Chapter Forty

James paced nervously outside the door to Daphne’s bedchamber. He knew she had arrived and felt certain she was inside. Did she approve of all he’d done in there? Had he presumed too much? Made a mull of the entire thing?

He’d come upon an embroidered pillow in a shop window in Coventry during his journey from London. The sparrows had made him think of her. He hadn’t intended to do anything beyond leave it in her bedchamber, thinking perhaps it would bring a smile to her face when she arrived.

His first day in Shropshire, he’d slipped into Daphne’s room and stopped dead in his tracks. He’d seen servants’ quarters and tenant houses that surpassed the refinement of her bedchamber. Afraid his work in Shropshire would prove more arduous than he’d been led to expect, James had peeked inside all of the family rooms.

The rest of the house proved unexceptional—elegance mingled with practicality, modernity alongside the traditional. Only Daphne’s private quarters still bore the mark of aching poverty. Why had the room never been refurbished? How could her family have allowed such a thing?

As he’d stood there surveying the badly worn furniture and threadbare linens in her room, he had experienced a moment of pure inspiration. Her brother had insisted she didn’t feel safe or secure or valued. What lady would, living in surroundings so starkly inferior to that of her family members’, a constant reminder of years of struggle?

“Please, don’t let her hate it,” he whispered, hoping the heavens were listening. Divine intervention seemed his only chance of winning Daphne’s heart. “Or if she does hate it, let her not hate me.” He opted to cover all possibilities, lest providence prove mischievous. “And if the bedchamber itself comes up short, at least let the apothecary cabinet meet with her approval.”

He’d gladly sold his watch and diamond stickpin to pay for the cabinet, knowing on sight it would mean the world to his beloved. He only hoped he hadn’t been misled, that it truly was the fortuitous find he thought it was.

The doorknob turned. James attempted to project an air of casualness. How ridiculous he would seem hovering around her door. He watched it open, his nerves on edge.

The sight of his Daphne after two weeks’ separation fairly stole his breath. Her quiet beauty might escape the notice of Society, its fascination set on all things gaudy and loud, but he could not imagine any lady’s loveliness striking him with greater force.

His appearance seemed to cause more surprise for her than anything else. “James.”

Questions flitted through her eyes, though she did not speak any of them aloud. If she were too shy to ask about the room outright and he lacked the gumption to broach the subject himself, they might very well remain in the corridor indefinitely, discussing inane topics and fretting uncomfortably.

He simply needed to draw himself up, quit acting like a child yet in leading strings, and jump in. “Daphne—”

His words ended abruptly just as her head snapped in the direction of a hacking, rasping cough. James had come to know that sound well during his short time in Shropshire.

Daphne looked back at him, worry and pain written all over her face. “That is my father, isn’t it?”

James nodded.

She looked again in the direction of her father’s bedchamber even as another cough echoed from within its walls. Her brow knit with worry, grief filling her posture. “My papa is really going to die.”

He could not be blamed for what he did next—any gentleman with half a heart would have been powerless to do anything else. He took her in his arms, silently and gently holding her.

He could offer no words to contradict her assertion. Mr. Lancaster was indeed going to die. Even to James’s untrained eye that much was obvious. The local physician doubted he would last the remainder of the summer.

James had made a point of visiting the ailing man a few times each day. Though he doubted anything he said penetrated the fog that shrouded Mr. Lancaster’s mind, James kept him informed of his work and efforts around the estate. He meant it as a show of respect for the father of the lady he loved and a gesture of recognition of the capable person the man had once been.

In the midst of Mr. Lancaster’s often indecipherable mutterings, James had learned some invaluable things. He’d heard snippets of Mr. Lancaster’s childhood visits to the Shropshire estate, a small, unentailed property his father had eventually left him. The recounting gave James a better understanding of the land’s history and prior uses. Far more valuable, though, was the insight he’d gained into the father who had unknowingly broken his little girl’s heart. What he’d learned had softened James’s feelings toward the man.

“Would you like to go see him?” he whispered to Daphne, still safe in the circle of his arms.

He felt her shake her head even before he heard her refusal. “I’ll go with the others. Later. I don’t—I’ll wait.”

“I think you should look in on him, Daphne.”

“He won’t even remember me.” The slightest catch in her voice revealed the pain she felt.

“He will not recognize you,” James said, “but I promise he does remember you.”

She looked up at him. “He did not remember me even when I lived here, before his senility grew so pointed.”

James gently cupped her face in his hand. The heartbreak he heard in her words caused a matching twinge in his own chest. How lonely she must have been growing up. “You should see him, my dear.”

“I do not think I could bear it.” Her face momentarily crumpled.

“I will come with you,” he said. “You don’t need to face this alone.”

“Will you hold my hand?”

Was this even a question? “Of course.”

With the cloak of bravery he had come to associate with her wrapped firmly around her once more, Daphne took a breath and walked in the direction of her father’s chamber, her shaking hand held firmly in James’s.

He pushed the door open. Daphne’s grip grew tighter as they stepped inside. The room was kept somewhat dim, though not overly so. The nurse who looked after Mr. Lancaster was a capable and hardworking woman who kept the room tidy and well aired. Unlike far too many sickrooms, the stench of illness did not hang heavy and stale about them. Mr. Lancaster’s valet took pains with the man’s appearance, though his employer could not possibly realize nor value the service. Still, the efforts at maintaining the gentleman’s dignity spoke volumes of the two servants’ human kindness.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ashton,” James greeted the nurse, who had turned from her tidying at the sound of their entrance. “Miss Lancaster has come to look in on her father.”

Mrs. Ashton nodded and smiled, the look one of approval and empathy. She no doubt realized better than anyone how little time remained for such visits.

“I do not know if I can do this,” Daphne whispered, pulling so close to him their arms brushed.

“I will be right here with you, dear.” How different being her support and defender felt from every other time he’d been required to play that role. She did not demand it of him, and yet her sincere gratitude could not be doubted.

Daphne was silent as they reached the bed in which her father had spent every moment of the past few months. James squeezed her hand, hoping to remind her that she did not face this ordeal alone.

“Good afternoon,” James said upon realizing Mr. Lancaster was awake.

His thin face turned in their direction. Every breath wheezed out of him slowly and painstakingly. Daphne did not visibly react, though James felt certain her father’s deteriorated condition affected her.

Mr. Lancaster’s eyes narrowed, a look of momentary confusion in their depths. Then he nodded a greeting. “Good day to you, Robert.” He pulled in a rattling breath.

“Robert?” Daphne whispered.

James leaned a bit closer to her and explained in a low voice. “I understand that is his brother’s name.”

Her eyes met his, worried and sad. “He thinks you are my Uncle Robert?”

“He often thinks Mrs. Ashton is his mother.” James wanted Daphne to understand that any lack of recognition had nothing to do with her or her father’s valuation of her but with the state of his mind.

“Thought I’d go riding today.” Mr. Lancaster’s raspy voice brought their attention back to him.

“Do you mind if I introduce you to a pretty young lady before you head to the stables?” James asked. He’d learned during his first visits to Mr. Lancaster that it was best to go along with whatever mental wanderings seized the gentleman.

“Always time for a pretty girl.” Mr. Lancaster’s declaration preceded a bout of deep, continual coughing.

The usually stalwart Daphne stood in obvious distress, her eyes bleak. James rubbed her upper back with his free hand.

After sipping from the cup Mrs. Ashton pressed to his lips and muttering a very childlike “Thank you, Mama,” Mr. Lancaster turned his attention back to James and Daphne. “Halloo, Robert,” he said, having forgotten he’d addressed him already. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

James didn’t reply. Mr. Lancaster’s attention was fixed on his daughter, though he likely had no idea who she really was.

“She looks like my Daphne,” Mr. Lancaster said in an offhand manner.

“Does she now?” James shifted his hand to Daphne’s far shoulder, as near to an embrace as he’d allow himself in company.

“A smart girl, my Daphne.” Mr. Lancaster’s words came out breathy as he struggled to fill his lungs once more. “Just a little thing, with quite a good head on her shoulders.”

“I’ve heard that about her,” James answered. Beside him, Daphne had grown pale, her eyes fixed on her father.

“Just like her mother.” Mr. Lancaster nodded slowly, gaze wandering about. “Pretty but quick, with wit and brains.” His voice grew ever quieter. “Like her mother.”

“No doubt she’ll make a good match one day,” James said.

Mr. Lancaster looked at him then, brow drawn in obvious irritation. “Already married. To me, you bounder.” He followed that declaration with several epithets Daphne ought not to have been privy to.

James whispered an apology. “He does not recollect himself enough to hold his tongue.” To Mr. Lancaster he said, “I meant Daphne.”

“I have a girl named Daphne.” Mr. Lancaster drew in several difficult breaths. “Cute little thing. Likes to sit on my lap. Asks the smartest questions.”

When he dissolved into coughs, Mrs. Ashton provided his glass of water once more. She looked across at James, communicating without words that perhaps they ought to draw the visit to a conclusion. He knew the gentleman’s endurance was all but nonexistent.

He nodded his understanding. “We should let him rest,” he whispered to Daphne.

She remained entirely mute as he led her by the hand from the room. James closed the door behind them. The corridor was blessedly empty, providing him with a moment to gauge how overset she might be.

“I hope that was not too upsetting, Daphne.”

She fought with her composure. He could not very well leave her in the corridor battling emotions for anyone to see. She would be mortified.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to the small sitting room nearby. It was empty, so he left the door ajar.

Daphne leaned her head against his shoulder when he sat beside her on the sofa. She sighed. James took her hand in his.

“I understand what you meant now when you said my father remembered me but did not recognize me.”

“He has spoken about all of you at one time or another,” James said. “Though he shifts unpredictably between believing himself a child and speaking of his own children.”

“He remembers us, then?”

“All of you except Artemis. He does not seem to have any recollection of her. Mrs. Ashton believes he remembers his family as it was before his wife’s death but has shut out any memory afterward.”

“He was rarely with us afterward,” Daphne said. “Actually, that is not entirely accurate either. He spoke at times with the boys and quite a lot with Persephone. But not often with Athena. He never really acknowledged Artemis.”

“And what of you, Daphne? How was he with you?”

She did not answer immediately. James gently rubbed her hand with both of his, knowing the memories she had were not always happy.

“He told me once, when I was no more than seven, that he had no use for me, that he would much rather be alone than in my company.”

James winced. Was it any wonder she’d learned to guard herself against anticipated rejection? “Your father speaks more of you than of anyone else. And I assure you it is not to disparage your company. There is an abundance of pride and adoration in his recollections.”

“Then why would he have sent me away?” Heartache permeated every word, something in her tone putting him firmly in mind of a pained and frightened little girl.

James shifted enough to very nearly face her, though it necessitated breaking the contact between them. She must have sensed his gaze because she turned her eyes up toward him. “I know you have been through an ordeal this afternoon, but have you the endurance to hear a bit more, something which will probably prove likewise tumultuous?”

“Is it something awful?”

“No.”

She nodded, and James took it as permission to proceed. He hoped he was doing the right thing.

“Your father told me—or whomever he thought me to be during that visit—that though his wife was an acclaimed beauty, what had captured his interest and heart was her wit and intelligence and goodness. Those qualities, he said, were what continually drew him back to her.” Daphne seemed to be holding up, so he continued. “During another visit, he told me that his second daughter looked the most like his wife.”

Daphne nodded.

“But,” James pressed forward, “that of all his children, ‘little Daphne’ had the largest measure of her mother in her. He said that spending time with you was like being in company with a miniature version of his wife.”

“He never said anything like that to me,” she whispered.

“I think that is why he spent so much time with you when you were very small, because you reminded him of her. Those same qualities he treasured in her, he treasured in you.”

“But then he didn’t want me anymore.” Her eyes had taken on that pleading quality that tugged so fiercely at James’s heart.

“I honestly believe, Daphne, that he couldn’t bear it. You reminded him so much of the lady he had lost and missed acutely, and the pain pushed him beyond his limit. It does not excuse what he did, nor make it right. But you must understand that his neglect came not from any shortcomings on your part nor a lack of love on his but from a misguided attempt to save himself from the agony of his grief. And I believe that by the time the pain would naturally have abated to the point where he might have returned to normal life, his mind had already begun to deteriorate and he no longer truly realized what he was about.”

She looked away from him, not in anger or pique but with an expression of contemplation. “You have certainly given me a lot to think about.”

“I hope that you will,” he said. “Life has placed far too many burdens on you. This is one you need not carry.” James brushed a loose brown tendril away from her face. “You look positively done in,” he said, guilt pricking him at the realization.

“I am rather worn to the bone.”

“You should go rest, perhaps even have a dinner tray brought to you.”

“I might just do that.” She rose, and James followed suit.

Not two steps from him, she turned back. “I meant to ask you,” she said hesitantly, “did you have a hand in . . . that is . . . did you have my bedchamber redone?”

James’s stomach knotted. He’d forgotten about that bit of presumptuousness. “I did,” he confessed. Suddenly nervous, he rushed through his excuses. “It was so dreary. I could not imagine you being remotely happy in there. I only meant to make the smallest of changes, but the project seemed to grow entirely out of proportion. I hope you are not upset with me, that it is at least a little to your liking.”

She stepped back to where he stood waiting for her condemnation. Her delicate hand lightly touched his face. Daphne rose on her toes and pressed the lightest of kisses on his cheek. “It is perfect,” she whispered.

So shocked was he by her salute that he did not so much as blink. He only remembered to breathe after she had already slipped from the room.

He was so close to securing her regard. He could sense it within his reach. The walls she had erected to protect her battered heart had begun to crumble, and he needed only to find his way in.