William followed him. He balled his hands into fists as Horace slung open the doors of the cellarette and yanked out a full decanter.
He threw the stopper across the room then guzzled port down his throat without bothering to find a glass.
“That will not help.”
“The devil it will.” Horace kicked the cellarette cabinet back shut, glass rattling and clattering inside. “Leave me.”
“I will not see you destroy yourself.”
“I am destroyed already.”
“There are other ways of bearing—”
“Get out!” Horace slung the decanter into the window. Glass shattered, the sound piercing as a small breeze whistled in. He whirled to William. His legs spread, cheeks blazed, shoulders bunched. “I should have been the one with her. I should have been with her when she died.”
Too many emotions battled within William. He didn’t know what they were or which ones he should accept or hide, but a churning pity circled his stomach and overrode the others. “She has been ill a long time. It happened fast. You could not have known to be there.”
“But you were. It is always you. You she notices and talks of and—” Horace reared back his head with a cry then charged. He barreled into William and they bashed into the wall together.
Pain vibrated through William’s body, shooting from the healing flesh of his side, but he pried Horace off with one shove.
His cousin stumbled back. He returned to the cellarette and retrieved another decanter, but he sank to his knees before it ever reached his lips. A sob sputtered out. He gulped a drink to prevent more cries.
“I am sorry, Horace.” That his cousin’s entire life had been one disappointment after another. That all the boy had ever wanted was a mother’s love, which was always just out of reach.
But Horace was a fool to wish for the attention William had received. Being hated with such vehement punishments was far worse than being ignored.
William quit the room, no longer able to bear the sight of one so pitiful. He had avoided Miss Ettie these last three days. He had told no one the cruelties Aunt had shouted regarding his bloodline.
Now he knocked on the nursery door, knowing he’d find the governess inside, dread climbing his body so fast the blood rushed to his head. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to confront her.
He didn’t want to hear the truth.
The door creaked open and Miss Ettie filled the doorway. Her face brightened. Just as it always did when she looked at him, or spoke to him, or reached out and petted him. “My dear boy. You cannot know what I endured when I thought you dead. What a miracle it has been to see you these last days, alive and strong.”
In testament to her grief, the brown of her hair had streaked with more silver, and her small frame had thinned in his absence. He regretted causing her such pain. If he had stayed, if he had never run, perhaps everything would have been different.
“Come in, please? I know you are too old to play, but perhaps we can sit and talk.”
He nodded and entered the musty nursery, with its child-sized chairs and bookshelves and wooden toys, so long untouched. Why did she love this place so much? Why come here all the time with only memories?
She settled into the same rocking chair she’d always occupied before, when he had curled on her lap and she’d read books to him.
Now he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and bore his eyes on her beaming ones. “Why did you not tell me?”
“Tell you what, dear?”
“That I came from the workhouse.”
He had hoped she would gasp, and shake her head at him, and ask what in heaven’s name he was muttering about.
But no surprise overcame her expression. Only dread. “Then she told you.”
“Yes.”
“I expected she would, yet I had hoped against hope she would not.” Miss Ettie fluttered out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Please sit down, my dear. Sit here before me and take my hand—”
“You knew all along. You lied to me.”
