Cloaked in Danger

by Jeannie Ruesch

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The cries of Aria’s baby brother echoed in the wee hours of the morning, two doors down from the room she sat in.

  Not her bedroom, of course.

  It had been over a month since she had returned home, and she hadn’t been able to take more than four steps into that room. The pale blue walls closed in around her every time, with blinding speed, stealing the breath from her lungs, blurring her vision. As she retreated, each and every time, tears fell down her cheeks, soundlessly. Effortlessly.

  Her soul wept, and Aria had yet to find a way to make it stop.

  Johnny’s cries had turned mournful, and Aria dropped the blanket that covered her onto the floor and unfolded her legs from the chair. She felt for the table at her side, to look for the candle to light. She’d taken to her familiar routine outwardly, at least. It comforted her father and Emily to believe she was sleeping. To believe she had gotten past the nightmares.

  When in reality, they had just overtaken the daytime as well as the night.

  In seconds, she’d made it to Johnny’s room. His cries were gaining steam and she leaned over the crib to peer in at his beautiful face.

  “Now, little man, that’s quite enough,” she murmured as she set her candle down and lifted him out. Cuddling him against her chest, she made it to the rocking chair and settled in.

  Aria had spent enough nights awake now that she had learned to distinguish her little brother’s cries. When sharper, staccato sounds dotted the air, he was uncomfortable. The shrill screams declared his hunger. And the long, mournful pulls from his lungs meant he was lonely.

  Like tonight, Aria had answered that call many times. The warm baby smell of his body infused her with the warmth she’d lost. His cries settled into sniffles as she rocked, murmuring nonsensical words.

  She wished she could cry the way he did. She’d even tried—opened her mouth, begging for the screams to come out.

  They never did.

  They had buried John’s body and for weeks now, the need to leave, to gain as much distance from this place—from herself—was a drug. It fed her. It haunted her.

  And then Johnny would snuggle deeper into her embrace and his tiny fingers curled around her finger, and she recalled why she hadn’t left yet. That lightness, the free-falling relief she got only in glimpses anymore. Always here. Always when holding the sheer miracle of her little brother, the namesake of the beloved man they’d lost

  If she left, that light would disappear.

  “What are you doing up?”

  The grizzly voice belonged to her father, and the sound of it turned the edges of her mouth. She couldn’t stop being grateful that he was alive.

  “Johnny was fussy,” she whispered.

  Her father raised a brow. “He doesn’t look a bit fussy. Are you sure you didn’t come to steal his warmth?”

  She gave a hint of a smile and slowly stood. Once Johnny was snug in his crib again, she followed her father out the door. They walked in silence, her lonely candle giving off small flickers of light, and stopped at her bedroom door.

  Already her heart beat faster, her limbs ached to run. But she had to pretend, had to play the game.

  Had to make them believe she was fine.

  “Well, good night then.” He stood there, watching with that father’s gaze that saw so much.

  She reached out and gripped the icy metal of the doorknob. “Good night. See you in the morning.”

  When he didn’t budge, she turned, swallowed the lump that had grown in her throat and opened the door. The room was cloaked in darkness, looming about her with fingers unfurling, waiting for the precise moment to drag her under. Her small light did nothing to illuminate the shadows; it only served to add shape to them.

  Her father stepped into the doorway. “Are you ready to tell me why you are pretending to sleep in here?”

  Her lips slammed together.

  He closed the door behind them, and her body grew warm, antsy. Had the room gotten smaller?

  “Aria, talk to me.” The line of his mouth stretched thin.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you. Our rooms are close,” she murmured. How easily the lie glided off her tongue. How good she had become at pretending. At walking. Breathing without that visible hitch of fear.

  He studied her for several moments, with knowing eyes that understood more than they admitted.

  “Good night, Papa,” she said, taking another step into the room. Could he hear the pounding? She steeled the urge to look down, see if her chest was bouncing with as hard a knock as her heart. Her fingers felt swollen. Another step. She set the light down on the table next to the chair. Pressure pushed against her lungs as she struggled to pull in a breath.

  Instead of leaving, her father turned to the chair by the fireplace and sunk into it. He ran his hand through his hair. “Sit with me.”

  She sat, and the chair curled around her, placing invisible webs around her body.

  He rubbed his half arm against the chill, a sight Aria didn’t think she would ever grow accustomed to. He dropped to a knee in front of the fire to stoke the flames. Soon, the acrid smell of burnt wood filled the room.

  “I haven’t seen Lord Merewood recently,” her father commented. “He hasn’t called in over a month.”

  “I sent him away.” Aria’s throat grew dry, her eyes watered.

  “How do you propose to plan a wedding that way?”

  “There will be no wedding. I told him his responsibilities to me had ended.” She swallowed, feeling the wetness coat her brittle throat.

  “I’ll be damned if they have.” Gideon threw a glance over his shoulder, then dropped the poker with a clang against the bricks. “Your reputation was ruined, and he was a part of that. He has a responsibility.”

  “I was married to Patrick, for however short those moments. I believe my wedding to another man effectively released Adam from his bonds.”

  “You had two minutes of marriage stemming from a wedding that no one will speak of. Without your marriage to Merewood, you’ll never be accepted here, Aria. Hell, even with a marriage, life won’t be easy for you.”

  “You are providing the perfect argument for why I should leave.” The words were out before she could stop them.

  “Leave?” He dropped into the chair across from her. “I’m acquainted with the instinct to flee. But you won’t be happy living the life I did. Not forever.”

  “I loved our life, Papa. When you left me here, I was—” She bit her tongue, not wishing to create a chasm that couldn’t be erased.

  He waved his hand at her. “Have your say.”

  She turned away, not wanting him to see the way she swallowed the rock in her throat. Not wanting him to know—

  Damn it. No. No matter how stupid she felt for feeling this way, she would not hide from it any longer. She swiveled around, emboldened by a rush of righteous anger. “You left me.”

  “I wanted you to—”

  “I don’t care what you wanted! You left me.” Fury flared like an out-of-control flame finally given the oxygen it needed to blaze. “After Mama died, you made me believe my home was with you, wherever the winds of change took us. Home was wherever we were.” She aimed a finger at him. “You were my home. And you took my home away. Again.”

  “My intention was to correct the wrong I had done in not giving you a true home, Aria.”

  “You left me with a woman I didn’t know and told her to teach me to become someone different.” Her hands fisted at her sides, and her arms began to shake. “From the moment you left, I’ve tried to cling to the woman you taught me to be—the one who loves muck-covered boots, who loves sleeping under the stars, who can stand on the bow of a ship and not bend.

  “I’ve realized there is no place for that woman he
re. When you disappeared, I clung to the belief that you’d return, that I could find you somehow. When Patrick said you were dead—” Grief struck with a mighty blow, and her tongue thickened. “I did a piss-poor job of becoming the woman you wanted me to be, the woman who would belong here. I ruined her, in fact.”

  “Aria,” her father admonished halfheartedly as he’d done her entire life when she spoke like a seaman.

  “That woman could have married Lord Merewood. She could be a proper countess. I cannot.”

  “Do you know the question you asked me most when you were younger?”

  Frustration lifted her shoulders. “Papa.”

  “You had your say, my darling—it’s my turn now. Your first question. What was it?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “When would I be allowed to dig?”

  “A close second, but no. Every time we set up camp somewhere new, you would ask if this was your home now. No matter how dusty or dirty it might have been.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, to debate his point. And instead, remembered a pathetic bunch of weeds in a vase. They’d looked sad, smelled worse, but to her, they had been beautiful. It had been her way of pretending that Mama had left flowers to welcome them. Everywhere they went.

  “That was so long ago,” she said softly, even as the ache spread inside.

  “One day, you stopped asking,” he continued gruffly. “And you stopped putting weeds on my supper table. That day, I realized I had failed to provide you with the one thing you kept trying to create, no matter how fragile the ground around you. A home. One that would be there waiting for your return.” He leaned forward. “I only wanted to give that back to you. I never wanted you to change, my darling. I expected to return to London to find it singing to your tune, in fact.”

  He looked down. “And I was selfish. I wanted you here, with me. I knew I was leaving the work. I knew it was my last expedition, and I thought if you had time to reacquaint yourself with the home I took you from, the place your mother loved, then you would want to stay here, as well. I still hope you will, but I suppose I’ve imposed my wishes on you long enough.”

  His head bowed slightly. He moved his arms together, and then startled. “I meant to rub my hands. I suppose I will never get used to that,” he murmured. “How is I can feel something so strongly that is no longer there?” He dropped his hand, stood. “It is late. We can discuss this in the morning. I’ll send Elizabeth up,” her father offered, referring to one of the maids. “She can bring some tea. Perhaps it will help you sleep.”

  Aria managed to nod. “Good night, Papa.”

  She could do nothing but stare at the long shadows on the wall.

  How they laughed at her. Mocked her. Leered at her.

  The click of the door closing sounded like falling bricks and she turned, feeling the air in the room swirl around her like a thick, heavy coat on the warmest day of summer. She swallowed.

  This was her room. She had to face it. She could not let the ghosts chase her out of her own house any longer.

  The maid.

  Aria ran for the door, grabbed the knob and yanked. In the hallway, she caught the last sight of her father before entering his own room. “Papa.”

  Her voice was loud in the slumbering silence.

  “Yes?” he asked, turning to her.

  “The maid. Patrick had a maid here as a spy. We must find out who.”

  Her father dropped his hand off the door, strode to her with measured speed, and in seconds, his arms surrounded her, his hand against the back of her head, pressing her almost roughly into his shoulder.

  “Ahh, Aria.” His words were thick, as if molasses filled his mouth. “We took care of it, sweetheart. Remember? You told me weeks ago, and we found her.”

  She nodded against his chest. “It was Celeste. You fired her.”

  Another light filled the hallway, and Elizabeth, the new maid, a petite, dark-haired girl who looked as if she’d walked right out of the schoolroom, appeared bearing a tray laden with the fixings for tea. Aria eased back from her father.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, then turned to hurry into her room. She could barely recognize the edgy, uncertain mess she’d become. The constant need to feel alert, to pay attention—to what, she didn’t know. Patrick was dead. He couldn’t hurt her again. And yet, still here she remained, feeling as though she hung halfway off a cliff—not entirely committed to the fall, but not quite able to lift herself up to safety either.

  And somehow the unsteady position she lived in had become normal.

  Elizabeth came into the room behind her and set the tray on the table next to the candle.

  “What day is today?” she asked the girl, as she bent to the fire. Aria kept losing track of details like that.

  “Tuesday, miss.”

  He’d taken her on a Saturday, as she headed to the park. The days since her return had slowly passed, and there were moments that those days felt like years. And other times, the very air around her pulsed with reminders, threatening that if she took one step forward, opened a door, she’d be thrust right back into that hell.

  She grabbed the teapot and poured the steaming liquid. Immediately the room filled with the strong, pungent smell of ginger and spices. Almost at the same time, Elizabeth got the fire stoked and the sharp, woodsy flavor of the fire rose up. The combination of scents swirled, formed a wall that closed in on her.

  Her heart slammed into her throat, her hands became fists ready to battle the invisible foe, and the feeling of a hand at her throat, pushing, threatening, filled her mind until she nearly blacked out.

  Shaking her head, Aria dropped the teapot down with a clatter. “Put it out. Put the fire out!”

  Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide, but she didn’t move. Aria grabbed the teapot, knocked the top off, and threw the hot liquid into the fire. “Put it out!”

  The ginger, the sharp smell of burning melded in her mind. Abject fear tightened the fist around her throat. In seconds, memories invaded her mind.

  Patrick’s fist across her face.

  The hand on her throat that had forced her to drink laudanum.

  The loose, dulled feeling that had invaded her body like a virus, sinking into skin, seeping under her strength with an ease that challenged its very existence, oozing into every pore until she could barely recognize the will to fight, much less act upon it.

  She grabbed a linen from the table and beat at the fire, mindless of the sparks that singed her arms. The smoke rose around her, stinging her watering eyes, choking her as she sucked in air.

  “Miss, please, let me help!” Elizabeth’s cry repeated behind her, but she couldn’t stop. Not until the fire was gone. Not until she could cleanse that smell from her nostrils. Coughs wracked her body, sending stinging pains through her chest and down her arms.

  A door slammed against a wall.

  “What is going—Aria, stop! What are you doing?” Her father.

  Then he was there, pulling on her. She pushed back, the need to rid her vision of that fire desperate and consuming. The flames were small now, and her arm had begun to sting with a pain that barely touched the agony inside.

  The scrap of paper in her fist as Dr. St. Clair gurgled his last breath.

  “Stop it!” Her father’s voice roared in her ear. “Look what you’re doing to yourself.”

  He dragged her back from the fireplace. She crashed onto the floor, tried to scramble closer as a stubborn flame lit among the ashes. “Enough!” His arm became an iron clamp.

  “Gideon, what is it? What’s happened?” Emily’s voice floated in the background.

  The doctor’s blood on her hands. How could she scrub that off?

  “Elizabeth, please put out the rest of the fire.” Her father’s voice was soft, distant. Calm.


  His hand touched her head, ran down her hair.

  Patrick’s glee punctuating the air as he told her that her father was dead because of her. That Adam was dead. Knowing that her love for him had killed him.

  “Shhh, shhh.” The voice was a low rumble of her childhood, one that used to soothe her. “Dearest, quiet now. Everything is all right. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  The scent of ginger. Of wood. Of his breath on her cheek.

  Aria clung to her father, her arms wrapped around his one good arm as if it were the only thing that kept her afloat. The fear began to crackle, threatening to pull her under like a sea monster below the murky waves.

  Give me one more tear, it beckoned. One more sleepness night.

  This wasn’t her, damn it! But even as the thought left her mind, it disintegrated and she couldn’t keep hold. She was drowning and she didn’t know how to stop it. How to fight it.

  “Oh Gideon, what can we do?” Emily’s words came through warbled, as if spoken through a glass of water.

  Patrick’s jovial threats that she would be a happy bride.

  “I don’t know. She’s far more distraught than I believed.”

  Perfect for him. Perfect.

  “Perhaps it would be best for her to leave for a time,” came the quiet reply. “Get her away from all she’s suffered here.”

  Patrick’s hands. His body pinning her down.

  Her father’s grip was unbendable as he held her close. Aria leaned back against him, clinging to his warmth, as every fear, every emotion, every thought she’d had over the last days pummeled her with the measured accuracy of an angry pugilist.

  She had wanted to die.

  That was the worst humiliation of all. That somewhere, deep inside, she had given in. Given up.

  She had let him win. She was letting him win now, because she couldn’t conquer this heaviness, this state of constant fear.

  “I know you are right, Emily, but I can’t send her away like this.”

  Something cold covered Aria’s stinging arm, but she paid little mind. Nestled into her father’s warmth, desperate to stop the lashes of memory. Desperate to find some way out of the muck. She hadn’t recognized herself in so long.