Page 42 of A Lyon’s Lesson

The storm took its toll, and she fell into a doze and only woke when Mary appeared to help her dress for dinner.

***

Bathed and dressed for dinner, Rick entered the dining room to find it empty and set for one. He had been about to apologize to Cecey for being late but could see the point was moot. He was conscious of faint disappointment. He had been looking forward to telling her about his day and inquiring about hers.

The footman came in with a tray bearing three dishes and a decanter and set it down on the sideboard.

“Her Ladyship is not joining me, I gather?”

“My lady requested a tray in her room, my lord.” He was puzzled and slightly alarmed—it was unlike Cecey to be ill, and she had seemed fine when they parted this morning. He determined to visit her as soon as he had finished his dinner.

The servant served Rick his meal and left. Rick ate quickly. All that physical effort had given him an appetite, but he didn’t linger over his wine. Instead, he took the decanter and a couple of glasses and headed upstairs to find Cecey and discover what ailed her.

When the knock on her door elicited no response, a slight alarm seized him, and he wondered if she was actually ill. He opened the door and stepped in. The room was in semi-darkness. Only one set of candles was lit beside the bed, which was empty, although the covers were turned down. The rest of the room was bathed in the faint glow from the fire, and it was there that he found her, curled up in a chair, in her dressing gown and staring at the flames.

“Cecey, what’s wrong?” he said, kicking the door shut with his heel. Setting the decanter and glasses down on the occasional table, he went to crouch down before her. It was then that he saw she was clutching something in her arms, but he couldn’t make out what it was in the gloom.

She turned her head to look at him, and he suffered a shock. She was pale, and her eyes were puffy and red. It was obvious she had been crying. But it was the shadow of deep pain behind her eyes that shocked him most.

“Cecey, what has happened? Has someone died? Your uncle? Is it Mrs. Rawlins? The children?”

She shook her head. “Nothing like that.” Her voice sounded croaky, and she cleared her throat.

“Then what—?” His own voice sharpened with alarm.

“I found Annie,” she said, holding out the thing she had been cradling in her arms.

It was then that he saw what it was. A worn and limp cloth doll, dressed in a grubby gown that must have been white once upon a time. The doll was missing one eye, and her hair was patchy, showing bits of scalp. A more disreputable specimen he had seldom seen, and he recalled some of his little sisters’ dolls for comparison.

“I took the maids up to the nursery to clean it,” she said. “I thought perhaps the children could come and play in it. They were playing in the mud at the front of the cottage today . . .”

“That was a good thought,” he said with a nod.

She swallowed. “I hadn’t remembered anything about the house, you know. But when I opened the door—” She shrugged. “It felt familiar somehow. Then I found the toy box. And at the bottom was Annie.” She stared at him as two tears welled up and rolled down her cheeks. “She got left behind. I thought I’d ne-never see her again!” Her voice disintegrated into sobs and Rick instinctively leaned in and put his arms around her.

“She was waiting for you.”

“Y-yes!” Another sob and a gasp. “Oh Rick, I had almost forgotten. Then it all came rushing back. Papa died and Uncle Seb came to take me away. All I wanted was Annie, and no one could find her. I screamed and cried for days!”

“You were only three,” said Rick, comprehension dawning. A frightened little girl, ripped from everything familiar and wanting the one thing that would give her comfort and not getting it. He began to understand something about his wife he hadn’t really realized before. Cecelia had not been raised in the kind of warm, inclusive family atmosphere he took for granted.

“Were your uncle and aunt kind to you?”

“They weren’t cruel,” Cecey said, playing with a lock of Annie’s hair.

But they weren’t overly loving either, he concluded. The protective instincts he had often felt in relation to Cecelia intensified, and he hugged her close and murmured, “I’m sorry. It must have been very hard.”

She nodded, sniffing, her face buried in his shoulder.

“Come to bed,” he said gently. “You can bring Annie,” he added with a smile.

She looked at him and gave a watery smile. “I’m sorry, it’s ridiculous to be crying so over a doll at my age.”

“She was important to you, and the adults in your life never acknowledged that. It must have been terrifying for you to be torn from everything you knew like that. I think you’re entitled to some tears. Perhaps you can repair her a bit? Give her a new dress?”

Cecey nodded. “That’s a lovely idea.”

He smiled and, scooping her up, carried her to the bed, where he set her down gently and poured her a large glass of wine and one for himself.