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Marcus let himself back in when he got to Cecelia’s house. He peeked his head into Mr. Hewitt’s study and found all of them, Mr. Hewitt included, playing cards. Mr. Hewitt could barely hold his head up. But he was still drinking.
“What’s going on?” Marcus asked.
“Vingt-et-un,” his father said. “Do you want to play?”
Marcus motioned toward the corridor. His father passed his cards to Mr. Pritchens, who took his place.
“Why are you playing cards?” he asked.
“It was Robinsworth’s idea.” His father shrugged.
“What’s the theory behind it?”
“He’s drunk and belligerent. And he’s not going to get any better. So, it’s best to let him fall asleep in his cups and then talk to him when he’s sober. He’ll be more receptive.”
Marcus nodded. He really wanted to pin Mr. Hewitt to the wall by his throat. But he had promised Cecelia he wouldn’t hurt her father. There would be plenty of time to talk to him tomorrow when he was sober. Then they would figure out what to do next.
***
“I want you to take all the spirits from the house,” Mr. Hewitt said. “I want them removed. Every last drop.”
His eyes shone with unshed tears. But Marcus couldn’t drum up enough sympathy for him. Or any. He’d hit Cecelia. He’d hurt her. More than once.
The only reason he was there trying to help the man was because Cecelia had asked him to. “We won’t return it to you,” Marcus clarified.
“I don’t want you to,” Mr. Hewitt said, shaking his head.
They’d informed him of his misdeeds when he’d woken up that morning, and he’d taken it none too gently. The last thing he remembered when he woke was a rousing game of cards. He didn’t remember going to sleep. Before he’d fallen too deeply into his cups, they had him write a note to himself, just to prove that he did things he didn’t and couldn’t remember when he was foxed.
He didn’t remember writing the note, but the evidence was there in front of him when he woke.
“We won’t allow you to get more,” Marcus said.
“Tie me up and put me in a room,” Mr. Hewitt said. “I’m a danger to myself. And to others. And to my daughter.” His voice cracked. “Bloody hell,” he swore. “How did it come to this?”
Marcus refused to allow Cecelia’s father to justify his actions with his grieving, even though he was. He was a drunkard, plain and simple. He drank too much, and he did stupid things when he drank. Therefore, he must not drink anymore.
“There will be no servants in the house while you get sober,” Marcus warned. “Not even Mr. Pritchens.”
Mr. Pritchens opened his mouth to protest. “But…” he began. Marcus held up a hand, and Mr. Pritchens silenced himself.
“Mr. Pritchens has a fondness for you. And he must leave because he might see your weakness and feel the need to make you happy again when things go poorly. And they will go very poorly.”
“I’ve stopped drinking before,” Mr. Hewitt said. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“You suffered a great loss when Mrs. Hewitt died. And you tried to fill the void. We understand that. But if you want us to help you, we have to do it our way.”
He nodded. “Let’s do it.”
“Get all the spirits, Mr. Pritchens,” Marcus said. They dumped every drop out the window together.
“These next few weeks will be difficult for you,” Marcus warned. “You’ll probably vomit. You’ll perspire. You’ll not be able to sleep. You’ll curse the day we were born.”
Mr. Hewitt looked from one person to another. “You’re all going to stay?” He heaved a sigh. “I feel terrible keeping you all from your families.”
Marcus’s father spoke up. “When this is over, my son is going to marry your daughter, so you’re part of our family already.”
Mr. Hewitt nodded. “What shall we do to occupy ourselves?” he asked.
