Page 64 of A Sight to Behold
There it was, that word again. But it wasn’t a comment about her eyesight, it was a comment abouther. Pippa sniffled. She realized her tears came from anger, not sadness, and the feeling didn’t fade when her father reached out to her, his hand swollen, and his skin stretched and purple. This was not his father’s loving hand from her childhood; this was a vexing man who’d been manipulated into an unhealthy, thoughtless marionette.
“It’s been so hard to watch you degrade, Child.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You withdrew into your greenhouse or your mother’s country estate. Don’t think I didn’t notice how often you snuck out of dinners and feigned tiredness at balls. You made a fool of yourself as a clumsy goose, and then left society as a whole.”
“I’m sorry I embarrassed you, Father,” Pippa said with all the grace she could muster, her chin held high even though hers ran down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. “I have never felt more shame.”
“For your clumsiness?”
“No, Father. For you.”
“M-me?” He thundered. “How dare you!”
“How. Dare. You,” Pippa growled, rose from her seat, and left.
Chapter Thirty
Shortly after breakfast,Pippa walked into the orangery. Something was amiss.
It was quiet.
The faucet was dripping in the back right corner, but she always turned it off completely, as would Bea. She stopped to take in the situation. The philodendron’s leaves were bent and had light yellow cracks. Someone had been there—someone with little regard for breaking leaves of precious tropical plants.
Pippa slowly walked farther into the orangery, carefully listening to the familiar sounds of her favorite place. She closed her eyes to take in the atmosphere as she knew it before she’d received spectacles.
The silence in the orangery was punctuated by the faucet’s irregular drip—a sound that echoed ominously. As Pippa held out her hands, palms outward to feel her way along the path between the high beds, the cool, waxy touch of the tropical leaves sent an unfamiliar chill down her spine. She closed her eyes, reaching out farther into the strange silence, her fingertips brushing against a broken twig of the ficus.
With each breath she took, the intoxicating fragrance of the blooming citrus trees almost obscured the disconcerting smell of disturbed earth. It was a scent that didn’t belong in her carefully tended environment, and it made her heart quicken. The orangery—the place she knew like the back of her hand—felt different, foreign.
Suddenly, the soft, hushed sound of breathing caught her attention—a breath that was not hers. It stemmed from the corner where Sir Hoppington usually nestled in his haybed, a space meant for tranquility, not fear. Pippa’s heart pounded in her chest as she tried to see through blurry vision, her serene sanctuary now a setting of unexpected suspense.
A rush of shock and then anger coursed through her veins as she raced to the corner, the unsettling crunch of the hay under her feet sounding louder than ever. The breathing was there—steady, yet strained—and it filled the orangery with suspense that cast a dark shadow over its usual luminescence. Pippa felt a knot of unease tighten in her stomach as she neared the haybed.
Stepping farther into the corner, her foot crunched on more hay than usual—hay that she hadn’t left there. Pippa was meticulous about her orangery. She always swept the ground, and any dry leaves or dead blossoms were religiously piled into a barrel outside. This untidiness was out of place and out of character for her sanctuary. Someone had disturbed the most peaceful place in Pippa’s world. Her heart plummeted to her stomach, an icy sense of dread replacing the knot of unease when she reached the end of the path between the high beds and came to the potted palm tree in the corner where a dark shape hovered. It was a woman. But it wasn’t Bea.
“I can see you,” Pippa snarled and Wife Six emerged from the shadow of the palm. But before she could think of anything more to say, her breath hitched.
The daybed was a mess, and it was stained with blood. Sir Huffington’s blood. All she could make out was a ball of fur.
“What have you done?” Pippa hurried to pick up her little friend. His soft fur was no longer fluffy, but sticky with blood and even though she tried to be gentle, he squealed.
“You caught me early. I was planning on bringing him to your room. His bed is made on your pillow.” Wife Six stood next toher, her bloody arms crossed as if the stains of murder were no more than hand cream to her. “Imagine my nap before the face massage.” She scratched the dozens of mosquito bites on the face and neck. “Look at me!” Her face appeared swollen, and she bore uncountable red spots everywhere on her skin.
If Pippa hadn’t been in such shock, she’d laughed at the sight. Wife Six resembled a pubescent boy in a lady’s gown but her hands bore witness to her cruelty.
“What do you want?” Pippa’s voice trembled as she gently set her trembling friend back onto the hay.
“Revenge.”
“For what?”
“You planted those mosquitos in my bedchamber. Don’t think I’m stupid. I know what kind of person you are.”
“And what kind is that?” Pippa looked at her bunny, trying to ascertain where he was bleeding. If only she could see!
“The devilish kind. You planned to sneak away for a tryst and wanted to cover it up. You thought I’d be bedridden for days after succumbing to a million stings. But you miscalculated, darling.” Her evil stepmothertskedand wagged her blood-stained index finger. “I have a potion that soothes the sting, you see.” She produced a glass vial with a cork from somewhere in her bodice.
