Page 53 of Charity

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“I’m afraid there is nothing to be done, Miss Birkenstock.”

Those words kept bouncing around inside Agatha’s head until she thought it might explode from the anguish. Nothing. Not one single thing. Agatha stroked her fingers over her grandfather’s unresponsive hand, feeling a chill seep into her bones. It might not be long, it might take all night, but either way this would be her last moments with family.

After that—vast loneliness awaited her.

No family, no husband yet, and no children.

A rustle at the door alerted Agatha to her midnight visitor. After the doctor had made his pronouncement an hour earlier, Agatha had sent two letters: one to her cousin in Winchester and one to Lady Estella Carrington here in Town. It was far too soon for her cousin to arrive, but not too soon for her grandfather’s closest friend. Although she shouldn’t know of the affair between them, Agatha was observant and had made the connection long ago.

Despite any possible awkwardness, sending the letter was a kindness.

Estella Carrington rushed to the bedside and cupped her hands around her grandfather’s face. Her expression, so full of anguish and worry, convinced Agatha she’d made the right decision to inform the viscountess, even at the risk a deathbed vigil could bring scandal upon the Carrington name.

Agatha dropped her gaze to her hands, waiting for the lady to absorb the change to come, to compose herself for the end. She ignored the sniffing tears Lady Carrington couldn’t contain and tried to think of what she would have to do. Her cousin would own the house. Foolishly, she had never discussed what would become of her if her grandfather died before she married. And he’d been so adamant she marry soon.

The cold hand beneath hers twitched and she glanced at her grandfather’s face. His eyes were open. Agatha climbed to her feet to stand closer to his head.

“My angels.”

Agatha hastily swiped a falling tear from her cheek and clutched his hand tightly. She couldn’t think of what to say, but feared these moments would be her last. A glance at Lady Carrington showed she wasn’t alone in her grief. Tears ran thick down the older woman’s cheeks, casting her face in palpable grief.

“Oh, my Thomas. Don’t leave us.”

But there was no response to her words. His eyes widened as he drew breath and never let it out again.

The sudden silence was stifling.

Estella Carrington threw herself across Agatha’s grandfather’s unmoving chest and wept bitter tears of loss. Agatha watched, numb, unable to comprehend why he would allow such a display of emotion in his presence. And then she remembered. He was gone. He wouldn’t tell anyone to leave him be ever again.

The hand in her grip slipped away. She stared at it, waiting for a movement that would prove this night was but a nightmare dredged from her deepest dreams. Yet it didn’t move the slightest inch.

A sniff at the door caught her attention. She moved, turning to see who was crying.

Nell stood at the entry, tears pouring down her cheeks, grieving for her employer with more emotion than Agatha felt.

He couldn’t be gone. Any moment now, he would rise up and tell them all to end their feminine wailing. He’d claim it hurt his ears, and head for his study to bury himself in his papers.

But when she noticed the butler’s pained attempts not to shed a tear himself, Agatha had to face the future.

Alone.

With no one ever to lecture her again.

Agatha put her hand to the bedpost to steady herself, pain and loss finally forcing her body to react. She didn’t want this, but she had exactly what she thought she’d wanted all along. Freedom.

Her view blurred as tears fell. Walls disappeared as strong hands pushed her down into a chair then pressed soft linen into her palm. A handkerchief. A man’s handkerchief.

That simple gesture broke her last ounce of self-possession, and she gave in to her tears until she thought her heart might break.

Oh, God, it hurt so badly.

Agatha wrapped her arms about her chest in a vain attempt at control.

Another hand pulled at her. The warm, delicate scent of lavender offered comfort. Agatha buried her head in Estella’s shoulder and let her heartbreak flow. The viscountess held her, stoked her back, and rocked her gently while she cried.

Agatha ignored how odd it was to be comforted by the woman, and a tearful woman at that. She was Oscar’s mother, a necessarily distant figure. But how strange to be held by her grandfather’s lover.