“That’s quite enough. You’ve overstayed your welcome. Bartle,” Harry commanded loudly.
The dining room doors slid open, revealing Bartle and a pair of strong lads. “Mr. and Mrs. Waterstone don’t care for dessert. Please escort them out the way they came in. Through the kitchens.”
“You—this isn’t over, Estwood,” Waterstone sputtered.
“I’m fairly certain it is.”
Bartle waved them forward politely. “This way, please.”
Mrs. Waterstone cast one last look at Lucy. “How could you do this to us?” she wailed.
Lucy shut her eyes. Released Harry’s hand. Her fingers curled around the top of a chair. She stayed there while Waterstone and his wife were escorted away.
“Well, that was bloody awful,” Harry said, shutting the dining room door.
His wife said nothing, only held tight to the chair and took several deep breaths. She wiped at a tear running down her cheek. But stayed silent.
Harry had a great deal of experience in obedience to an undeserving parent. Along with going hungry and being subjected to harsh punishments. He looked down at the missing tip of his pinky finger.
James Estwood had intended to take theentirefinger, but the shears had slipped from his hands when Harry’s sister, Alice, had thrown a bowl of stew at his head. So, he’d only managed the tip. Harry’s father had slapped Alice so hard, her slight body had flown across the room, hitting the stone of the fireplace. Shortly after, still bleeding from having had his finger nearly clipped off, Harry had beaten his father to death with a poker, much to the relief of his siblings, two of whom were also missing pieces of their fingers. He’d been thirteen.
Harry’s mother, frailer than the cobwebs lining the corners of their shamble of a cottage, had fallen to the ground, screaming out her husband’s name, the bruises he’d given her that morning still decorating her cheeks. She’d loved James Estwood. No matter the horror he’d visited on her or her children. Limping to his grave because he’d once broken her ankle in a drunken rage. Hiding her own disfigured hand in her skirts because his father had loved to do a bit ofsnipping.
She’d never forgiven Harry.
He pushed the glass of scotch in Lucy’s direction. “Have a swallow. I insist.”
There were no bruises to be seen on his wife’s pale skin. Her father hadn’t taken her fingers, but Harry was fairly certain Waterstone had snipped off parts of Lucy no one else could see. Harry understood, better than anyone, what it was to crave the affection of a parent who would never return your love.
And the truth was that driven by guilt and the love of a child for her parent, Lucy would waver one day.
Lucy plucked the glass from his fingers, placed it before her lips, and drained the scotch without a word. Or a cough. No wince at the taste.
Impressive.
Waterstone would come at her one day. The proceeds from Pendergast couldn’t possibly hold him for long, not now, when he knew what Marsden was worth. He would encourage Lucy to steal from Harry while crying about his poverty. Buying up Waterstone’s debts had been more for her benefit than anything else, but eventually her father would grow desperate. Devise some wild plan to use his daughter.
Perhaps he already had.
Lucy slammed the glass on the table, shot Harry an annoyed look, and grabbed both fork and plate of lemon cake before waltzing out of the dining room.
Harry stared at her twitching skirts as she disappeared around the corner.
I truly adore furious, irritated Lucy.
Picking up his glass, as well as the bottle, he followed his wife.
16
The scotch burned a path down her throat and into her stomach, a searing heat to match that of her anger.
She’d been fought over. Like a bit of meat left on a bone found by two stray dogs.
Humiliating.
Lucy was no more than athing. A means to an end. Father’s salvation from impoverishment. Estwood’s weapon of revenge and a way for him to have Marsden so he could be…king of iron ore.
I should have just fled to New York and taken my chances.
