Bound by Honor

Chapter 9

And Mrs. Dale, although she had always been kind and grandmotherly to

him, became now even more protective, trying to keep his attention away

from what was happening downstairs. Percy did not protest, but as soon

as her chin fell over her bosom and she began to emit soft snores, he ran

downstairs.

No one had told him anything, yet Percy knew with absolute certainty that

that highly unusual state of affairs had something to do with his mother

and the baby that had made her slim figure swell so much.

He was very afraid. He needed to see her. He wanted to tell her that he

loved her very much, and that it was all right to send the baby away if it

didn’t want to come live with them.

But his courage fled him when he reached the dark passage. Too many

people moved frantically around. They would never let him in her

bedchamber. He had not thought of that. He’d hoped she would be alone

and he could quietly sneak in and sit next to her on the bed, as he often

used to do.

Other unfamiliar things alerted and frightened him even more; above all, a

strange and unfamiliar smell that permeated the passage.

A maid who passed him was weeping. Percy suddenly felt his heart in his

throat and blinked against tears. He forgot to be brave and not to cry. He

only wanted to see his mother now. Something was very, very wrong.

Heedless of adults, he dashed out from his hiding place and ran across

the corridor. In the door to his mother’s room, he nearly collided with two

loudly sobbing maids carrying out a huge basket of bloodied sheets.

Terror swept over him. He pushed past the girls and into the room before

they had time to close the door.

His father was there, kneeling by the bed, holding his mother’s motionless

hand and howling with pain. Mrs. Smith, the housekeeper, stood at the foot

of the bed crying, as did his mother’s maid. Two other girls, whom he

recognized as the kitchen staff, were cleaning out more bloodied sheets

and wiping their wet faces with dirty hands. A stranger in black clothes was

packing some strange instruments in a vast, black bag. And the smell that

assaulted his nostrils in the passage was overwhelming here.

In the midst of all this, his mother, her face paler than the pillow on which

her head rested, lay motionless, her eyes closed. Although Percy had

never seen a dead person before, he knew with the inexplicable instinct of

a child that his mother was no more. He didn’t want to believe it.

“Mama!” he cried and threw himself on the carpet next to his father.

“Someone take the boy out,” said the stranger with the black bag. “This is

not a place for him.”

But his father’s arm came about his small shoulders, and he was suddenly

pulled into the heat and sweat and tears, and held there, as in a vise,

against a hard, masculine chest.

“We lost them, Percy.” Sobs racked his father’s body. “We lost them.”

Percy wriggled enough to cast another look at his mother’s colorless face.

She reminded him of one of the tombstone figures in their church. He

knew somehow that that was where she belonged from now on. She’d

crossed from one world to another, just as Mrs. Dale had told him

happened to everyone who died.

He hid his face in his father’s shirt and began to cry.

Percy hissed and opened his eyes when the hot wax from the candle

dripped on his palm.

He was alone, wrapped in the silence of an abandoned house. The wet

heat that covered his face was his own tears.

After a deep breath, Percy pushed away from the wall.

He had to summon the courage and go in there now so that his mind

would be clear in the morning when he returned to officially take

possession of the house.

He forced himself to move and presently opened the door.

His mother’s room was completely empty. Nothing had been left in it.

He used to come here after she died, to sit on the empty bed neatly

covered with a pretty embroidered pane. Once he peeked under it, but

there were no traces of blood anywhere. Her other things remained

arranged exactly the way she used to have them. For some time, flowers

on her escritoire were always fresh, until things turned for the worse. After

her maid left, he began to bring whatever he himself could pick. He’d done

it the last time on the day they moved out.

Percy left the room and walked to another door.

His father’s bedroom stood empty too. In the sitting room separating the

bedchambers, he found only two chairs pushed against the window.

He left the house the way he came, relieved by this visit. The shock of

facing the memories passed. His mind would be able to concentrate on

business when he returned in a few hours’ time.

Letitia stared at the gray shadows on the ceiling. The fact that Sir Percival

had a mistress was neither unusual nor to her disadvantage. A coldly

rational woman in her shoes would be glad and relieved. After all, what

better way to keep him at arm’s length?

It wasn’t easy to be coldly rational when memories lurked in the shadows

of her mind, ready to disturb her peace at the least provocation.

Sir Percival’s seemingly innocent remark about Josepha hit hard a very

tender spot. Time was supposed to ease pain, but Letitia wasn’t sure how

much time would help where Sir Walter Hasting was concerned.

At first she had refused to believe the horrible things coming out of

Walter’s mouth. But his words—accidentally overheard casual remarks

made to his younger brother—explained so much.

Walter’s professions of love had steadily grown almost…aggressive. He

wanted proof that she loved him—though, of course, she could never love

him as much as he loved her, he used to say. He insisted he would prove

his feelings for her too.

She had loved him. But, somewhere very deep, his demands had grated.

Why couldn’t he trust her?

“Stanville will never allow your court, Walt,” his brother had said. “You’re

just a neighbor. Stanville will want a dynastic marriage for his heiress.”

Walter had laughed. “There are ways to ensure he will have no choice.”

Hurt and fury had twisted in her chest like a knife.

His next words had pushed that knife in all the way to the hilt. Walter

dreamed of her father’s plantations. Of using, like the earl, slaves instead

of paid servants and, he chuckled, paid mistresses. That pretty chocolate

morsel of Letitia’s maid—damn, he could never remember her

name—would please him well enough until he could survey his new

possessions in person.

Letitia turned over in her bed to face the wall. Walter’s confident chuckle

echoed in her head, opening once more floodgates of anger and

discomfort.

Sir Percival had immediately noticed Josepha. That was why Letitia had

wrung from him the promise of protection. She meant to hold him to it with

every fiber of her being. If he chose to spend this night with his mistress,

he could not be much different from Walter—or her father. It was probably

only a matter of time before he began fancying Josepha, who was one of

the most beautiful women Letitia had known, in addition to being her

lifelong companion and friend.