Page 51 of Disenchanted
“They are usually a great deal nicer. I am not known for the sweetness of my disposition.”
Crushington looked as though he would have liked to argue that point, but all he said was, “I believe you wished to show me something?”
“What? Oh. Yes, that.” I had already forgotten my foolish excuse for dragging Crushington out of the parlor. My gaze swept across the lawn from my struggling vegetable patch to the ivy-choked pergola. I finally settled on the old stables.
“I thought you might like to see my sister’s ponies.”
“Indeed, I would,” he agreed.
It occurred to me that the man would have been just as pleased if I had offered to show him the algae floating on thesurface of the bird bath, anything to spend time in my company. I cringed with guilt. I had only invited him to call upon me out of gratitude, not to encourage his suit. Perhaps being alone with him in the stables was not the best idea. But glancing back, I could see my stepmother’s and sisters’ faces plastered against the windows.
I sighed and led the commander away from the house. Our carriage house had once been an impressive structure for Midtown. Many of the local people did not bother stabling horses or owning a carriage. Everything in town was within walking distance and one could easily hire a conveyance from the Midtown livery stables if a journey into the countryside was contemplated.
Although our coach house was nothing as grand as the stables on the great estates in the Heights, it boasted a broad set of double doors with a round window on the upper floor where the groom’s quarters had been. Once colored a rustic red, the paint had started to crack and peel, the doors beginning to sag.
As I struggled to open one, Crushington moved to help me. I murmured apologetically, “I fear the stables have become rather neglected. Besides a fresh coat of paint, these doors need replacing.”
Crushington tested the movement of the door, inspecting the hinges. “I think you only need to replace this section here where the wood has begun to rot.” He paused and added diffidently, “I could do that for you if you wished.”
“You could?” I asked, unable to conceal my astonishment. “You do carpentry work?”
“I do possess a few skills, Miss Ella. Beyond clapping innocent citizens in irons and intimidating informants,” he added wryly.
I winced, recalling that I owed the commander an apology for the accusations I had made the day that he rescued me. I drew in a deep breath.
“Commander, I have needed to speak to you ever since the morning you saved my life. I want to tell you how sorry I am.”
“For what?” Dried paint flaked off and fell on his uniform sleeve. He paused in his inspection of the door to brush them off.
“For all the dreadful things I said to you, the harsh way I accused you of bullying Withypole. I have since discovered how wrong I was, that Master Fugitate volunteered to spy for you.”
Crushington frowned at me. “Where did you learn that?”
“I don’t really remember,” I replied, avoiding his eyes. I could hardly tell him that my source was Long Louie, Mal’s friend from the livery stable. Not without betraying the fact that Mal was aware of the commander’s arrangement with Withypole and using it to his own advantage.
I continued, “The point is that I wronged you with my accusations and I am sorry. It never occurred to me that Withypole would be willing to act as your informant. I still cannot understand why a fairy—”
“Ella, please stop. I have already explained to you that I cannot discuss Withypole Fugitate.”
I heard the ring of finality in his voice, but I rushed on, “There must be something more that you can tell me about Fugitate. This is very important to me.” I hesitated before adding, “That morning I sold him the emeralds, he told me the most extraordinary thing about my father.”
Crushington’s brow furrowed. But his expression was encouraging enough that I related everything about how Fugitate had recognized my mother’s emeralds, how at one time he might have been friends with my father. I even told the commander about my book of fairy lore and the strange, blurred inscription on the flyleaf.
I had no idea what impelled me to blurt this out to Crushington, things that I had not even yet confided to Mal. Perhaps it was because these questions niggled at the back of my mind. I needed to talk to someone and there was something solid and steady about Crushington.
“Withypole claims that my father had once been a royal court advocate, passionate and brave, defending people who were wrongfully accused, even in defiance of the king,” I said. “But that sounds so unlike the quiet, reclusive man I knew. Or at least, I thought I did.”
I bit down hard upon my lower lip before admitting, “My father and I were not on good terms near the end of his life. If only I had not been so foolish and stubborn, I could have mended the breach before he died. There is so much I wish I could say to him, so much I need to ask, and it is all far too late. If I could learn more of his past, at least, I might come to understand who Julius Upton truly was.”
“I am sorry, Ella,” Crushington said. “I wish I could help you, but I never knew your father. By the time I assumed my command here in Midtown, your father was already deceased.”
“But you do know something about Withypole. Perhaps learning of his past might help me discover more about my father.”
“I know little of Fugitate’s past and I have never pressed him to learn more. All men and even fairies are entitled to keep their secrets.”
“I thought that was part of your duties, to uncover and expose secrets.”
“Only regarding lawbreakers, but I don’t think there is anything criminal in Fugitate’s past, only deep pain and sorrow. If he does not wish to share his tragic history with the world, that is his choice.”
