“No. She is dead, I fear, already.” Lord Gillingham drew the soft bed linens closer to her neck. “As for Mr. Northwood, I do not know what shall become of him. I cannot help feeling, however, that the man has taken a very grave punishment for his deeds. I myself want no part of inflicting him with further penance.”
Felton.How she ached for him. For the loss of everything he had believed in. For the dousing of the fire that had given him purpose. For his name, his ruined and soiled name, the one thing he wanted more than anything else.
“Do not cry, Eliza.”
She hadn’t realized more tears were streaming. How many could she weep before there were no more? When would they stop? Would they ever?
She nearly started when Lord Gillingham’s careful finger swiped them away. The touch was awkward, uncomfortable, and when he sank back to his chair, he could not look her in the face.
But his own nose and eyes were red too. “When you were little, I pulled you onto my knee when you cried. Or I put you on my shoulders and carried you about, pointing out silly things in the pictures on the walls, until you forgot about whatever trouble had made you sad.” Slowly, almost helplessly, his gaze met hers. “I do not know what to do for you now, my little daughter.”
My little daughter.Something Captain had never said to her. In all his life, had he ever called her daughter?
No, he hadn’t. Because he couldn’t. Because she wasn’t.
The lump increased, until it burned to breathe past. “I do not deserve to be called your daughter.”
“We seldom deserve what we are or what we are given.” He took her hand. His hold was warm, strong, big. “I know, for I never deserved my Letitia. I never deserved little Thomas.” A squeeze. “I never deserved you.”
She nearly looked away, nearly had to, because the words were too much. They almost sounded as if he wanted her. As if no matter what was behind or before, she was his daughter and he was her father.
And he loved her.
The reality eased away that lost feeling. In a slow, quiet way, it settled her—like a homeless fairy who, after years of fluttering about with birds and butterflies, finally found a hole in a tree of other fairies. A place where she could belong. Truly belong.
For the second time, he squeezed her hand.
For the first time, she squeezed back.
Felton walked the path back to Monbury Manor, just as golden sunrays cut through the morning fog. Branches stirred above him, heavy with dew, the leaves more orange and red than green.
In sight of Monbury Manor, he halted. He leaned onto the rock wall, his coat sleeve drinking moisture from the moss on the stones. His other arm throbbed.Now what?
The loss of too many things drained his energy. He wanted to run. He wanted to sprint back down the path, saddle his horse, and ride someplace where no one would ever find him.
Or know him.
Or hear of the sordid name of Northwood and what it meant.
He ran both hands down his face, inhaled, exhaled, tried to make sense of everything. How would he face the world after this? How people would whisper. They would shame him all over again—only worse this time because he had tried so hard for so many years to convince them the rumors were lies.
What a fool.
He should have seen the truth just as Papa should have seen the truth. Shouldn’t he have sensed something was wrong? Shouldn’t he have once looked at Mamma and felt a prick of unease, instead of the oblivious, unsuspecting warmth for her?
He didn’t know. All he knew was that no matter what, he could not run. He had to stay, and he had to fight the shame, just as he’d stayed to disprove it before. Mayhap the villagers would hate him. Mayhap the urchins would run the streets and shout names to him. Mayhap he’d attended his last ball, his last of any social event, because no one would dare wish him present. Not now.
But I’m not a name.He swallowed hard, thrusting his hands into his pockets. He was more than a name. Wasn’t he?
He was Felton.Felton.Just Felton, who had no reason to hang his head low, despite the sins of his family, because he had never committed those sins himself. What did it matter what they thought of him? What anyone thought of him?
A shiver worked through him, and he flipped his collar up against the cool breeze. God never looked down on Felton Northwood and turned away his prayers because of one night fourteen years ago. Lord Gillingham had never turned Felton away because of the evils of his family.
Even Eliza.
Dear, sweet, guileless Eliza, who should have despised him when she realized his father had kidnapped her, all those years ago, from her nursery window.
But she didn’t. She wouldn’t. Even knowing all the hurt and agony his family had wrought upon her, she would still look at him the same. With that tender smile. That blushful air. That sweet light that seemed to call him noble and good and strong, despite anything else in the world.
