“Viscount Kingsley,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper but growing stronger with each word, “the man who tried to assault me, who we left Cheshire to escape. He found me… and he made to blackmail me for his silence.”
Lady Janet drew a sharp breath, and Lord Percival’s grip tightened on his cane, his knuckles paling to bone.
“I went to meet him one night,” she continued, eyes flickering toward Harper before she dared to proceed, “with the intention of paying him off, with… with my dowry money.” She swallowed hard, shame curling in her chest. “I am sorry, Father. I know I should not have taken it, but I was desperate. Desperate for he threatened everyone I loved and cared for. His servant was there… or perhaps a henchman, I don’t know. I handed over the money, but I was so… humiliated, so utterly lost, that I—"
Her voice broke, but she forced herself to finish her words. “I threw myself into the lake.”
Helen’s hands flew to her mouth. Lady Janet swayed as if on the cusp of swooning. Lord Percival’s face contorted, his cane the only thing keeping him upright. Ester felt a strong, comforting hand on her shoulder. From the corner of her eye, she could see that it wore a black glove. Julian still retained one. The other was lost aboard the Sprinter, now floating somewhere on the Celtic Sea. She saw her father's eyes drift to Julian once more, saw the tightening of his jaw. Then his eyes dropped, then his face. Finally, Lord Percival crumpled into his seat with his head hanging low.
“I should have drowned,” Ester said quietly. “I should have died. But Julian, he—he dove into the lake and saved me.”
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy as a winter fog. Ten minutes must have passed before Lord Percival finally lifted hishead abashedly. “For… for saving my daughter, when she could not turn to her own father, Your Grace, I owe you a great debt that not even centuries of servitude could repay. To think my dear child felt so lost, so abandoned, that she thought she could not turn to her own family… that is my failing as a father. I should have done more. I am prepared to give anything—anything you ask. My name, my fortune, my life itself—it’s yours, Your Grace. I fear anything less than my life may be too humble of an ask.”
Ester held her breath as she placed her hand to her shoulder and laid it atop the gloved hand. She felt Julian’s fingers tense beneath hers. What would he say? She prayed he would take advantage of this offer, to ask her father the one thing that he had previously wanted from him. To ask for Ester herself.
Julian’s voice was calm, steeled as he met Lord Percival’s gaze. “I ask for nothing, Lord Percival. I did what was right in the first instance, and in the second, I followed my heart. I love your daughter—entirely, without reservation, and with a desperation I cannot put into words. But I will not ask for your blessing to marry her. You know the reasons I hold.”
“I… do. I know what you believe.” Lord Percival’s brows creased with understanding. “And though I respect your strength of character, I, nevertheless, believe you to be mistaken, Your Grace. So I will grant you what you will not ask for. You have my blessing to marry my daughter.”
The room seemed to still for a breath. Then, a delighted clap broke through the moment.
Helen, beaming with joy, clapped her hands, and the voices of the Morgan family gathered in the farmyard erupted into cheers that rattled the rafters. Ester saw Helen's eyes go to the doorway and saw the blush rise in her cheeks. She wondered if the darkly handsome Rhys stood there.
Her attention quickly returned to Julian, who stood before her, his head bowed, as if humbled by the weight of her father’s words. A movement behind drew her attention back to the yard. She saw Harper, slipping away behind the Morgans, a troubled look on his face.
“My lord,” Julian spoke suddenly, interrupting the revelries, “you place me in a difficult position. You praise the strength of my character, and then place before me the greatest temptation a man can be given. To clear the way for me to marry your daughter is... maddeningly tempting, but...”
“Butnothing, Your Grace,” Lord Percival gently chided. “It is plain as day that the two of you are as suited as any man and woman could ever be. Don't be a goose and don't be a slave to superstition.”
“I will not risk her life,” Julian muttered, voice hard and unyielding as stone.
Ester saw fire in his eyes, a determination. A stubbornness. Would he refuse? Would he react against the pressure being brought to bear on him to renege on his principles? Those principles told him that every contact between them riskedshortening what remained of her life. Might lead to an ugly, choking death as Mr. Napier had suffered.
“Perhaps… perhaps this is not a matter for hasty decisions,” she suggested diplomatically.
Julian nodded sharply, but when his gaze met hers, there was torment there. She could see how desperately he yearned to cast aside the curse and embrace her, touch her, be her husband. But he could not release the burden, would not release his responsibility, his duty to protect her.
Outside, there came murmurs of confusion. The Morgans had thought they would be celebrating a wedding but now were not so sure. They probably wondered at the strange customs of these English visitors.
Rhys broke the awkward silence that fell across the kitchen. At least, Ester assumed the young man who stepped forward was Rhys, son of Cerys and Huw Morgan. He was of an age with Helen, possibly a year older. His face had rounded cheeks and his eyes were dark, as was his curly hair. She vaguely remembered him from the beach the day before. Actually, she had since learned that the Sprinter had run aground two days before. She had slept through the intervening time.
“Pardon me for interrupting,” he said in the strange, sing-song accent of the Welsh, “but it seems we have cause for celebration after all, don't we? Not just these good people being delivered from the sea, but Miss Helen. She was telling me that she's yet to have her debut. Well, why can't we have it in the village andcombine the two? A dance and a feast to celebrate Miss Helen coming of age and surviving the shipwreck?”
Ester could have embraced the young man for the look of pleasure and happiness that came over her sister’s face. She noticed her mother and father appraising the young Welshman shrewdly. She wondered if they would approve of a suitor without title for Helen. If they didn't, she would fight them tooth and nail if Helen felt inside half of what she was showing on her face.
“Rhys, don't be interrupting the good folk now!” Cerys scolded in a hushed tone.
“No, no, it is a capital idea and a very generous one of the people of Penmon,” Lord Percival said graciously. “I should be honored to accept the offer if my daughter is content?”
“Oh, yes father! Yes indeed!” Helen enthused.
From the pleased look on her father's face, Ester felt she needn’t worry about Rhys Morgan being accepted. Her father had always been somewhat egalitarian in his views. Her mother seemed a touch more skeptical but nodded her acquiescence.
Ester glanced over her shoulder to Julian, who was watching her. The conversation had moved swiftly from the question of their marriage to Helen. With a practiced ease, Julian had slipped from the spotlight, his presence unnoticed by all but her. As the news of the coming celebrations reached those outside,there was a further cheer. The Morgan family was extensive and more had gathered in just a few minutes.
She glanced back once more, but Julian was gone.
Without a second thought, she hurried through the doorway, hoping to catch sight of him. Eventually, she found him pacing through the farmyard, his tall form cutting a lonely figure as the wind tugged at his coat. Beyond was a rutted track along an avenue of trees with pasture for sheep and dairy cows on either side. The track wove down a hill to the small hamlet of Penmon which lay at the foot of a formidable headland. It was there that the Sprinter had foundered, though there was no sign of it now except the dark shapes of floating wood amid the reflected shards of sunlight.
