Theodore’s face hardened instantly, and he moved away from her. “This is why I did not want it hung up in the first place.”
Harriet bristled at the accusation in his tone, but kept her voice calm as she said, “Even if I had not displayed it, there is every chance she would have found it anyway. More to the point, it is natural that she is curious about her mother. And in truth, so am I.”
“Let sleeping dogs lie, it is better this way.” He faced away from her, his fists clenched.
“It is not.” Harriet thought of Phoebe and her heart hardened. Anger coursed through her, lending her strength as she gestured around them. “I know nothing about the woman, for all intents and purposes she may as well be a ghost.”
“What good would knowing about her do?” He was still not looking at her, and it fueled Harriet’s anger.
“There are no portraits of her, whenever she is mentioned you change the subject and no one will discuss what led to Phoebe being here. Children notice these things, Theodore.”
“I will not warn you again, drop this topic or get out of my study.” Theodore growled, still not facing her.
Harriet shook her head. “She was your sister, for goodness’ sake! You are hiding her, practically erasing her memory – why are you so ashamed of her?”
Theodore roared, his face a vision of pain and anguish as he rounded on her. “I am ashamed of myself!”
The truth at last.
CHAPTER 18
The smell of bodies, of rot filled the air around Theodore. He could hear a gurgling, bubbling rasp of breathing. The distant sound of unsavory people arguing. A baby crying.
“I am ashamed of myself,” he repeated, the words falling from his lips even as the world around him faded. “It is my fault she is dead.”
His felt as though someone had let all the air from his body and then laid a heavy beam across his shoulders. He could not bring himself to look at Harriet, at the fury and shame he knew he would see when he did.
He heard the soft sound of footsteps and felt something warm and gentle touch the side of his face. The skin of her fingers was smooth, the gentleness of her touch made something in him recoil.I do not deserve this.
Honey and cinnamon washed over him. He breathed deeply, letting the scent fill his senses as his heart tumbled around his chest.
“You do not precisely seem to be a killer, Theodore.” Her voice was like a sunny day, warm and soothing.
“You cannot know that.” Theodore hated himself for being too weak to pull away from Harriet’s touch, for wanting the comfort it offered.
“Then tell me what happened.” Her words were firm, but not commanding. “I want to understand. Please.”
Slowly, he looked up, his eyes finding hers. There was no anger, no fear in her green eyes. He saw no judgement, only a quiet understanding that felt like a kick to his stomach.
“I…” He did not know where to begin.
Memories poured into his mind, tumbling around like marbles in a box. Rose as a toddler, a girl, a young lady. Her smile, her rapier sharp wit. Her laughter.
“What happened?” Harriet’s voice was an anchor, keeping him tethered to the present.
He clung to it like a ship fighting not to be swept out to sea. “My father raised me… like him. He was cold, exacting. Appearancesmattered above everything. He punished anything he thought showed weakness.”
You are a man, not a woman, act like it.His father’s words echoed in his head; he felt the sting of a switch against the backs of his thighs.We will keep going until you stop this little display.
Harriet’s fingers stiffened against his cheek, and the flash of anger he saw in her eyes pushed his father from his mind. “That is no way to treat a child.”
“I was an heir, not a child.” He gave her a bitter smile as he repeated his father’s words. “A duke must be strong, he must be competent and he must lead.”
“Cruelty does not make those things.” Harriet’s hand moved from his face, lingering for a moment above his chest before she took his hand in hers. “It only masks a lack of such things.”
Theodore felt her rub the thumb of her hand across his skin and continued, “Rose was the opposite of him in every way. I expect that she takes after our mother, though I cannot say for certain. She died when Rose was born and I have almost no memory of her. Regardless, my Father kept us apart. It is why I was sent to Harrow as early as possible.”
Theodore felt his shoulders sag. “Rose wrote to me, and while I wrote back, I was careful. I knew Father read our letters and any effusiveness on my part would be punished.”
