Page 2 of On a Midsummer Night
“My boy, you’ve arrived.”
His father’s voice was ragged, and Henry was surprised he could hear him over the thundering of his pulse in his ears.
Taking a step toward the bed, Henry plastered a smile onto his face. “I have. I’m sorry it took me so long.”
He sensed his sister, Ariana, was in the room but did not seek her presence. His eyes were glued to his father, lying prone in his bed, an air of fragility and mortality clinging to him. His father watched him approach with earnest blue eyes, and when Henry sat on the mattress at his side, his father instantly linked their hands together.
“Henry, this isn’t how I wanted it to go.”
“You’re fine, Father. This is just a cold.” The blasted lump in his throat threatened to choke him. “You’ll be on your feet and annoying Mamá again in a day or two.”
Sliding his gaze to the side, he met his mother’s dark eyes. They were swimming with tears, and her chin trembled as she attempted a smile.
“I won’t, Henry.” His father clutched his other hand to his chest as a wet cough rattled his body, leaving him gasping for breath. “I’ve had another heart episode. The doctor said my lungs are filling with fluid, and eventually, my heart will stop beating.”
Henry started shaking his head before his father was done speaking. “We need to get a second opinion. Surely, there’s a procedure that can be done to drain the—”
“There’s not, my boy.” His father exhaled shakily. “There’s not.”
Clenching his jaw, Henry stared at their linked hands. His father’s had become weathered with age, but there had always been strength in them. Stubbornness. Gentleness.
Love.
And now, his father was barely able to maintain his grip on Henry’s fingers.
“I don’t know how much time I have, and there is, unfortunately, much I must tell you.” Rotating his head, his father looked at his mother. “Would you be kind enough to give me a few minutes alone with our son, my love?”
“Por supuesto,” she murmured, slowly rising to her feet.
After pressing a kiss to both of their heads, Henry watched as his mother quit the room, Ariana close on her heels.
Henry raised his brows when he turned back to his father, reaching desperately for a sense of lightness. “Is this when you tell me how Mamá and Ariana are now my responsibility, and I need to see to their care and happiness?”
“It is.” His father squeezed his fingers, his smile sad and crooked. “You will all need each other in the days to come, but they will lean on you because you’re you. Clever. Resourceful. And, most importantly, kind. You’ve made me so proud, Henry.”
He didn’t try to hide the tear that streaked down his cheek.
“But they are not the only ones who will need you. There are others.” His father closed his eyes, his features pained. “Others who have every right to hate me.”
Ice streaked through his veins, and Henry jerked his father’s hand until he opened his eyes. “What do you mean? Why would anyone hate you?”
A half-hour later, Henry burst from the room, uncaring about the tears scalding his cheeks, and stalked to his father’s study. After pouring himself a dram of whisky, he sank onto the settee under the window and surveyed the room. His father’s room. Where he had conducted business and built a fortune. Taught him and Ariana about honor and responsibility. About family legacy.
And it had all been a lie. The man Henry loved and respected most in the world had been a villain, and he wanted to scream.
Instead, he yanked the rubbish bin between his legs and vomited.
Chapter One
London, 1855
Some days Beth wondered why she ever thought she could be an artist.
Today was one such day. She glowered at her sketch and pushed away the offending piece of parchment. Beth had always struggled with realistically depicting hands, and she was tempted to crumple her latest attempt and discard it. Still, as she developed her artistic skills, Beth had quickly learned that if she allowed her frustrations to rule her, she’d run out of parchment and other supplies in no time.
With a sigh, she stared out her narrow window into the city beyond. The early morning sun was peeking through the branches of the nearby oak tree, but no doubt Cook was already busy in the kitchens, preparing for breakfast. Beth watched idly as a flower vendor pulled a hand cart down the cobblestone street, blossoms of every shape, size, and color bursting forth in a vibrant bouquet behind her. The woman was dressed to fight off the morning chill, but Beth hoped the midsummer day would herald sunny skies and pleasant temperatures.
Her lips parted as a thought abruptly occurred: maybe she could draw the character with a muff. It was an ice-skating scene, after all. Beth huffed, for it was an odd setting to contemplate in the middle of summer. Still, the rest of the sketch was fine and almost ready for color. It didn’t make sense to start anew, no matter how offended she was by her lack of skill.
