“I know,” Lily whispered.
“You hurt her very much,” he said gravely.
“Iknow.”
“Then why did you do it?”
Lily’s hands curled into tiny fists. “She’s trying to fix things that can’t be fixed. I can’t be fixed!”
“Iwillcure you,” he said fiercely. “I will cure you or die trying.”
“I don’t want to try. I want to be normal.” Her eyes filled. “Ihatebeing broken.”
Alistair pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight.
He hated her being broken, too. He was tired of his entire family being broken, of his wholelifebeing broken. But how could he possibly fix any of it, when the only remedy was a cure for Lily?
His daughter clung to him for a long moment before she pushed away in sudden panic. “Will Miss Smythe come back?”
“Not today, I think. She’s right—you both need a day of rest.” He ran the back of his knuckles down his daughter’s damp cheek.
Lily blinked at him as if he were being purposefully obtuse. She grabbed his arms, digging her little fingers into the muscles. “I mean, will she beback?Or did I chase her away forever, like... like Mama?”
He hesitated, shoulders tense. Was there a danger of Miss Smythe resigning her post? In her shoes, would he stay shuttered in with the mad Waldegraves? Or would he walk out of the catacombs and on out the front door without a backward glance?
“You don’tknow,” Lily choked out, her distress verging on hysteria. She pushed at his chest, shoved him. “Go find her! Go get her! Don’t let her leave us!”
“All right, all right. But first, listen to me.” He might be a failure at curing his daughter, but surely, he could promise her this. “You didn’t chase away your mother. No, look at me. Youdidn’t. Sometimes people die, even when they shouldn’t. It’s horrible and terribly unfair, but it is nobody’s fault, least of all yours. God is the only one who can decide when our time on this earth is through.”
Lily’s lower lip trembled. “But if Miss Smythe leaves, itwillbe my fault. I was beastly to her. I don’t want her to go.”
Alistair slowly rose to his feet. “It’s too early for anyone to go anywhere, sweetling. Besides, Miss Smythe adores you. She would not leave without saying goodbye. She just wanted a moment alone, that’s all. We should at least grant her that courtesy. Tomorrow, once we’ve all had an opportunity to think and to rest, I’ll speak to her. I’ll offer whatever it takes to extend her contract. Will that do?”
“No.” Lily dug her fingers into his arm, eyes serious.“I want her for always. Make sure she never leaves us.Ever.”
Grimly, Alistair’s fingers tightened about his keys. “Never ever.”
Chapter 17
Unable to face the Waldegraves after the morning fiasco, Violet weathered the remainder of the day and all the long evening alone in her velvet-and-gilt cell.
She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep. She just stared up at the tester canopy, imagining Lily doing exactly the same. Day after day. Year after year. Violet might have spoken out of turn, but she’d meant what she said. No matter how hard she tried, she could never be more than a poor substitute. A copy. A fake. And very foolish for ever having dreamt of more.
After dawn the next day, she was scarcely up and dressed before a soft knock sounded upon her door. She sighed. That would be Mrs. Tumsen, ready to drag Violet down to breakfast by her ear, if need be. She hadn’t eaten the day before.
“Yes?”
“Miss Smythe? It’s me. Alistair Waldegrave.”
She shot a surprised glance at the door. Mr. Waldegrave at half-seven in the morning. Knocking at her bedchamber. She mustn’t let him catch her in the doldrums. He’d suffered enough.
She shook a few wrinkles from her morning gown and ran her hands over her hair to smooth any wayward curls—there was no time to muck about with hairpins. Inhaling deeply, she straightened her shoulders and her spine, and swung open the door.
He stood not ten inches from her. Pale. Unsmiling. Tense. His hands were gloved. His dark eyes, impenetrable. As usual, he was impeccably groomed—his cravat rigidly white, his black hair just so, his lithe body clothed in the elegant fashion of yesteryear. The juxtaposition always unsettled Violet’s nerves, as if the man she knew as Mr. Waldegrave was an impostor, a handsome predator disguised as a reclusive widower for reasons she could not begin to fathom. A shiver touched her spine.
And then he smiled. Hesitant, cautious, but soul-wrenchingly earnest. “Good morn, Miss Smythe. I hope you’ve slept well, although I can’t be at all surprised if you have not. I do beg your forgiveness.”
Just like that, the foolish sense of impending danger vanished. Violet released the door handle. She clasped her damp fingers behind her back and regarded him anew. How was it that a kind word and a few crinkles about the eyes managed to transform him from a potential threat to a gracious host? She had learned to trust her instincts long ago, but never before had her gut and her heart been so conflicted.
