The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,30

me if that ain’t the truth, but I’ll wager she doesn’t know that.”

Walsh shrugged. “Well, didn’t you at least ask her why she wanted to meet you?”

“No!” King said, rolling his eyes. “I assumed that bit was obvious enough.”

“Did it look obvious?”

“What?”

Walsh let out a long-suffering sigh. “I mean, did she look like a woman eager to be ravished in a dark corner?”

King frowned, casting his mind back. “No. She looked like a woman who would try to fit it into her busy day if she really must. Damn it, Walsh, whatever is she about?”

“Did it not occur to you to ask her?” Walsh asked with an air of mild exasperation King was all too familiar with.

“Well, I….”

“What did you say to her?”

“I….” King cleared his throat. “I told her I wasn’t feeling well and was going for a lie down, and… and that I hoped it had all been a disagreeable dream.”

“Very sophisticated, sir.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Yes, sir.”

King glowered at the ceiling. “With a bit of luck, whatever foolishness she had in that peculiar brain of hers will have worked its way free by now. I don’t expect she’ll mention it again.”

“I don’t expect so,” Walsh replied with his most soothing tone.

King grunted and closed his eyes. He wanted a drink. No, the truth. It was important to be honest with himself at least. He wanted a bottle, possibly three, and he knew if he had them, he wouldn’t stop until he passed out. I’m not drinking. I am not drinking. I. Am. Not. Drinking. It had become a mantra these past days, and it seemed necessary to repeat the words almost every minute, just in case. He would not let Walsh down when the man had shown such faith in him, he would not let himself down. His father might think him a worthless disappointment but that was no reason for proving the man right. He had lost control of himself, of his life, but it was his life, and he would take control of it again. King would not be governed by his father and certainly not by alcohol. I want to live. I am not drinking. This would pass and he would feel better. The drink did not control him, he would not allow it. He’d have a nap like he’d said he would, and with a bit of luck Miss Penrose would have reclaimed her sanity by the time he woke up.

Livvy gritted her teeth as Ceci let out another heavy sigh. Her sister-in-law put aside the latest copy of Ackerman’s Repository and her study of the fashion plates and stared out of the window with a wistful expression. She was plump and pale, and lovely as a faded rose. Ceci had been a beauty once, but a combination of indolence, indulgence, and eight pregnancies would have worn upon even the brightest diamond. Still, she made a pretty picture, reclining on the daybed and looking as though she was waiting for someone to peel her a grape.

“Perhaps you ought to go back to bed,” Livvy suggested, struggling to keep her tone that of a concerned sister.

“Oh, no, no. One must endure, mustn’t one?”

Livvy dug her teeth into her bottom lip. She would not rise to the bait. She would not.

“Only it made me so sad to see little Birdie this morning wearing poor Rebecca’s hand-me-downs. I mean, Becca is seven now, and—”

“Nine.”

“Hmmm?”

“Rebecca is nine, and Birdie is wearing Jane’s old clothes. She’s seven,” Livvy added helpfully.

“Yes, I know.” Ceci gave a sad shake of her head. “To think we have been reduced to this. My darling Charlie hardly sleeps, you know. If only there was something to be done. It plays on his mind so, I fear for his health.”

“A pity he spent all that money on Christmas presents, then,” Livvy retorted and then cursed herself. Don’t do it. Do not.

“Oh, but the poor, poor children. Imagine how they would feel not having presents for St Nicholas? Oh, dear me.”

Yes, Livvy thought, but did they have to be quite such expensive presents? She suspected the children would rather have a roof over their heads and food in their bellies and not have to face their father being sent to Bodmin Gaol for his inability to repay his debts. Livvy drew in a deep breath and counted to ten, concentrating on the stocking she was darning.

“Here,” she said, pushing the mending basket over towards Ceci with her foot. “Do some darning. It will occupy your mind and