“Amelia,” he said. “Where did you learn that vocabulary?”
“What does it matter?” Amelia demanded. “Christiana’s father is about to die. She must go to him at once, and I must accompany her.”
Miss Byrd’s face turned puce. “She shall not!”
“Miss Byrd.” Hugh didn’t raise his voice, but he put every ounce of authority he possessed into it, and the room fell silent. “I’m afraid you do not make the decisions in this house. That right belongs to me.”
“Your Grace.” Miss Byrd’s hands trembled as she clasped them before her. “Surely, you will not allow your sister, your dear sister, to go to such a place.”
“Do not forget, Miss Byrd, that you refer to my childhood home when you speak ofsuch a place.” Christiana fixed Miss Byrd with such an icy stare that the lady almost stumbled backward.
“Well, ma’am, you must confess that your father—”
“What do you know of my father?”
“I may have come to work here thirty years ago, but everyone in London already knew about Lord Barnsley and his wastrel ways. And your mother—your poor mother—”
“Oh, no,” Christiana said, still in that icy tone, the dignity of a duchess falling about her even in her devastation. “If you will insult my father, you ought to treat my mother with the same respect.”
“Enough, Miss Byrd.” Hugh had, abruptly, run out of patience. For so long, he had clung to the way things had been before the fire, but no longer. “You will not speak to my wife in that way. Or my sister.”
Miss Byrd clasped her hands together. “Your Grace, you know I only have the best wishes for you all at heart, and I—”
“You overstep,” he said. “And more pertinently, your role in my household is no longer necessary. You were generous in remaining with us after the fire; you may have a good reference and two months’ pay. Please see Mrs. Quince about gathering your belongings and anything you are owed.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Your Grace—”
“That is my final say on the matter. I will not have the members of my household insulted in such a way. You are dismissed.” He looked away from her to Christiana, who watched him with damp eyelashes behind her salt-flecked spectacles. Her hands were balled on her lap, knuckles white.
They had been intimate numerous times over the past few weeks. Enthusiastically. She had been determined to explore all the ways she could give him pleasure; she had treated his burned skin with reverence.
He wanted to shake her and demand why she’d had such a hideous portrait painted.
Instead, he knew, he must address this latest misfortune: that of her father.
Amelia must have rung for Mrs. Quince, because the housekeeper arrived in the doorway and led Miss Byrd gently away. The older woman was crying. Hugh knew he ought to have felt something—she had been a part of the household for almost the entirety of his life, and despite her managing ways, he knew she cared deeply—but he felt nothing.
Christiana released a long breath, blinking away the remainder of her tears. Once again, in control.
“You received a letter from your father?” he asked.
“From my father’s steward. According to him—and he would not lie about this—my father’s condition is severe. He has asked for me.” She met his gaze squarely. “And I must go to him.”
Mr. Arnold had begun the process of acquiring the house and the land; if Lord Barnsley died before the transaction completed, then he would no doubt have to attempt it all over again.
When Hugh said nothing, Christiana adjusted her glasses. “I know he has done unspeakable things, but I must have closure. I must, Hugh.”
He stepped closer, bringing Christiana into focus. Her eyes met his, and another ache split his chest, this time at her pain.
If he were a tree, he would have been on the verge of falling. Yet what choice did he have but to endure? They would have a conversation about the portrait and the betrayal it signified, but not yet. Not until she had seen to her father and dealt with her grief regarding that; Hugh knew better than to think Christiana would feel nothing at her father’s death. However the man had attempted to sever the ties between them, they were bound by blood.
“Then,” he said, each word deliberate, “there is nothing else to do but arrange our travel.”
“Our?” She blinked up at him, her expression hopeful. “You will come with me?”
“Would you rather you went alone?”
“No, of course not. But…” She chewed her lip. “Yorkshire is a long way from here, and I know you dislike traveling.”