He had no right to return here. Not twelve years later. Not after his father was dead and his mother blinded—not after all the things he had forsaken in one thoughtless night. Had he any idea what he had done to his parents? Had he any idea what he had done to her?
But even as the thoughts surged through her, her vision swam. She leaned closer to the window and searched the distant figures with painful fervor.
Despite everything, she almost prayed to catch a glimpse of the brown coat again.
She was a greater fool than she’d ever known.
Moonlight shimmered from the endless, lightless windows of Sowerby House.
Simon stood at the bottom step, the enormous home staring down on him as if in condemnation. He resisted the urge to rush his children back into the hackney. How much easier to run away again than to face the man inside.
“I hope you find whatever it is you seek, Son.”Father’s words, his disheartened tone.“But I shall be here when you do not.”
The memory left an ache, but he ascended the steps anyway. He was not returning in defeat. He had come back to England for one reason and one reason alone—to find the men responsible for the death of his wife.
If Father could not understand, it would be no great surprise.
He had never understood anything else.
Asleep in his arms, Mercy stirred when Simon banged the fish-shaped door knocker. He glanced back at the jarvey who handled his trunk at the bottom of the stairs. “You can leave it here. Thank you.”
The man muttered an oath and slammed it down—probably still disgruntled that Simon had coerced him into the journey with two shillings and one lucky card game—then jogged his way back to the hackney.
The door opened to a crack. “Who is it?” A squeaky, wary voice. One he knew well.
“Mr. Wilkins, it is me.”
“Pardon?”
“Simon Fancourt.” Reaching down, Simon squeezed his son’s shoulder. “It is much too late to explain, but I should like to come in.”
The door wobbled a bit, then it opened so hard it banged the wall behind. “Master Fancourt, it is you.” The butler stood in a simple woolen banyan, the tassel of his nightcap over one eye, his candle shaking in his grasp. “Indeed, sir, this is a moment I never thought I would live to see. Not in all my life.”
Simon ushered John inside, though his son had already grasped Simon’s coat in a death grip. “Our trunk is on the step, and we will need a fire in my old chamber.”
“Oh yes, sir. Of course, sir. I should be most pleased to do that and far more for you, if I can.”
He worked his jaw to keep back a grin. As a child, Simon had seen the butler as bothersome and far too authoritative, despite his nervous demeanor. Now, he seemed a rather silly man with his thin stature, his fast-blinking eyes, and the long bridge of his bony nose. But true welcome, true sincerity, seemed to glow from his eager face.
Simon garnered comfort from that—even if the manhadscolded him too many times for sliding down banisters.
“If you do not mind, I believe we shall steal into the kitchen and see if Cook has milk and bread for three hungry varmints.”
“Oh, sir, you are hardly that. Shall I, ahem, wake a servant to prepare the meal?”
“No. I believe I have raided the kitchen enough to need no assistance now.” Taking John’s hand, he found his way through the dark and silent house, entered the kitchen, and awoke Mercy long enough to prepare a small feast. They ate with vigor, the warmth of heated milk and honey chasing away the chill of a long, tiresome day.
By the time they were finished, Mercy’s eyes were already drooping again, and even John looked as if his head was too heavy to keep upright.
“Come. There will be a fire awaiting us upstairs.” Simon lifted Mercy in one arm, then swung John into the other, ignoring the yawning protest that he could walk by himself.
The stairs creaked as Simon ascended. He found his chamber door open, the counterpane folded back on his bed, and the hearth blazing warm beneath the black-painted mantel.
“Me can have Baby now, Papa?” Mercy murmured the question as he lowered both children to the creaking bed.
In the flickering firelight, he found where the butler had placed their trunk. Simon flipped the dull hasps, opened the lid, and rummaged through the unorganized mess. Unfolded clothes, his worn Bible, his dismantled gun, a leather-bound sketchbook, and…Baby.
He lifted the doll, pushing back the memories of Ruth’s nimble fingers twisting twine and husks to bring the doll alive. She had brought everything alive.
