Sheridan cleared his throat. “More seeds were planted today than those, actually.” He gave them the short version of Ainsley and his cousin, summing up with, “So, we can decide later today where we’d like to send them off chasing a few wild geese. It’ll distract them. Give Beth time to heal.”
“Perhaps they’d enjoy a trip to Portugal.” With a chuckle, Mamm-wynn rose slowly from her chair. She moved into the space between Beth’s sofa and Oliver’s chair, reaching out a hand to each of them. “Don’t fret, my darlings. That young man is chasing after the wind, even without Theo and Henry’s distraction. And he doesn’t stand a chance—not against my favorites. Speaking of which . . .” She craned her head enough to send Sheridan an arch look. “Where exactly do you intend your sisters to stay, Theo? I’m afraid we don’t have any more room here.”
He could only open his mouth, no words there for his tongue to lay hold of.
Telford sighed. “You invited your sisters to join us? Really, Sher. You know well they’ll take over.”
“Well, I . . .” No, still no words. Not intelligible ones. He looked to Beth for some fortification, sure she would understand. Wouldn’t she? They had to come, obviously. Meet her. So that he could convince them that she would make a most excellent marchioness.
Yes, she certainly understood. Which was no doubt why panic lit her eyes. Bother.
He directed a playful scowl to Mamm-wynn. “How did you even know that? I’ve only just written the letter—it’s still on the hall table. You wouldn’t have even seen it yet.”
She only laughed again, that sound of silver and magic, and released her grandchildren’s hands so she could come over to him. She patted one cheek and utterly charmed him by leaning down to kiss the other. “You’re a good lad, Theo. And your sisters are lovely girls. I do so like you all.”
How she could like them when she hadn’t even met them, he didn’t know. But there was really only one reply he could make. “Thank you, Mamm-wynn. I assure you, the feeling’s mutual.”
Beth battled her way out of sleep, the pain pulling her from that blessed oblivion like a tugboat. She blinked her eyes open, winced at the bright midmorning light, and tried to sound out her current aches without moving.
It turned out that twenty-four hours after being nearly crushed by a granite slab, one was more aching bruise than sound flesh.
The whisper of shifting fabric drew her gaze to her left, where she fully expected to see an auburn head bent over a book. But the hair was redder, longer, neatly pinned into an elegant style. Beth frowned and tried to push herself more upright. “Em? When did you get here?”
Emily’s head jerked up, eyes wide, red, and swollen. “You’re awake!” She scooted her chair as close to the sofa as she could get it and reached out to clasp Beth’s hand in both of hers. “Oh, Beth. I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”
She sounded more than sorry—she sounded more miserable than Beth felt, which inspired her to try to find a smile. “Last I checked, you weren’t there pushing that granite down onto me.”
“He’s my brother.” Misery paired with shame now in her voice. “And he tried to kill you.”
A reality as shocking as it was unprovable. Somehow, even though Beth had gone into hiding because she feared this very thing, she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around it. That Nigel Scofield himself—not a hired lackey known for ruthless tactics, like Lorne—had done this. He had plotted, planned, dug out that slab, and lured her into the pit for the express purpose of injuring or killing her.
Even more chilling was the realization that her friend had lived under the same roof as that monster for so many years. Beth squeezed her fingers. “You are not at fault for what he does.”
“Am I not? I’m a Scofield. Scofields—”
“Stop. Em.” Beth pushed herself up a little more, wincing with the effort. “As long as I’ve known you, that’s been your reason for everything. You’re a Scofield, and that comes with expectations. With duties. With—”
“Because it does!” Tears pooled in Emily’s eyes. “Isn’t that what all those stories your mother and brother gathered prove? We cannot escape our families. They shape us and define us. We share a fate.”
“Not always.” She’d come so close yesterday to following after her parents and Morgan. But God had spared her. And she had to believe that He, being merciful and loving, would spare Emily, too, from the fate her brother was hurtling toward.
Emily shook her head, a sad, slow pendulum. “We’ve never been like you and your brothers—you know that. I’ve never . . . I’ve never liked him. And he’s certainly never shown me the slightest regard. But he’s my brother. And whether neighbor or enemy, I’m supposed to love him. Right? That’s what your brother said.”
Beth’s face twisted. “Sounds like Ollie.”
Emily’s tears spilled out onto her cheeks. Her voice emerged as a strangled whisper. “I don’t know how, Beth. When I think of him, of our father, even of Mother—all I feel is this terrible anger. Why have they chosen this path? Why?”
Though Beth opened her mouth, she had no answer to give.
Emily sighed and leaned over until her head rested against their hands. Her tears fell warm and wet against Beth’s fingers. Her back trembled. “I have to stop him. I have to. Before he goes so far there’s no coming back from it.”
“Oh, Em.” Beth rested her free hand on Emily’s head, like Mother had always done when Beth threw herself in a tearful fit into her lap. Usually over something the boys had done—teased her or pulled her hair or tried to exclude her from a game. Such petty things. Nothing at all compared to her friend’s troubles. Morgan and Oliver had always been so easy to love. They’d been her champions. Would she ever have had the strength to spread her wings if she didn’t know she had such a rock-solid home to fly back to? “That may be the bravest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”
“Brave?” Emily tipped her face up. “I’m not brave. You are.”
Beth shook her head. “I may be bold. Sometimes—foolishly—even fearless. But that’s not bravery. Bravery is seeing the fearsome thing and standing firm when you want to run.” Her chest ached, and not just from the bruising. “That’s never been me. I’m the rosefinch—quick to flit away.”
“I wish I knew how to fly like you do.” Emily gave her a weary smile and sat up straight again. “I’m so glad you came to London that year for school. I don’t know where I’d be if I’d never met you.”
“Probably not in the Scillies, at war with your brother.” All but disowned by her father.
Emily sighed. “Exactly. But I think—or at least I hope—that this is precisely where the Lord wants me to be.” She squeezed Beth’s fingers and then stood up. “I’ll let Mamm-wynn know you’re awake.”
Beth nodded and let her leave, knowing her friend needed the moment alone to compose herself.
Frankly, Beth could use the moment too. All of a sudden this wasn’t about the treasure or besting Nigel Scofield or solving a mystery or even exploring her mother’s favorite story.