Thea bent and brushed her hand over his curls. “Not today, my brave lieutenant. The general is weary from battle.”
Bradford’s smile faltered as he lifted his toy soldier to her again. “But the enemy’s advancing, and Keats never retreat.”
“Then you must lead them for me,” she managed, forcing a hint of cheer into her voice. “I have every faith that you can command them with strength and dignity.”
For a heartbeat (which was quite a length of time for his young mind), Bradford studied her before giving a solemn nod and darting back toward the garden whilst shouting orders to his invisible troops. Nurse Birch gave a brisk bob before hurrying after the boy, forever one step behind.
Turning, Thea continued toward the house. The laughter behind her rose and fell, bright and untarnished, and the sound followed her up the steps until the front door closed behind her, leaving her in silence once more.
Thea hesitated at the foot of the stairs, her gaze drifting up to the shadowed landing, and the thought of climbing those steps left her legs trembling. She desperately needed a seat. So, she turned instead toward the parlor. The room was still, touched only by the faint scent of roses from the vase on the mantlepiece, the muted sunlight filtering through the windows, and the quiet tick of the clock on the side table. And though Thea felt entirely spent, she couldn’t bring herself to collapse upon the settee. Perching on the edge of the nearest armchair, she sat with her hands folded in her lap.
It felt as though she were waiting, though Thea couldn’t say for what. For her heart to break? For someone to shake her from this stupor? For the world to cease its spinning?
The house magnified every small sound as her ears adjusted to the silence, and the sunlight inched across the rugs as the same thought returned again and again: Frederick had ended their courtship. Not in anger, not in haste, but with a frigid calm,as though reason itself had decided their fate. He had said it was for her good. That he must spare her. It wasn’t a matter of “cannot.” It was a matter of “will not.”
Heartbreak ought to be a storm of tears and shouting. Something loud. Earth-shattering. Yet instead, it was silence. Heavy and absolute, it wrapped around her heart, squeezing it until it ceased beating.
The front door burst open, letting in a flood of voices, laughter, and the scuffle of feet on the marble floor as though Bradford’s war was unfolding in the entryway.
“Come along, girls. Do not dawdle,” said Miss Stiles as she ushered Arabella and Jane through the door. The girls were chattering over one another, holding up bits of ribbon and sweetmeats from the festival, their excitement filling every corner of the hall.
“What a racket!” Mama cried, hands fluttering to her temples as Papa handed his hat and gloves to the footman. “Not so loud, my dears, you’ll give me palpitations. Miss Stiles, please.”
“Yes, madam,” answered the governess, though her words were drowned beneath the babble.
The door opened and slammed shut once more, and Bradford’s voice entered the fray. “You said you’d fetch me!”
“Do stop crying,” came Jane’s exasperated plea, followed by Arabella’s softer attempts at consolation. “You’ll see the jugglers next year, truly you will.”
“It isn’t fair,” Bradford wailed, his words breaking on a hiccup. Nurse Birch’s firm but patient tones tried to soothe him as she wrestled with his coat and hat.
“Oh, mercy, what a noise!” Mama exclaimed, fluttering into the hall like a brightly plumed bird, her bonnet ribbons trailing. “Must we always descend upon the house in such a state of Bedlam? Miss Stiles and Nurse Birch, for pity’s sake, quiet thembefore my head splits in two. I am not raising my children to behave like savages.”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the governess’s weary reply, though her voice was lost amid the tangle of chatter and complaints.
The din swelled and ebbed around Thea, but no one looked toward the parlor door. She sat perfectly still, the noise strangely distant, as though she were listening from the far end of a tunnel. Through the doorway, Thea watched the scene unfold; her family filled the entry with life and color, their laughter and fuss and movement almost unrecognizable after the stillness that had cocooned her.
“Thea?” called Mina. Crossing into the parlor, she watched her cousin with wary eyes, and no doubt Mina could see the bleakness in Thea’s expression, for her own grew troubled. That drew the others’ attention, and Mama’s brows rose at the sight of her daughter.
“You snuck away without telling us where you were going. That is a bad habit of yours, Thea. I do not want people thinking that we allow you to run helter-skelter about the village,” she said, brushing at her skirts before removing her bonnet and handing it to the servants. “Your father and I need to speak with you.”
Mina reached for her hand as Thea rose, a silent offer of comfort, and the touch was as warm and steady as the lady herself, but it scarcely registered through the haze that enveloped Thea. Mina’s hand lingered a moment longer as she looked at her cousin, worry etched across her face, but there was nothing to be said. Nothing to be done.
Thea’s body obeyed out of habit, her movements mechanical as she followed her parents up the stairs and to her father’s study. Behind them, the household noise carried on, echoing through the void that Frederick’s parting words had left.
The study was a solemn room. The air smelled faintly of paper and tobacco, and the single tall window let in a portion of light, though the gray day afforded little, and the dark shelves full of leather-bound tomes added to the room’s heaviness. Of course, none of the books had been read since joining Rensford Park’s collection, but any household of means must possess a decent library. Even if it was naught but a decoration.
A great, hulking mahogany desk stood foremost in the space, and Papa approached it, taking his seat with all the authority of the head of their household, and Thea sat in the inferior seat positioned before it. Stationing herself at her husband’s side, Mama stood with her hands clasped before her, and before either said a word, Thea knew what this “discussion” would entail.
Nothing good ever followed when her parents presented a united front.
Yet that knowledge stirred nothing inside Thea. She sat before them as if carved from the same stillness that had followed her home, her gaze unfocused, her mind a dull hum. Whatever lecture or reprimand to come was of no consequence. What did it matter?
The pair watched her closely, but Thea’s gaze drifted to the sheen of the polished desk. Or rather, a slight smudge that marred the otherwise perfect gleam of the wood.
“You were spied chasing after Mr. Voss,” said Papa in that solemn manner of his. “And as it is clear that you refuse to accept his word on the matter, I must inform you that I have rescinded my blessing. I no longer support this courtship, and I will not tolerate you attempting to revive it.”
Thea’s eyes darted to Papa’s. Was that the reason behind this nonsense? Did Frederick act because of him? Though he’d made no mention of it, she could well imagine her father had spoken directly to her beau without any consideration for her feelingson the matter—just as she could imagine Frederick keeping that knowledge to himself to spare her feelings.
