Langdon appeared absolutely horrified, as if he’d just realized the dangers of flight involvedmore than encountering a storm. She wondered if perhaps the risk was part of its appeal.
“They were terrified, poor blighters,” Sir James continued. “Were unfamiliar with hot-air balloons. Attacked it with pitchforks at first, apparently... until they saw the man. He hadn’t survived the fall, I’m afraid.”
She wondered how it was that those words managed to suck all the air out of the room, out of London. She couldn’t seem to draw a breath. Still, she nodded jerkily in response to what he’d said. And she had the answer to her earlier debate. It was much worse to know he was truly gone.
“I visited the nearest constabulary. I don’t suppose your father wore a signet ring.”
“He did.” He’d always said it proved he was a lord, as if only those among the nobility were allowed to wear such a thing.
“Do you recall what it looked like?”
“Why not just show it to her?” Langdon asked, and her entire body went stiff with the possibility of touching a reminder of her father. When she was younger, still small enough to sit nestled on his lap, he’d given it to her to wear for a few minutes. His hands and fingers were so much larger than hers she’d slid it onto her thumb, but still it had swallowed the digit and she’d had to close her hand into a fist to prevent it from falling off.
“Because the mind is unreliable when it comes to memories,” Sir James said. “If I show it to her, the sight might replace the truth.” He turned his attention to her, his expression one of patiently waiting.
She looked down at her thumb as if the jewelrywas still there. “It was gold. An elaborateWwas carved into a flattened surface of onyx.” She lifted her gaze. “It was the fanciest piece of jewelry I ever saw before coming to London. I suspect it was instrumental in convincing the shop owners it would be a privilege to extend credit to a man who wore such a thing.”
Sir James dipped two fingers into a waistcoat pocket. When he withdrew them, he extended toward her the ring. Her gasp sounded more like a strangled sob.
“The authorities had kept it in hopes of using it someday to identify the poor chap. I convinced them to entrust it to my care. I promised to either return it to them or provide them with the identity of their daring mystery bloke.”
Her father had been daring. He’d taught her the advantage of being unafraid to face the unknown. It was the reason she’d returned to London without her mother when she was seventeen, now lived a life of relative luxury, and her name was practically housed on the tip of every gossipmonger’s tongue, readily accessible to be uttered. While she might be questioning the wisdom of some of the decisions she’d made in desperation, she couldn’t deny they’d required bravery on her part.
Slowly, slowly, that bravery suddenly nowhere to be seen, she reached out and enfolded her hand around the ring. It fairly pulsed against her palm. She pressed her tightened fist to the center of her chest and laid her other hand over it. Closing her eyes, she envisioned her father’s smile, heard his laughter, recalled how proud he’d always seemedof her achievements. How much he’d loved traveling with her in his balloon. How much she’d loved being so close to him.
When Langdon’s arms came around her, she didn’t push him away. Instead she absorbed his warmth and comfort, relished the steady pounding of his heart that was in direct contrast to her erratic one, forced her struggling breaths to match his calm ones. One of his hands stroked her back slowly. Had he spoken, had he offered words of condolences, she might have burst into tears. Hollie had plowed his way through any moments of emotional turmoil with constant monologues, battering her with words that prevented her from thinking clearly or processing what she was feeling. That Langdon knew her well enough to simply remain silent was a bit unnerving and something to think about later.
She wondered if her father had been afraid when his balloon had caught fire, if he’d been as terrified as she’d been when trapped in the storm. If he’d known his life was on the verge of ending. If he’d had regrets. Felt guilty for the lies. Felt sorrow at the thought of never seeing her or her mother again. Or had he believed he’d survive, been determined to brash it out, and have an adventure to share?
It wasn’t unusual for aeronauts to don parachutes, even if they weren’t always as effective as they might have been. But her father had viewed them as an unnecessary weight, and the lighter the basket, the higher the balloon would go. She wondered if he’d had a few seconds to recognize the foolishness of that attitude.
Opening her eyes, she gave Langdon a little nudge. Relaxing his hold, he tucked a finger beneath her chin. “Are you going to be all right?”
After she nodded, he swung around to stand beside her and placed his hand reassuringly at the small of her back. She met Sir William’s gaze. “Robert Tittering—at least that’s the name under which he married my mother. He was quite flawed by all accounts. But he loved deeply and without reservation, and I have often thought that to be his finest quality.” Her chest was loosening a bit, her breaths coming more easily. “I’ll be visiting my mother once the Season comes to a close. I’ll share with her then what you’ve discovered. After all these years, a few more weeks of not knowing isn’t going to cause any harm. But I very much appreciate you solving the mystery.”
“I have found it’s seldom easy to live with the not knowing. But sorting through the knowing is no easy task either. Therefore, I shall leave you to it and see myself out.”
As he began to stride past, Langdon held out his hand. “Thank you, Uncle James.”
“Not at all, lad.” And he carried on.
When she heard the outer door close, she lowered herself into the nearest chair. “He’s your uncle?”
Langdon studied her with the intensity of someone searching for cracks in a dam. “Not by blood. It’s just what I grew up calling him.”
He crouched before her, appearing almost afraid to touch her. Then, as if faced with a wild creature, he slowly, so very slowly, moved his hand towardher and gently wiped his thumb along her cheek. Only then did she become aware of the dampness, did she realize tears were rolling free like raindrops from a darkened cloud gliding over a windowpane. She wondered how long they had been doing so, if they’d begun their journey before Sir James took his leave.
“Would you have rather not known?” Langdon asked.
She shook her head. “I’d always suspected. I couldn’t imagine if he still drew breath, he wouldn’t have returned, even if it meant hiking the entire way... or crawling. I’ve shared with you the worst of him, but he wasn’t all bad.”
“Few ever are.”
He had both hands cupped around her face now, his thumbs tenderly gathering up the dew that continued to accumulate.
“How were you able to tell him how long ago he disappeared?”
“You mentioned the length of time when you were recounting your tale. I can remember numbers when they are told to me. I can’t tell you what they look like, I can’t write them. I know not their value. But with the information I had, he was able to narrow his search.”
