that he had sent a man to watch her was a huge revelation. It appeared that even when he had walked out on her, he wished to keep her safe.
He does care after all.
“Sir,” Theodore called to the last constable who had descended from his horse. This one was clearly the most senior, judging by the pins on his uniform. He moved toward Theodore and bowed. “My mother is down in the wine cellar. She abducted my wife and arranged for her assault.”
Theodore showed Margaret’s wrists and head to the constable.
“This is awful,” the constable muttered in a querulous voice. “Why would she do such a thing?”
“Madness,” Margaret muttered. “In her own twisted way, she believed she was saving me.”
The constable nodded, though his expression showed he did not understand this statement very much.
“There is something else you should know.” Theodore looked sick. His lips opened, then he closed them again. Margaret laid a hand on his chest, over the edge of his waistcoat. As he looked at her, she nodded, urging him on. “My mother just confessed to starting the fire that killed my father.”
The constable stepped back, as if he had been struck by the words.
