Dark Surrender (38 page)

Hands wringing, Violet leapt to her feet to allow him room. He ignored her. How she could have let this happen . . .

“Papa’s here, sweetling,” he murmured, suffering at the sight of so many burns covering his daughter’s sweet face. “I’ve got some ointment and a cold wrap here for you, and then I’m going to bring you home.”

“Alistair,” Violet burst out. “I am so, so sorry. I never meant—”

“Be silent.” If she forced him to speak to her, he would only wound them both.

An icy fury emanated from his bones. Had he not told her time and again the horror that would occur if Lillian went into the sun? His innocent daughter was a horrible state, and
she
had let it happen. These burns were far worse than those Lillian had suffered before, and she still bore the scars from last time.

Alistair’s throat closed. People
died
from burns like these. If he lost his daughter because Violet hadn’t protected her, he would never,
never,
forgive her.

He thrust an open hand toward Roper, who immediately provided him with shears. Slowly, gently, Alistair trimmed away the sleeves where they might rub against Lillian’s raw arms, trimmed away the bottom third of her skirt where it might chafe her thin, blistered legs. With every snip of the shears, he sliced away another part of his soul.

Lillian was hurt. Lillian was in pain.

Lillian might die.

Vision blurring, he covered her with every drop of the ointment. His entire body shook with anger and fear and desperation. He lifted the large folded linen from the bucket of ice water and carefully swaddled it around his daughter. She winced as necessity forced him to touch and move her, but she made not a single word of complaint. She was so fragile . . . Her brave stoicism broke his heart.

“I’m so sorry, sweetling,” he whispered brokenly. “Papa doesn’t mean to hurt you.”

Lillian met his eyes and gave him a raw half-smile. “I knew it would hurt,” she said quietly, her voice as scratchy and halting as his own. “I knew it would hurt and I didn’t care. I came anyway. It was worth it.”

Alistair shot a disbelieving glance up at Violet. She stood immobile, eyes closed, silent tears streaming down her face. As if she could feel him watching her, her lips formed the words,
I’m sorry.

He jerked his horrified gaze back to his daughter. “You knew this could happen? And you followed her here anyway?”

Lillian’s eyes were glassy with pain, but her expression was one of determination. “Just ’cause I’ll get new scars doesn’t mean I forgot the old ones, Papa. But Violet was
leaving
. Somebody had to bring her home. If you weren’t going to, then it was up to me.”

Alistair felt the weight of all eyes in the room upon him at once. There was no time for more words. Even now, time ticked steadily against them.

The physician burst into the room. In less than half an hour, he completed his initial evaluation. Alistair stepped closer, finally feeling hopeful. The physician shook his head. Hope was misplaced. The prognosis was not good.

Alistair’s nerves shattered.

He stood at the ready throughout the long afternoon, watching in heart-twisting silence as cream after cream, compress after compress, were applied to his daughter’s wounds. Violet hovered on the other side of the worn mattress, staring sightlessly with haunted eyes. She did not speak. Good. He did not wish to even look at her. He had eyes for no one except his daughter.

When night fell, the exhausted physician finally rose to his feet. He nodded at Alistair. It was finally safe to bring Lillian home. The physician set off first, to ensure everything was ready for Lillian’s arrival. The other four would follow in Alistair’s carriage.

Hating that just the act of lifting his daughter into his arms would bring her additional pain, he scooped her up as gently as he could and eased down the steps. A crowd had gathered. Roper and Violet staved off the vitriolic smithy and his disciples, allowing Alistair to climb into the carriage and settle Lillian along one padded bench. He perched across from her, wishing to Heaven that he could press a kiss to her hair just one more time, but not daring to risk causing her more pain.

Roper took the reins as Violet slumped onto the seat next to Alistair.

To be fair, she looked as though no torture he could devise would be half as excruciating as the one raging inside her heart and mind. Her face was unnaturally pale, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen and the skin beneath puffy and bruised. Her fingers shook, and her breaths—when they came at all—were shallow and uneven.

But Alistair wasn’t feeling particularly fair. He was feeling like a man whose daughter might die from her injuries. He was feeling like a father who would sell his soul to the Devil in exchange for his daughter’s continued life.

He was feeling like a failure.

Lillian was right. He was a terrible papa. He dropped his face in his hands and did his best not to cry. Lillian needed strength right now, not further evidence of her father’s faults.

He needed to be strong, to show her his faith, his trust in the Lord that a miracle would occur and she would somehow be all right. Numbly rocking back and forth, he closed his eyes and prayed. Again and again, the same desperate litany, without changing a single word.
God in Heaven, take me if you wish, but
please
let Lillian live.

Every tiny moan that escaped her burnt lips was another dagger to his heart.

When they finally reached the abbey, a double row of footmen waited outside. Violet leaped down from the carriage to allow him room. He gathered his daughter in his arms as tenderly as he could and carried her inside.

With every step he took, Lillian winced in pain, and with every wince, another part of Alistair crumbled inside. How he hated that the very act of carrying his daughter to safety caused her to suffer. He hated the world. He hated himself. He hated God.

Watch over Lillian.
That’s all he’d ever asked.
Keep her safe.
If he lost her now . . . Lord above, if he
lost
her . . .

Mrs. Tumsen and a dozen housemaids awaited them at the door to the catacombs with apprehensive faces and lit candles in their hands.

“The physician is inside,” Mrs. Tumsen said as Roper unlocked the door. “He sent over another trunk of medications.”

Alistair nodded mutely. He did not trust himself to speak. If he opened his mouth even a fraction, he might scream or sob or do both at the same time, and what he really needed was to get Lillian to that physician as quickly as possible.

Focusing as best he could on keeping one foot ahead of the other, he somehow made it from the catacombs to the sanctuary. Dozens of candles flickered around the cavernous chamber, giving life to the fantastical murals that had leapt from his daughter’s head to her walls. Oh, God, was this all he would have left of her if she died? The room that had been her prison was now painted in a dizzying trompe l’oeil to simulate the freedom she found only in her imagination. The freedom she would never have.

Alistair’s body shook. He would
never
leave her side. He would sit here and rot here and die here if it was the only way he could still be surrounded by his daughter’s memory.

The physician was across the room, gazing up at an improbably large bumblebee flying over a panoply of rainbow-colored lilies. He turned from the wall as soon as they entered the room and hurried to the bed as Alistair tenderly laid his daughter atop the mattress.

“Go,” the physician said with a nod. “I will call you if I need you, or if anything changes.”

“I am not leaving this room,” Alistair said firmly.

The physician’s eyes were sober, but kind. “Then give me the space I need to examine my patient. Join the others over there. Your daughter will never be out of your sight.”

After a moment, Alistair nodded. He still longed to press a kiss to his daughter’s brow. To hold her to his chest and hug her tight. To promise he would never let her go. His feet dragging as if each limb weighed a thousand pounds, he somehow found the strength to back away from the bed and let the physician attend his child.

He did not go to the others, however. Partly because he was wound far too tightly to withstand well-wishes without cracking, but mostly because he wanted to stand beneath the colorful lilies. To feel closer to his daughter.

Minutes ticked into hours.

Violet sat on the floor in the far corner, arms about her knees and Lillian’s pelisse pressed to her face. From her tortured expression, she was equally as terrified as Alistair, but he kept his distance. He did not trust what he might do. She had left him. She had endangered his daughter. She had come back home. No, Alistair could not go to her. He didn’t know whether he would clutch her to his chest or strike her across the face. He loved her, but in this moment, he hated her just as passionately. Because of her thoughtlessness, they might both lose Lillian forever.

New maids brought fresh candles. More footmen refilled the buckets of ice. Empty liniment flasks lined the marble floor as the physician applied ointment after ointment to Lillian’s mottled skin. No one breathed.

At last, the physician rose from the bed, his eyes bleak and his face somber.

No
. The edges of Alistair’s vision turned black. He couldn’t lose her. He could
not
. His pulse raced in his ears, but his skin grew cold. It was too late. It was all over. If Lillian died, Alistair wished to be buried with her. Life was not worth living.

The physician laid his hands on Alistair’s shoulder and embraced him as if they’d known each other all their lives.

“She’s going to be all right,” the doctor said quietly. He gripped Alistair’s arms. “You hear me? She’s going to be all right. Don’t give up hope. You’re not going to lose her.”

Alistair finally allowed himself to cry.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

By the next day, the only people who hadn’t quit the sanctuary were Alistair, Lillian, and Violet. Alistair had stayed by his daughter’s side all day and all night, too intent upon his task of reapplying ointments to even register the cramping in his muscles or the bruising of his knees.

Violet, for her part, had not moved from the far corner. He had not yet spoken to her, and she had not dared approach. She remained crumpled in a ball; tiny, silent, rocking ever so slightly as if buffeted by an unseen wind.

She should’ve been more careful.

So should he.

He could now admit that the fault was not just hers. She would not have left if he had not driven her to it. And now look what they had done. What
he
had done. He hated that his lie had ruined what they’d felt between them. Had caused her to feel she had no choice but to leave. Had incited his daughter to chase her. He could blame Violet as much as he liked, but he was drowning in an even greater amount of guilt. He could bear it no longer.

Heart twisting, he corked the ointment and struggled to his feet. “Violet . . . ”

Lillian’s eyes snapped open and the tips of her burnt fingers scratched across the leg of his breeches. “Not her fault, Papa.”

Violet stared sightlessly from across the room, her face small, her eyes bruised and haunted.

“She is certainly not blameless. My daughter’s life
never
should have been in danger.”

Violet flinched, but made no attempt to defend herself.

Alistair’s gaze returned to Lillian’s ruined face. “But who is at fault? Should I blame Violet for leaving? You, for chasing after her? Myself, for driving away both the women I love? All of us are to blame. And it
shall not
happen again.”

Lillian glared up at him for a moment, then brightened. “See?” she called out. “I told you he loved you!”

This was rewarded by a choking half-sob from the corner.

He blinked. It was true. And he should have told her so much sooner. Was there still hope for trust between them? He crossed over to the corner where Violet still sat, hugging her knees. She didn’t look up. Alistair swallowed. This moment would define them forever—and it was up to him. He held out his hand. Whether she took it was up to her.

After a long moment, she placed her hand in his. He gave her a crooked smile when she finally glanced up. His heart was on his sleeve. His love for her was in his eyes, in his face, in every breath he took. The question was whether she wanted it. Awkwardly, she allowed him to help her to her feet. Rather than let go, he took both her hands in his.

“I’m sorry,” they said at the same time.

In another life, it might have been funny. But neither of them laughed. Too much was at stake, and they both knew it.

He squeezed her hands. “You were right. I should have told you the truth much sooner. I meant to, actually. It was just never the right time, or I simply forgot. It may sound unbelievable to you, but I have been living as if it were true since the moment of her birth. After nine years, it’s hard to remember what’s true and what isn’t.” He lowered his voice. “She doesn’t know.”

Her eyes widened in sudden understanding. “Lily thinks . . . ”

He nodded quickly. “I thought it would be best. I did not want her to feel alone. Or as though she were a hindrance to my life, when in fact she’s the very reason I live. And so I lied. Was I wrong to do so?”

“You were good-intentioned.” Violet’s eyes saw too deep. “I cannot say what I would have done in your place.”

He pressed her fingers to his lips. “Nor can I say how I might have reacted in yours.”

“When daylight broke . . . ” She shook her head, her body trembling in remembrance. “Words cannot describe my horror. Nor is there enough pain in this world to contain my guilt at leaving the window unshuttered.” Her hands fell back to her sides. “I didn’t mean to. Like you, I simply didn’t think of it. My head was so full of so many other questions . . . ”

He wished she had not let go of his hands. It was as if she were saying no.

Violet closed her eyes. “When the brightest minds in England had not heard of such a sickness, I began to wonder. When you admitted you had lied to me all this time, I figured you’d lied about everything, or at the very least exaggerated the truth beyond all propriety. If you suffered the same disease as your daughter, it clearly was not as bad as you had claimed. I’d meant to go straight to London, but I’d already missed the post. And with my face nailed on every wall, my head was filled with so many fears of not surviving the night, that I never once considered the dawn.” Her lip trembled, but she looked him in the eyes. “Oh, Alistair. I will never, ever forgive myself for allowing Lily to be harmed.”