“Have you checked the paintings? Perhaps he hid everything. It is entirely possible.”
“Thomas and I searched everything—every last thing,” Eammon insisted. “We looked inside every box and examined each painting. I assure you, Mother, we did.”
“I wonder if he hid it elsewhere,” his mother proposed. “Your father had certain secret places, as did Pembroke. I dare say if anyone knows of a hiding place, it will be his beloved daughter. You must go to Hartford and speak to her. Confess your truth and ask for her assistance. I am certain she would provide it. And while you are at it, reveal how you feel.”
Eammon was not a man accustomed to allowing others to dictate his actions, but this time he recognized that his mother spoke wise counsel. He departed, kissing her cheek, determined to embark on his journey to Hartford without delay.
CHAPTER33
Charity
Pembroke.
Charity could hardly believe that she was home again. Her old home felt as though she had never left it. The same floorboards creaked when she stepped on them, the same rooms were drafty and familiar, and yet so much had changed within. The bones of the home remained, but the furnishings were different. Her uncle had upgraded much in anticipation of letting the place since he did not plan to live here himself.
Everything that was part of Charity’s inheritance had been sent to Hayward now, with the pieces meant for Eleanor having been placed in storage or sent to their mother’s townhouse.
She took time to walk around the house and greet the old servants below stairs. Others had joined them, for many had moved to the townhouse with her mother. However, Mrs. Jenkins remained, as did the butler and many of the footmen who lived in the area. It had been a joyful reunion, and she was happy to be back.
Still, it felt strange. When she stepped into her father’s old study, she found it nearly empty. The shelves had been stripped bare, with whatever was hers sent to Eammon and whatever remained moved to her uncle’s primary residence. The old oak desk was still there, along with her father’s chair.
She walked along the desk, running her gloved hand over the oakwood, her heart heavy with longing for the man who had been her protector all her life, the man who had appointed Eammon to take over that task now.
Walking to the chair behind the desk, her legs felt heavy, as though they did not wish to carry her across the room. She finally sat down, feeling the imprint of her father’s shape still in the chair.
As she closed her eyes, her arms fell into the familiar spot where he had always rested them, pressing her back into the mold made by his form. It was almost as though he were hugging her from beyond the grave. She could almost smell the scent of the pipe he had taken up later in his life and taste the comfort he would sometimes share with her.
When her eyes popped open, she pulled open one of the drawers, but found it empty. She sighed but then, on a whim, placed her hand within the drawer and to her surprise, felt a wooden box at the end. His comfit box. Of all the things to have been left behind…
She opened it and discovered that a few remained inside. Her father had passed nearly eight months prior; would they still be good? Unsure, she placed one in her mouth anyway.
The taste of cinnamon bit her tongue, and she smiled, for it tasted like him. They had sat and enjoyed comfits together many times while reading books—sometimes with her sister and her mother, but most often alone.
Tears rushed to her face. She knew she had to leave; if she stayed there too long, her grief would entangle her, and she would not be able to do what she had come to accomplish.
Stepping out, she called for Mrs. Jenkins.
“I require a horse,” she said.
“Of course, Lady Charity,” the housekeeper replied, but then shook her head. “I mean, Your Grace.”
“It is quite all right. I have not grown accustomed to being duchess. I believe I am much more comfortable being Lady Charity.”
“That may be so, but you are no longer the child I once knew,” she said, placing a hand on Charity’s shoulder as she had done when Charity was a small girl. “You are now married. And I know you will do exceedingly well. I believe your father would be so pleased to know that you have married the Duke of Leith. He was quite fond of him.”
This took Charity by surprise. “I did not know that they knew one another.”
“Not well. He knew him when they were boys. But he was always quite fond of him whenever he did see him, and as you know, the late Duke of Leith was your father’s best friend. He always had faith in the Duke of Leith. I know he often spoke after his death of how he was certain his son would succeed him, and he would be very pleased to know that you had found one another.”
Charity was uncertain what this meant, but her father’s words from his letter still echoed in her mind. Perhaps Mrs. Jenkins was right. But whatever it was, right now she had to discover what her father had left for her.
“I shall return this evening,” she said. “Would you please prepare a chamber for me? I know my uncle is not in residence, but I am certain he would not mind my staying.”
“I know he would not,” the housekeeper agreed, “and your old chamber will be ready for you.”
“Thank you,” Charity replied, and then made her way out of the house.
When the horse was saddled, she took off. She knew exactly where her father meant to guide her. Once, a few years before his passing, he had taken her for a ride. She had been young enough then to still ride on Ambrose. How old had she been? Ten? Twelve? No more than that. Younger perhaps.
