“Did what?”
“Accepted them,” she answered matter-of-factly. “They’re a good investment. I happen to know about such things.”
“D’you now?” he replied, his tone skeptical, until he noticed her smile was positively smug, then he allowed, “Aye mayhap you do, and faith, I’m glad tae hear it, darlin’. The MacGregors havena had much luck in that area. I’m thinking we’re due.”
43
Kimberly was with Mrs. Canterby late the next afternoon, mere hours now before her wedding—she was counting the minutes too—when one of the servants came looking for her.
One of her new gowns had been ideally suited for a wedding—she was sure the seamstress had planned it that way when she’d made it—with just a few alterations and embellishments needed to make it perfect for the occasion, which the woman had been working on this last week. Kimberly was there for the final fitting and approval. But of course, she could find no fault with Mrs. Canterby’s designs, with her subtle, yet elegant tastes.
The servant who showed up was a young girl, one of the upstairs maids, who requested a private word with her. Out in the hall, she proceeded to tell her in a whisper, “I cleans yer father’s room, I do, and glad I am when ’e’s not—well, ’e’s there today, but ’e won’t let me in, won’t even answer me knocks. Yet I knows ’e’s in there, ’cause I could ’ear ’im crying on t’other side of the door.”
“Crying?”
“Yes, mum.”
“Crying?”
“Yes, mum,” the girl repeated, bobbing her head now in a hopeful manner, as if that might help to get Kimberly to stop doubting her.
It didn’t. Kimberly didn’t believe it and wouldn’t until she saw it for herself. What nonsense. It was probably no more than some cat that had found its way into the room and was now trapped and wanting out. Her father probably wasn’t even in the room himself. And this girl couldn’t tell the difference between a cat mewling and a human crying.
She sighed. “Very well, I’ll go and see what’s wrong as soon as I change clothes,” she told the girl. “And thank you for bringing this matter to me.”
Kimberly didn’t hurry. It was too absurd, really. And by the time she left Mrs. Canterby’s rooms, she had almost decided not to bother. Her father’s room was in a different wing of the mansion than hers, after all, and no short walk between the two. It would be a waste of time…but there was still the cat. She couldn’t just leave it there, when it was apparently desperate to get out.
So she headed for her father’s room, and upon reaching his door, she heard not a sound from the other side. She knocked gently, but still no sound. Then she opened the door a bit, expecting a cat to come flying past her feet. None did. So she opened it a bit more. And there he was, sitting in a chair with one hand covering his eyes. He was wearing a robe, as if he hadn’t dressed at all since he’d gotten up that morning.
She was surprised. And then she actually felt a smidgen of concern. If he really had been crying—it was still impossible to believe—but…
“Are you all right?” she asked hesitantly.
Her voice startled him. His hand fell away to reveal some very bloodshot eyes, but no tears, and no trace that there had been any. There could have been, though. He could have wiped them away.
“All right?” he blustered. “Certainly. Why wouldn’t I be all right?”
Kimberly blinked. Those words had definitely been slurred. And then she noticed the nearly empty bottle of spirits on the table next to him.
He was foxed. Incredible. Cecil Richards never drank to excess, just the opposite. One glass of wine at dinner and no more was all he’d allow himself. One glass of something at a party and no more.
She’d never seen him like this. She doubted anyone else had either. It was a unique experience, and so unexpected, but curious too.
Too curious not to ask, she said, “Why are you drinking in the afternoon?”
“Am I?”
She raised a brow. “I believe so.”
“So I am.” He snorted, then replied, “And why wouldn’t I be, when that wretch you’re planning to marry can’t make up his bloody mind?”
So that was it? The waiting had really gotten to him, worse than she’d thought. But still, a more typical response from her father would be to have a good blowup about it, instead of this. Unless he was worried about antagonizing Lachlan at this point.
“Reminds me of Ian,” he went on to mumble.
“What does?” she asked, thinking he meant Lachlan’s being indecisive.
“The drinking. He never could hold his liquor either, the sot.”
