She drifted toward the shelves, seekingEndymion, thinking to soothe herself again. Her fingers, however, strayed to another binding, a volume she recalled Winston once examining with strange absorption. She lifted it down, only to find it false, a hollowed cover that cradled a velvet-lined recess. Within lay a cameo. She opened it.
A woman gazed up at her. Beautiful, serene, her features bearing a resemblance to Louisa so marked that Adeline’s breath caught. Winston’s late wife. Louisa’s mother.
What happened to her? Why is she concealed in such a way? Why conceal her at all? How did she die?
The questions clawed at her heart. She closed the cameo with shaking hands, returning it to its hiding place, and slipped the false book back among the rows. Later, she crept once more to Louisa’s chamber, intending to reassure herself that Louisa was well. Adeline sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing back Louisa’s hair. The girl was brighter now, the worst of her ordeal past. She caught Adeline’s hand with sudden urgency.
“Promise me you will not leave, Adeline. Promise you will forgive Papa.”
Adeline’s throat tightened. Louisa’s devotion pierced her more keenly than reproach ever could. She leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“I would never go without saying goodbye,” she said, conscious that she was avoiding a promise that she knew she would have to break.
Louisa sighed and closed her eyes, clinging to Adeline’s hand until sleep claimed her.
Adeline went to her own rooms, fatigued in body and soul. She opened the door and stopped at the sight of Winston. He was waiting for her, rising from a perch on the edge of an armchair. His expression was taut.
“I am tired,” she said at once, forestalling him. “I will not dine with you this evening.”
“I have no appetite myself,” he answered, his voice low, “but I asked that a meal be prepared for you. Here.”
He stepped aside to reveal a tray on the small table that stood by the window. Candlelight flickered across silverware, and a rose had been laid delicately beside the plates. Adeline’s heart gave a jolt.
“Is this an overture?” she asked. “A peace offering?”
Winston looked over the tray. “As I filled the tray myself, down in the kitchens and brought it here, yes. I think that would count as an overture.”
“I would rather hear you say that you are sorry,” Adeline said quietly.
“I acted as any father would,” Winston insisted, “but I do not like there to be discord between us.”
“Why? You have not shown that you care,” Adeline said.
Winston’s eyes went to the food. “Have I not?”
Adeline felt her anger flare anew, a wildfire fanned by the wind.
“You humiliated me. You would not hear reason. You are too proud to admit you were wrong.”
“And you wield my daughter’s affection like a blade,” he shot back. “Do not tell me you have not used it to sway me to your will. That is emotional blackmail, Adeline.”
Her eyes widened, stung.
“How dare you? Everything I have done has been for Louisa’s sake!”
Her anger boiled over like a pot left on the fire too long. She remembered their first meeting and the bright flare of irritation that had led her to do the unthinkable, to bite his silencing finger. Her eyes went to the tray, to the round, glazed bread rolls. She picked one up and hurled it at him.
Winston stood dumbstruck, the roll bouncing harmlessly off his chest. Then, astonishingly, he picked one himself and without a word, threw it at her. Adeline ducked, gasping. He seized another, this one buttered and halved. It struck Adeline’s hair, leaving a smear of butter behind. Winston’s lips twitched in a barely suppressed smile. Adeline’s fury transformed into mischief. She scooped a spoonful of thick soup and flicked it like a catapult. It spattered across his waistcoat.
“You are incorrigible!” he exclaimed.
“You began it!” she cried, breathless with indignation.
“I?” He arched a brow. “As I recall, you began our last quarrel in similar fashion. Biting, was it not?”
Color rushed to her cheeks. “And you began this one!”
“You threw the first…object!”
