“I wanted to make sure you’re not bleeding.” He examined his bare hands. “No blood.”
“I could have told you that. I felt nothing.”
Nothing at all, except the surprise of seeing Lord Blackthorne right where the bust had been.
“What did you see, my lord?” she asked.
He grimaced. “Nothing. I’d greeted the maid as I passed, and then I heard the screams below.”
She stared up at him, unable to look away. Twice since he’d arrived, accidents had almost harmed her—almost killed her.
He ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes for a moment. “I must have startled her. It’s not her fault.”
Cecilia realized she could still hear someone sobbing. “Oh dear, I must go to Susan.”
She tried to push past Lord Blackthorne, but he caught her shoulders. “Your devotion to your servants is admirable, Cecilia, but you are as white as a flag of surrender. You should rest.”
Surrender? Hardly.“I’m fine.”
He released her only to take her elbow until she was on her feet.
“Susan?” Cecilia called.
The sound of the maid’s name set off fresh wailing from the far side of the entrance hall. Mrs. Ellison, the tall, thin housekeeper with spectacles perched on her nose, stood beside Susan, the plump maid who huddled on her chair clutching her dust rag. Giant tears seemed to smear the freckles that dotted her face. Mrs. Ellison kept a firm hand on her shoulder, and Cecilia realized with relief that it was meant to comfort.
Susan raised great wet brown eyes as Cecilia approached. On a hiccup, she said, “L-Lady Cecilia, I don’t know what happened. I—I never meant—” Sobs overcame her again.
Cecilia caught her chin and lifted her face until their eyes met. “No one blames you, Susan. It was an accident. Do you remember what happened?”
“I didn’t think nothin’ happened!” she cried. “I don’t remember bumpin’ into anythin’. I was dustin’ the railin’, and I heard a man’s voice. I turned around, and there was Lord Blackthorne, havin’ just passed by. And then I heard the shouts.”
Just like her husband had said, Cecilia told herself, trying to calm her own breathing, although her lungs still felt too big for her chest, as if she couldn’t get enough air.
“Maybe your skirt caught on the bust,” Mrs. Ellison said in a kind but firm voice. “Can you remember that, Susan?”
The girl shook her head. “No, mum. It’s all awhirl in me head.”
“It’s all right,” Cecilia said, stepping back. “Why don’t you go have something to eat and drink in the kitchen, Susan? A good cup of tea will calm your nerves. Take the rest of the day off.”
Glumly, she mumbled, “Ye mean the rest o’ me life.”
“Of course not. You are a good maid. This was just an accident.” Maybe if she repeated it enough, she’d believe it herself.
Mrs. Ellison led the stoop-shouldered maid away, and Cecilia watched them retreat down the wide corridor. The quaintly dressed subjects of the portraits seemed to stare down, frozen in time, waiting for what would happen next.
Slowly, Cecilia turned and saw Lord Blackthorne regarding Talbot, who’d brought in the page to clean up the shattered stone. Her husband seemed to feel her gaze, for he met it with his own.
“I only returned because I’d left my pistol in my bedchamber,” he said, shaking his head. “I was on my way when ...” He trailed off, pointing at the mess.
“Oliver and Penelope must be waiting for you,” she finally said. “Go tell them everything is all right before they hear it from the servants and think the worst. I’ll be fine.”
Mrs. Webster, Lady Stafford, and Miss Jenyns then crowded around her, patting her like a lost little girl, leading her back into the drawing room for more tea. Shefeltlike a lost little girl. Her mind was whirling with terrible thoughts, contemplating awful conclusions. It was just another accident, one part of her kept insisting. Another, deeper part of her whispered that she’d hadtwosuch accidents since her husband had arrived. But that could only be a coincidence.
The sun was shining in streaks through the French doors, dust motes floating like birthday decorations. The ladies kept up a steady chatter, and things began to seem more normal.
During the first accident, she’d tripped in the dark, she reminded herself. This time, a maid had been right there, dusting up above. These were accidents, they had to be, because it was impossible that her father would have spent years with Lord Blackthorne, in fierce battle and in quiet moments of dreadful anticipation, and not known what kind of man he was.
After the ladies had departed, Cecilia retreated to the study—once her father’s domain—and sank down in the leather chair that still smelled faintly of her father’s cologne and snuff. Or so she often told herself. She was surrounded by familiar and normal and comforting, and took several deep breaths, her hands on the ledger she’d been working on that morning.
