Turning away from the sound of Elsie’s retreating footsteps echoing up the stairs, Kit set about straightening and ordering the contents of his desk. It was better to focus on his sister, and the plan that had been concocted with Elsie—convincing Flora to celebrate her eighteenth birthday, with strangers. It would include a new gown, a cake, and presents, as well as the promise of a trip to London—it should delight most young women. The problem was that Flora was not most girls. Still avoiding the topic would do no good.
Kit followed Elsie out of his sitting room and then up the staircase, towards his sister’s room. His household, despite repeated requests for the place to be aired and dusted, still retained that musty smell, and clogged atmosphere of dead air no matter what occurred.
On the landing of the first floor, Kit proceeded down the corridor until he stood in front of Flora’s bedroom. After a tentative knock, Flora opened it, her gaze mistrusting as she let him in.
It seemed as if Flora had banned the maids from coming into her chamber, as it was disordered at best, and at worst looked close to belonging to that of a madwoman. His messy desk downstairs was neat in comparison to the splutter of papers, torn curtains, spilled coals, and disordered bedding that made Flora’s bedchamber require a few hours of tidying to make the room habitable.
Kit looked across to his sister only feet away, she too neededsome care and attention, and unwilling to see her awkward shuffling a second longer, he stepped closer and enfolded her in his arms.
To his relief, Flora came forward willingly and her hands closed around his midriff, and he held her as his little sister rocked against him. With a slow movement so as not to startle her, Kit leant down and rested his chin on the top of her head. More than anything he wished he could ask her to speak, to vocalise all the things that frightened her, and to let him know what could be done to help.
But instead, since he’d asked this countless times and only ever seen Flora shake her head, he said, “It is your birthday soon.”
Flora stepped back, her expression quizzical at his presence in her room. She shared the same blue eyes as he did, but her face was slightly similar to their mother’s softer feminine build that his harsher lines. Still if she were to rest, ideally away from the manor, perhaps in London, the bloom of colour might return to Flora’s rounded cheeks, and she would resemble the girl she had once been. “I was thinking a party might be in order.”
He watched her closely judging her reaction, and to his delight, she smiled. It gave him confidence to continue.
“I thought a new dress and a few invited guests.” He saw how dubious she looked, but he sailed on. “I will only pick out a few special people, and we will have plenty of time to prepare.”
Carefully Flora stepped back, her hands twisting together, and her body was huddled, but her face was brighter than he’d seen in a while, and then to his great delight, she nodded, and said, “If you think it wise.”
It had been so long since he’d heard her voice speak so, relief poured through him. That he had not entirely failed her—she was still in there, the girl, the sister he’d known all of Flora’s life.
Which was why he spoke the next fateful words. “And once you are comfortable, we can look at going to London. Not for some grand Season or anything like that, but perhaps to see atheatrical performance or visit a museum and hear a talk. I hear there are bookshops which one can get lost in, and boats that…” His sentence broke when he saw that Flora was shaking.
She lost all semblance of excitement or interest. Her skin was as pale as a ghost. Her body vibrated where she stood, her eyes unblinking as she gazed at him, and her head shaking with a silent, blanched no.
“We cannot ever leave here.” Flora took an unsteady step forward, grasping hold of both of Kit’s hands between her own. Her hold was hard and punishing. “Promise me that.”
“You know I can’t do that, Flora. You will have to leave here eventually. We cannot stay locked away from everything forever.”
She was shaking now, her entire body tight and her jaw set.
“Neither mother nor father would want that for you.” Kit carried on, desperate to say something that would break Flora away from whatever she was so fearful of. “We both should see more, witness the wonder of what the world might offer, not just the sadness that keeps us here. Would you not like to see London—have a chance beyond this place?”
It was then that she started to scream, his insistence apparently enough to tip her over the edge. Her scream continued until there were noises nearby, the sound of people running, coming towards Flora’s bedroom, but nothing broke the sound of his sister’s screeched pain.
When the doorway was flung open, and he heard the soft step of Miss Keating and her queries as she hurried closer, it could not penetrate or cut off what Flora said, “If we leave here, we die.”
With that she backed away from him, climbing into the nearest faded armchair, curling herself into the space before she started to cry. Her wails sounded around the bedchamber.
Elsie, who had reached him, took several steps back, moving away to the doorway, and closing it firmly as Kit watched her. At her heels was Lancelot, whose dark brown hair and warm eyes seemed as distressed as his mistress’s. Elsie returned to his side,reached out and touched his arm before walking over to the armchair where Flora was huddled up weeping. Elsie crouched down on the ground beside his sister, so that the two of them would be on the same eye level.
“Lady Flora.” Elsie’s voice was calm, far more level than anything Kit would have imagined himself capable of in that moment. “I have my dog with me, he’s called Lancelot.” Elsie bent and scooped up Lancelot. “When I feel upset, I take great comfort in stroking an animal’s fur. Lancelot has the most beautiful coat. Would you like to try it too?”
The crying changed, merging away from the hysteria, and slowed down into something softer—broken by the occasional hiccup. Flora raised her tear-stained face, damp eyelashes, and a wobbling jaw as her pained eyes moved from Elsie down to the dog.
Lancelot was deposited on the seat next to Flora. The pause as the three of them gazed at each other, whilst Kit watched—more hopeless and useless than he’d imagined possible. Was not the point of being the head of the household to have the power of the role? Yet Kit felt that tiny, determined Miss Elsie held more than him and oddly enough he was happy to cede it, if it meant his sister would improve.
A tentative hand emerged, and Flora petted the top of Lancelot’s head, and then to Kit’s relief, the little dog nestled closer and started to lick Flora’s outstretched fingers. A strange noise bubbled up in Flora’s throat, which sounded like a giggle—a sound Kit could not remember hearing from his sister in what felt like a lifetime. With little respect for anything, the dog scrambled over to settle in Flora’s lap.
“Lancelot seems to like you.” Elsie was standing up. “Perhaps you need him, more than I do at the moment. I found that, even though he is a small dog, he gave me a great deal of strength.”
She turned to move away, and without realising what he was doing, Kit raised his hand, silently mouthing at her an uttered “thank you” as his fingers clasped hold of her elbow, keeping her rooted close. Elsie nodded, her eyes settling on his face, considering him in a manner that Kit could not fully understand.
“A party?” Both of them turned at the sound of Flora’s question. It had similar scratchiness as her laugh earlier, but she was clinging to Lancelot and watching them carefully.
“That is right,” Kit said. “It felt right to mark your birthday. There could be dinner, a cake… a new dress.” He offered out these temptations, hoping against everything he had experienced so far that it would whet his sister’s interest.
