“Don’t know the man.” Swabian looked up to the wooden beams of the ceiling. “And I wouldn’t visit his bloody grave if I did.”
This was the second time around, and she wanted to sit with him now no more than the first time.
But when Eliza entered the dining room, just hours after Lord Gillingham’s return, she found herself lowering into a seat along the magnificent table.
“You look well, Eliza.”
She kept her gaze on her lap. If Captain had seen her in such a dress, with her hair done just so, he would have lifted her off her feet and given her a laughing spin. That was the way of Captain. Smiling. Pleasant. Simple, sort of, and never less than approachable.
But the man across from her now was different. He made her want to hide, or look away, or run.
“I must apologize for my absence. The last thing I wanted was to leave.” He reached for his goblet. “However, I wondered if the distance would be best for both of us.”
What did he wish her to say? That in the week he’d been gone, her love had transferred from Captain to him? That time, so quickly, had remedied everything and they may now play the part of father and daughter?
She dipped her spoon into the white soup but couldn’t eat. “F–Felton Northwood says there are things I must remember.”
“Has he been troubling you?”
Had he? She hardly knew. “If I remember such things, will I be free to go?”
Silence.
How very long it lasted, until she had no choice but to lift her eyes to his.
But his gaze was not on her. He stared down into the amber liquid of his goblet, lips grim, cheeks paler than they’d been before. “You are my daughter,” he said at last. “Not my prisoner.”
Was there any difference?
“Nothing is required of you, and if Northwood persists in this, he will no longer be welcome at Monbury Manor.”
“Did I …” Her throat dried. “Is it true I saw my m–mother killed?”
“Northwood and many others have convinced themselves you did—but I for one pray you did not.” He took a long drink, wiped his mouth, and lowered the goblet with a soft thud. “I saw your mother the next morning, upon my return from Brighton, and have fought the terrors of that image every day of my life. Heaven knows what such a thing would do to a child.”
A shiver passed along her spine.
“If you could forget such a thing, Eliza, I shall not be the one to ask you to remember it.”
Felton sat in the grassy sand, leaned back, and watched as two schooners made their way to the Lodnouth port. His lungs took in the salty air, thick with the scents of fish. Why had he ridden here anyway?
No great fascination could be derived in watching ships come and go. Or hearing the fishermen curse and yell from the docks. Or seeing endless waves rush back and forth to the creamy-sanded beach.
But at least here he was staying out of trouble. Heaven knew if he spent time in the village, he’d end up in another fight—and for Mamma’s sake, he’d do well to avoid such things.
He plucked a brown, brittle blade of grass. From what he’d heard, Lord Gillingham had arrived home four days ago. Still no word from the man. Any other time, the viscount would have sent a servant over to invite Felton for chess or reading or dinner at the very least.
But no, nothing. Apparently bringing home the viscount’s daughter was no great way to stay in good favor with the man.
Felton ripped the grass-blade in two. That was all he needed. The one friend who wasn’t afraid to sully his name by entertaining a Northwood—and now he was done with Felton too.
And Eliza.
He lingered there a moment, smiled despite himself, and shook his head. She was something of her own, the little chit. Some part bashful, some part brave, but mostly just beautiful. All week long, he’d been seeing her in that box pew. The way she’d almost smiled at him. That hushed, delighted sound in her voice when she’d told him how lovely she found the service.
She deserved this life. She needed this chance. Why shouldn’t she be a part of the world she lived in? That cur of a captain had kept her isolated for so long, but in time, she’d see the lunacy of such a life and the truth about the man who raised her.
Maybe she’d remember the truth about fourteen years ago too.
