“Serves you both right,” Mrs. Gilpe says tartly, stepping around Gwen to hurry up to the hall for towels to clean her up.
Gwen gasps in air as her stomach finally calms. Vomiting in a corset and hoopskirt is something else. She supposes at least there aren’t layers and layers of ruined petticoats now. Just her silk brocade skirt and lining. She wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand, feeling woozy and horrible.
Father gives her a soft smile and takes out his handkerchief to wipe off her face, like he did when she was small. When he was alone with a little girl to raise. No wife. No comfort. Just crying and begging and annoyance.
And here they are again, alone together.
“No more port for you,” he says and Gwen laughs, startled.
“You’re not sick,” she says, going for a whine that comes out more like a hoarse whisper.
“No, but I’m taller and I’ve much more experience. Maybe this will teach you not to try and keep up. You’re impressive enough at two glasses, you didn’t need five.”
“You let her havefiveglasses?” Mrs. Stelm asks, appearing at their side with a towel. She pats over Gwen to mop up most of the mess.
“I’m sorry,” Gwen tells her, even as she lets Father and the disgruntled Mrs. Gilpe get her up to standing.
“He should be sorry,” Mrs. Gilpe mutters.
“And you do know better,” Mrs. Stelm adds.
Gwen could hug her for at least admitting she has fault in this mess. She knew she was drinking too much. But it hurt less to drink than to listen to Albie’s uncle wax poetic about Meredith and the upcoming wedding and how they’re all heading for the country immediately afterward. She’s not a child. She’s a stupid, hurting adult, and she’s gotten what she deserved from this, heartache and painful family revelations and all.
Father wraps his arm around her waist to steady her. “I’ll help Gwennie to bed. Thank you for taking care of us. We promise not to worry you again, don’t we?” he asks, nudging Gwen gently.
“We promise,” Gwen parrots.
Mrs. Gilpe simply stares at them blankly before taking the soiled towels from Mrs. Stelm. She marches around them and down the stairs toward the laundry. Father sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck.
“A bottle of whatever has you both sloshed wouldn’t go amiss,” Mrs. Stelm says, winking at Father before following Mrs. Gilpe.
Gwen sags against Father’s arm and he blows out a breath. “All right. Let’s get you to bed,” he says.
Gwen nods and together they shuffle their way up the next staircase and down Gwen’s hall. She’s breathing heavily, ribs and stomach sore, throat raw, and he’s not particularly stable, but they’re both much more sober than before. She doesn’t know how he does it, but losing whatever was left in her stomach helped, disgusting as it was.
They make it into her room without killing themselves. Gwen looks around, noting the folded clothing on her dresser and vanity, the rearranged makeup and hairpins, the orderly bed—a maid came in and cleaned. It didn’t look this way when she left last night. It was a sty. It’s been a sty for weeks.
“All right, let me do the laces and such, and then I’ll turn around,” Father says.
Gwen turns to allow him to undo the eyelets at the back of her relatively simple frock. The silk may be fine, but it’s a boring navy that’s now dotted with—ugh, better not considered.
Father steps back and busies himself pouring her a glass of water as she slips out of her overdress and wrestles herself clumsily out of her hoopskirt. She hears Father snickering as she bumbles around and has half a mind to toss the soiled overdress at him. She lays the dress over her vanity chair and lets the hoop collapse by the armoire.
She makes clumsy work of her corset and then slips into her housecoat. She does up the sash before falling gratefully into her bed.
“Decent?” Father asks.
“Yep,” Gwen says, glancing over to find he’s chugged half her pitcher of water. “Hey, I want some of that.”
He laughs and passes her the glass before sitting down at her hip where she’s propped up in bed. “Are you feeling better?” he asks.
Gwen takes a few swallows and places the glass down with a wobble. “Yes,” she says, though it’s clear she’s not fully sober yet. Her limbs feel uncoordinated.
“We’ll do better,” Father says, laying his hand on her calf on top of the comforter. “Find some activities that involve less alcohol, hmm?”
“Agreed,” Gwen says softly. “Though, if you still want to go to the club, you can, you know. You’ve been home a lot,” she says, watching as he frowns. “Not that I mind.”
“I suppose I haven’t felt much like talking politics, but I should check in, round up the yea votes one last time. Perhaps if you’d like to attend a few teas with Lady Meredith?”
