She spun around so suddenly that her hands had grasped his forearms even before he registered she’d stopped walking. “Lily isspecial. Did you see what she painted? How she painted? You looked, but did you really see?”
He allowed his hands to settle lightly on her hips, but his tone remained as hard as his resolve. “What are you saying, Miss Smythe? That my daughter would be Michelangelo if only she could travel the world? I know how special Lily is! Why do you think I’m so desperate to keep her safe? To cure her?”
Her grip on his forearms gentled, as did her voice. “Because you’re her father and you love her,” she said quietly, each word another dash of salt into his open wound. “You’d be desperate for a cure even if she couldn’t draw a straight line. You’re a good man, and you’re trying to be a great father. I see that. I seeyou.”
Trying to be. Wanting to be. But accomplishing nothing. He stood in silence, letting her words fall upon him like dust upon a coffin. Unanswered. Because there was no answer to give.
“The thing is,” she continued softly, her breath ghostly above the folds of his cravat. “When will you find this cure? Next week? Next year? In ten years?” She lifted one of her hands and laid the palm against the side of his face. “What about the quality of Lily’s life between now and then?”
“I’m trying tosaveher life,” he ground out. “That’s precisely why it isn’t worth the risk.”
She lowered her hand. “What if you never find a cure? What if there isn’t any cure to be found? Would it all still be worth it then?”
“Never say that again,” he said furiously. He gripped her by the shoulders, then pushed her away. He did not want her touching him anymore. He did not want her opinions on childrearing. And he definitely did not want to hear poisonous negativity. His body shook as much in fear as in anger. “Iwillfind a cure. I must. I shall.”
She did not reply.
Even though he could smell the soap upon her curls and hear the faint whisper of each breath, Alistair knew the truth. He was alone. Nothing would change that. Him against the world, against modern science, against God Himself if need be. For Lily.
He would prevail or die trying.
Chapter 19
Violet’s eyes snapped awake in the darkness. Morning or half-midnight, she couldn’t be certain, but something had awakened her. Something that had her heart pounding like spooked horses.
She held perfectly still. No sounds broke the stillness of the night, save the overloud whisper of her own breath sticking in her throat. No light seeped through the double layer of thick wood. Even the sullen orange embers had vanished from the fireplace. Was that what had woken her? A chill?
Not a chill—a dream. A bad one, involving a depraved cracksman with an eye for young girls. Shaking, she propped herself up on her elbows. She closed her eyes and tried to shake the sleep from her head, but only succeeded in jumbling her thoughts about even worse. Why was she dreaming about the Spitalfields rookery? She hastened from the bed. There would be no more sleep tonight.
Why had those terrible memories returned? Her current situation was not at all the same. Trembling, she bent before a large bowl and splashed cold water on her face. Mr. Waldegrave was nothing like the monster who had ruled her childhood. She did not labor here under lock and key. He was a desperate man, but a gentleman all the same. It was not in his nature to hold a guest prisoner. Was it?
She squinted through the shadows at the closed door of her bedchamber. It was locked. Of course it was locked. All the doors in Waldegrave Abbey secured themselves automatically. But she padded across the room and tested the handle to be sure.
The door was locked tight, but she was not trapped inside. She touched her fingertips to her chest. She carried her key on a chain about her neck. Why, she could walk through the door and on out of the abbey if she had a mind to. In fact, she would, just to prove she could.
She jerked her fingers through her sleep-mussed hair. Her pelisse was right over there. If she felt so vulnerable that it was causing nightmares, she should put her theory to the test at once. She shrugged into the pelisse and shoved her feet into her walking boots. The edge of her night rail poked out from below the hem of the pelisse, and the cool brass key lay atop the lapel. Thus attired, she straightened her spine and strode to her door. Seconds later, she stood in the silent corridor.
“See?” she chided herself under her breath. “Not a prisoner.”
She hesitated only a moment before making her way toward the entrance of the abbey. Despite taking care to move cautiously, her footfalls seemed to slap against the marble floor. But no one came. No alarms were sounded. All were abed. As she should be, too. Instead, she stood at the abbey’s front door. She tried the handle.
Locked.
Her heart quickened. Foolish girl. Of course it would be locked. That did not mean she was being held prisoner. It simply meant Mr. Waldegrave had a cautious nature.
She slipped the thin chain from her neck and hefted her bedchamber key in her palm. When she had picked Roper’s pocket, there had been two keys—and she had selected the wrong one. It hadn’t opened her bedchamber. It hadn’t opened the door to the catacombs. It didn’t provide access to anything except the shrine to her employer’s dead wife.
This key, on the other hand,didopen Violet’s bedchamber. And the tunnel to the catacombs. And the art room, and the library, and the sanctuary, and the school room... The key slid through her fingers and caught, swinging from her upturned hand in a slow arc upon its slender chain.
She stepped forward and slipped the key into the lock on the entryway door. It fit. Slowly, she turned the key. Tiny clicks ticked in the darkness as the bolt retracted.
The skeleton key accessed the entire abbey! When Mr. Waldegrave installed all the locking mechanisms at once, the locksmith must not have had time to forge hundreds of unique locks. Either that, or it was simply easier for the household to deal with just one key, particularly when one was not accustomed to doors having locks at all.
Now she understood the trust implicit in having been given a key of her own. Roper’s initial reluctance to share made much more sense. She’d been a stranger. One who had all but blown in with a gust of wind. No manservant in his right mind would hand over free reign to a trespasser.
She curled her fingers about the icy handle and turned. The door swung open, briefly blinding her with moonlight. Chilly night air rushed across the starlit lawn to ruddy her cheeks and tangle her hair. She’d forgotten both her bonnet and her gloves in her haste, but for the moment she did not care in the least.
Closing the door behind her, she stepped from the abbey and tipped her face up to the sky. Stars winked down upon her. A breeze tickled her hair. The scent of grass and flowers and recent rain enveloped her.
