Slight inflictions of pain, not crippling ones.
But her.He backed against a rocking wall and rubbed both hands down his face. He groaned because his palms came back wet.Lord, what am I doing?
What was so important to him on the other side of the world? What was it, all his life, that was so vital he accomplish? Building a cabin that would one day crumble? Proving to himself—or society, or his father—that Simon could overcome the obstacles of frontier life?
What did all that mean? What did anything mean when all day tears dammed the back of his throat, weakening his voice? When he loathed the picture of Miss Whitmore because he knew it was all he had left of her?
For as long as he could remember, he’d been driven by the need to do something and become something. He’d never discovered what. Maybe there was nothing.
Or maybe what he was meant for had always been in front of him.
Instead of hiding away during balls and shunning his parents, he should have emerged from his solitaire. Instead of avoiding his brother because of differences, he should have found common ground and bonded. Instead of disregarding Miss Whitmore for childish offenses, when he had plenty of his own, he should have looked for the girl beneath the shy and blushing smiles.
Perhaps there was no grand thing Simon Fancourt was meant to do.
Perhaps it was as grand and little and wonderful as loving his children, sacrificing for those he cared about, and fighting with as much vigor and desperation for Georgina Whitmore as he ever had for Ruth in the cabin.
Up the passageway, a door opened and shut. Little feet pattered. “Papa, Mercy threw up.” John glanced at his soiled pant leg with disgust. “She didn’t get to the bucket. I don’t know what to do.”
Simon barged back down the hall, grasping John’s hand, and busted open the cabin door with a pounding chest. “Help her into another dress and gather up our coats.” Simon threw the drawing book back into the trunk and locked the lid, then hefted it toward the door.
John gaped. “What are we doing?”
“Getting off this ship.”
“Mr. Fancourt, what a surprise.” Georgina’s mother rose from a parlor chair, her tight curls peeking out from a bright blue turban. Her bosom shook with a giggle. “And here I thought you were off again across the great blue ocean. Hmm, is that not a lesson? One simply cannot depend on gossip at all these days.”
“I would like to speak with Miss Whitmore. The butler said she is absent.”
“Well, you need not confirm his word with me. He has never been known to tell anything but the truth.” Her smile faltered. “Oh. But of course you would be distrustful, what with the atrociousness you endured from your own butler. Such a tragic affair. I do hope you shall not hither forth distrust all your hired help—”
“Please. I must speak with her.”
“Is this not a novelty?” Mrs. Whitmore—or whatever her new name was—tilted her head in astonishment. “Two calls in one day, and here I was certain the poor child would never wed.”
“Where is she?”
“I hardly think it is proper I relate such details toyou,sir.” She smiled with feigned shock. “Especially, I daresay, not now.”
Impatience rankled him, wetted his palms, but he kept his features unflinching. “What do you mean, now?”
“Oh, heavens, I should not be the one to say it.” She flew a hand to her cheek, blushing. “A woman prefers to announce her own engagement of marriage, I think. Or at least, I always did.” She leaned forward, as if deciding to take Simon into her confidence. “Mr. Oswald called earlier today. He was most urgent, and when I granted him a private audience with my daughter, I could not help but overhear more than one usage of the wordmarriage.” She sighed. “They told me nothing of their engagement, of course, but as they both left together for Sowerby House, I have no doubt that she accepted his offer. Likely, she is going to explore every chamber in the house. I did the same when I married Byron, as there is such an elating sense of satisfaction to view a house one may do with as one wishes. The first thing a woman cares to change are always the curtains. Perhaps the upholstery too. Yes, most certainly the upholstery because…”
The words faded, everything faded, as Simon backed from the room.
He hurried out into the rain and returned to the tobacco-scented hackney, the wet clothes heavy on his skin. “To Sowerby House,” he told the jarvey, as the carriage door clicked shut.
But the voice did not sound like his own.
Nothing was real.
He was detached, cold, as denial and numbness pierced his stomach like a javelin.
It’s too late.
CHAPTER 23
This was ridiculous.
