And memory swept her away.
It had been a beautiful day.
She and Cilla had arrived early for the Wisteria Society summer gathering at Greenwich, and while they’d awaited the other ladies Cecilia had danced after the dandelions Cilla blew for her, seeing nothing but tiny white wishes until suddenly, inexorably, a shadow had blotted them out...
“Patrick!” Cilla had reached for a sword she remembered too late she’d left on the picnic blanket. Cecilia, acting on sheer piratic instinct, had drawn her own small dagger from a secret pocket in her dress, eliciting a grin from Morvath.
“Hello, my little buccaneer,” he’d said. The grin had been as sharp as the long, bright sword in his hand. His eyes had burned with a fervorCecilia remembered from nights when he recited his poetry at her bedside, making her reluctant to sleep for fear of nightmares.
“No!” Cilla, with no shield but her own body, had pushed Cecilia behind her. “Leave her alone, I beg you.”
“But she is my child. My wild-hearted daughter with eyes like the northern sea. She deserves to know her heritage.”
“Darlington is her heritage, Bassingthwaite is. Go away, Patrick. We’re not yours anymore.”
“Go away!” Cecilia had brandished her dagger from behind Cilla’s hip, making Morvath laugh.
“See, she has the Brontë fire. Don’t worry, Cilla, I’ll raise her well. Under my guidance, she will become one of the greatest scoundrels England has ever known.”
“We will never go back with you!”
His smile had deepened with hideous amusement. “You misunderstand, my love. I’m only taking her. You, I’m going to kill.”
The words had struck Cecilia so fiercely, she’d dropped her knife. Cilla had reached back without taking her gaze from Morvath and grasped Cecilia’s bodice, clutching on and shoving away in the same confused, anguished moment. “Baby,” she’d said in a voice that would make tight bands around Cecilia’s heart for years afterward. “Run! Run as fast as you can, and don’t look back.”
Morvath had only shrugged languidly. “I’ll catch her if she does.”
“But, Mama—”
“Go!”
She’d run, obedient as ever. A moment later terror had broken through, spiking her breath and her muscles, making her stagger. She’d looked back, crying—and had watched her father drive his long, bright sword into her mother’s body.
Ten years later, in Morvath’s house, under his hot, dark eye, Cecilia felt her own body shudder violently as if she had been the one stabbed,reopening a wound that had formed deep scars on her soul. She was half herself and half Cilla falling to the summer grass, thoughtless, blind with the memory of blood. She tried to detach from it, as was her mind’s habitual defense—throwing horror and rage into the wild moorland behind her consciousness. But she heard someone shouting, heard the crash of heartbeats, the thump of boots on hard ground.
“Run!” her mother whispered again, screamed, sighed.
And so she ran, ran, all her life she ran, leaving love behind.
Ned watched amazed as Cecilia shouted curses and threw plates, cutlery, a dish of marmalade, at the dread Captain Morvath.
And the captain, his affable paternal smile faltering, could seemingly do no more than hold up his arms in defense as a pat of butter smashed into the wall beside him, followed immediately thereafter by a steak knife. The Misses Fairweather stared aghast. Frederick tried to crawl under the table. The armed guard standing at the door hesitated, being under orders to treat the captain’s daughter with all gentleness and respect, and not knowing how to translate this into stopping the captain’s daughter from killing the captain with a teapot.
“Put that down,” the guard said experimentally—
Tea and china exploded at Morvath’s feet.
The guard gave up on words and lifted his rifle instead. Seeing this, Ned hastily stepped forward, grasping Cecilia’s arm. She looked at him for a stunned moment, and he winced at the eerie stillness in her eyes. Their wintry color had turned as vivid as summer, and it terrified him. Then she pulled away and ran from the room.
Silence fell, disturbed only by the small, shuddering sound of a plate coming to rest on the floor. No one moved.
“Goodness me,” Miss Fairweather said at last, shrugging her mouth, as if Cecilia had just committed a mild faux pas.
“Is it safe to come out?” Frederick inquired from beneath the table. No one bothered to answer.
“Somebody go get her,” Morvath said. “She has the passion of Catherine Earnshaw, but she needs to eat breakfast for the sake of her health.”
Ned happened to catch Jane’s eye at that moment and saw it darken with the same understanding he had of Morvath’s words. “I’ll go,” he said before anyone else could speak. He was almost out the door before Morvath called to him.
