“Yes, he is. I believe that that is what drew them together.”
“I would not doubt it, two men so far from home, forced to come to terms with the life they had been gifted in what to them must have seemed foreign climes. Your father had had time to adjust, having come as a young boy, Irondale less so. I do not believe that he has fully assimilated himself into our ways, but I greatly admire his strength in attempting to do his grandfather honor.”
“I believe he does so. My father would not have befriended a man lacking in honor.” Her own admittance caused her to realize just how true the statement was, and as such, could any of her father’s friends truly have been responsible for his murder? By such reasoning, they could not, but people often presented two faces, that in which they wish for the world to perceive them, and that in which they are behind closed doors. For some, they are one and the same. For others, they could not be more different.
The Earl nodded in agreement. “As can be seen by his friendship with my own father.”
“Indeed.” Cleo turned her gaze back out of the window for a moment. Aunt Caroline was right. The Earl of Dustshore was a kind and charming man, pleasant company. She felt guilty for begrudging him her consideration, not as a suitor, but as a friend.
“I believe it would do our fathers’ hearts good to know that their children were forming such an acquaintanceship as well,” the Earl broke into her thoughts as if he had read them.
Cleo turned her gaze back to the Earl, guilt for her prior attitude towards him driving her to speak. “Thank you for inviting us to come with you. My apologies for not saying so sooner.”
“You have just lost your father. I realize that it was presumptuous of me to extend the invitation, but I wished to offer you a distraction from your pain. I know when my own father died, I found that keeping myself busy was key to not allowing the grief to overwhelm me. The loss of a parent is one of the hardest things that a person will ever be forced to endure in one’s life, exceeded only by the loss of a child, so I have been told.”
“I would wish neither on anyone,” Cleo murmured, a fresh wave of loss sweeping over her.
“You are a sweet and gentle soul,” Dustshore mused, studying her face from across the carriage. “My father would have liked you.”
“Thank you, My Lord.” Cleo blushed slightly at the attention and turned her eyes away. “I do not deserve such high praise.”
“We shall agree to disagree on that point,” the Earl smiled at her kindly.
“I suppose we shall,” Cleo smiled back. “I am sorry that I never met your father. I often wondered why my father did not bring any of his pupils or colleagues home with him or take me with him when he visited, but I suppose that was simply his way.” She shrugged as if it mattered not, but she suspected that it mattered a great deal as if her father had been protecting her from something terrible, but what she knew not, yet.
Cleo studied the Earl’s face and wondered if his deceased father had known anything about the professor’s secrets. As his patron, it would have made sense that he might know, but if he had, surely her father would have left some clue as to the fact. He had left her nothing but nonsensical gibberish with little to go on to even decipher their meanings. It would have been nice if he had had a partner to guide her to better understanding her father’s secrets. Either way, such musings were all for naught as both men were dead and beyond asking.
I am on my own.
Chapter 12
Arthur MacDonald sat behind his desk, making notes as he and his estate manager, Hamish Rogers, went over the new agricultural methods that they had recently employed. “The tenant farmers are well pleased with the changes, My Lord, and your coffers are already reflecting this.”
“I am well pleased tae hear it.” Arthur nodded, smiling at the progress.
The sound of hoofbeats approaching the house signaled that they had an unexpected guest. Arthur turned to look out of the window and saw a man he did not know, lean down from his horse to hand the butler, George Dacre, a folded piece of paper, then race off back down the drive.
A messenger...he knew that he would not have to wait long before the butler would emerge bringing him the missive. It was not an odd occurrence to receive letters thus, so Arthur turned back to his estate manager and resumed their discussion without giving it further thought.
“And how are the new pigs?”
“They are doing beautifully, My Lord. We could not have asked for a better pig man than Lawrence Jensen. By spring we will have more than one lovely new litter of piglets.”
“Excellent.”
The butler entered the library carrying the newly arrived letter on a silver tray. Arthur had never understood why letters were always brought on silver trays. To him, it seemed so unnecessary, but it was the way that it had been during his grandfaither’s time and Mr. Dacre had seen no reason to change it when Arthur had inherited the title. “A message for you, My Lord.”
“Thank ye, Mr. Dacre.”
Arthur took the letter from the tray and looked at the handwriting on the exterior. He sat up straight when he recognized the feminine scrawl of Cleo Wallace. He tore open the wax seal and unfolded the paper devouring the brief missive upon the white page. The trip of his heart showed him that he had been worried about her more than he had been willing to admit to himself. The note stated that Cleo had solved the coded message that they had found on the back of her mother’s portrait and awaited his return to discuss its meaning.
“She did nae include the translation.”
“Forgive me, My Lord?” the estate manager inquired.
“Nae anything tae be concerned about, Rogers. Forgive me for speaking my thoughts aloud.”
“Of course, My Lord. Shall I go and allow you to write a proper response in peace? We were about finished as it is.”
