“Yes, indeed you are.” The woman clucked her tongue. “And you well know my opinion on—”
“That isquiteenough, I think.” Annie gave an exasperated sigh and turned away. “I’ll be in the parlor with Papa. Just do as I ask, please. Bridget, tea, and then I suggest you put your feet up for a while. You must be worn out from carrying all those opinions of yours.”
There followed a brief pause, then, “Speaking of carrying, shall I put all these packages in your room?”
Annie capitulated to a smile and answered without turning. “Yes, Hattie. Thank you.”
Not a minute later, she entered the parlor, settled onto the tufted stool beside a large, well-worn leather chair and gave the chair’s fragile occupant a critical inspection.
“How are you feeling this afternoon, Papa?” Annie set the package she’d been holding on the floor and reached for her father’s hand, the flesh disturbingly cool and paper-thin to the touch. “Are you warm enough? Can I fetch you anything? I’ve ordered some tea, if you’d like a cup.”
Clarence Fairfax, her father, was a man who had aided and cured many souls in his fifty-four years upon the earth. But his own health had been gradually failing for some time, and notably for the past several weeks. His self-made diagnosis, as well as that of a colleague who’d been attending him, was concluded to be a disorder of the liver. Whatever, it had thus far acted without mercy, stealing his strength and fortitude with steadfast rapidity.
Initially, Annie had chosen to ignore her father’s impending demise, as if constructing a wall of denial might serve to keep the inevitable at bay. But lately, reality had leached through her defenses, creating a sickening mix of fear and despondency that gnawed incessantly at her stomach. Her prayers for her father’s recovery had not been answered. Now she prayed he would at least be well enough to walk her down the aisle two weeks hence.
Smiling, he gazed down at her, the whites of his slate-grey eyes sullied by a faint, yellowish hue. “I’m feeling quite well, my dear. Very comfortable, in fact. I even took a brief stroll around the garden earlier and enjoyed a bit of sunshine.” His fingers squeezed hers. “Did you enjoy your outing?”
She answered him honestly. “I did, Papa, but felt guilty about leaving you alone.”
“Ah, but I’m not alone, am I? Bridget is here.” He gave her fingers another feeble squeeze. “You can’t stay cooped up in the house all the time, Annie. It’s not healthy. Now, tell me about your excursion.Where did you go? Did you purchase some nice things for yourself?”
“I went to the Burlington Arcade, and yes, I purchased a few items, though mostly frivolous. Some ribbons, lace, and notepaper.” She gave a slight shrug. “And I also bought you a gift.”
“Oh, my dear child.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I have no need of anything.”
“Well, I couldn’t resist, and it isnota frivolous item.” Annie released his hand and picked up the package, noticing, for the first time, a faint smudge on the wrapper. From the pavement, no doubt, after she’d collided with Julian Northcott. The image of his face still lingered in her mind, as did the unsettling impression of having made a mistake by bidding him a permanent farewell. With some effort, she shoved both image and impression aside, and turned her attention back to the parcel. “Shall I unwrap it for you, Papa?”
He nodded. “Yes please, my dear.”
She did so, and then set the open wrapping on his lap so he could see what lay within. “I noticed the one you were wearing last night looked a little worn,” she said. “This one is made from the finest Spanish wool, though it feels like silk. It’s a light weave, more suited for the summer months.”
Her father lifted the sleeping-cap from the paper and studied it, eyes widening slightly. “Oh, it’s perfect, Annie, thank you.” He brought it to his face and nestled his cheek against the cream-colored fabric. “And yes, so soft! I shall wear it tonight and no doubt sleep better for it.”
“I hope so.” Frowning, Annie glanced down and brushed an imaginary speck from her skirts while wondering how to broach the subject of her mother’s death, and the events which had taken place around that time. A door, long closed, had recently reopened in her mind, and she felt compelled to explore its hidden contents further, to discover what childhood memories had been set aside and forgotten.
“Good lord, look at that frown,” her father said. “May I know thecause? Nothing is wrong, I hope.”
Biting her lip, Annie met his gaze. “No, nothing is wrong, Papa. It’s just that I remembered something about my childhood today, and wish to enquire about it.”
His eyes widened. “Well, now I’m thoroughly intrigued,” he replied, shifting in his seat. “All right. What is it you remembered?”
“The time I went to stay with Aunt Sybil.”
He blinked, and his entire expression changed to one of obvious disapproval. “When your dear Mama was ill, yes. What about it?”
“Well, I should like to know the whereabouts of Aunt Sybil’s house, and the name of the nearest village or town, too. Where, exactly, are they located? Somewhere in the countryside, I know, but which county?”
The expression remained. “Annie, I do not care to resurrect my memories of that time. I find them distressing, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
Guilt sent a slight flush to Annie’s face. Her father was, after all, poorly, and she had no wish to upset him, but she was determined to press him a little further. “Yes, I do know, Papa, but I am not really asking much. I’m simply curious about where Aunt Sybil lived, that’s all. I stayed with her for quite a few weeks, did I not?”
A tic came to his left eye. “May I know what brought this about?”
A fair question. Annie took a moment to find a response that lacked specifics, but was not entirely dishonest. “I overheard part of a conversation today and, well, it might have been due to their accents, but I was reminded of that time. I have a few vague memories of Aunt Sybil’s house and just wondered where it was. That’s all.”
“I see,” he said, without enthusiasm. “Well, unfortunately, my dear, I’m not sure I can recall the exact location. Somewhere in Yorkshire, perhaps. Or maybe Lancashire.”
“Yorkshire?” It came out almost as a squeak, and her next question escaped before she could prevent it. “Might it have been anywherenear Harrogate?”
