Aunt Sarah chuckled, watching the little girl who looked so much like her own even though she was not. Same dark hair and mobile, intelligent face. Only their eyes differed. Uncle Henry called his wife’s eyes lapis lazuli. Glittering treasure. Not right now, though. Now, Uncle Henry bellowed directions for unloading the coaches.
Jackson walked a wary line toward the servants. This was his house, though he’d often avoided it, and these servants his, too. It was his job to greet them, to introduce the others, though doing so felt like a sham, as if he attempted to step into his father’s shoes when they would never fit.
Perhaps Uncle Henry could do it. He looked over his shoulder, and instead of finding his uncle, he found Gwendolyn. She looked at him as if he could gather stars with his fingertips, plucking them from the heavens and categorizing them one by one. How could she look at him like that one moment and throw every star he’d gathered her away the next?
He turned back to the servants. His servants now, an extended part of his family. He felt ready, finally, to fit into his father’s shoes.
He completed his march and bowed low to them all, cleared his throat. “The prodigal has returned.”
Laughter rippled through their ranks.
A woman stepped forward. She was tall with friendly green eyes and steel-gray hair pulled into a stiff coiffure low on her neck. Mrs. Agatha Whitlock had been housekeeper since the house opened. “Mr. Cavendish, it is good to see you once more.” She wore a grin well, as if she wore it often. “We are pleased you’ve brought a party with you.”
“It will be good to have the house full once more, will it not?” Easier to pretend easiness once he’d begun.
“Quite exciting. If you’ll all come inside, we’ll show everyone to their rooms.”
He led the way.
Mrs. Whitlock followed close behind. “It is late, sir, but we’ve prepared a small dinner if you’ve not filled yourself up at some inn or other.”
“That sounds perfect. Thank you, Mrs. Whitlock.”
She beamed and led him and the others up the stairs. “All the bedrooms are on the second floor, as is yours. We’ve prepared your parents’ old room, as well. Just in case.”
Just in case he wished to use it. He would not.
The hallway grew larger as they rose, and he stopped when the double doors to his parents’ room came into view.
Mrs. Whitlock continued, unaware of his pause. “The other bedrooms are in the opposite wing on this floor.”
His family, climbing the stairs behind him, bumped into him, crowded past him.
Uncle Henry patted him on the shoulder as he passed, Aunt Sarah on his arm. “Good to be home, my boy?”
Yes. Quite. But not without shadows. He smiled, a weak thing that likely looked on the verge of dying.
No one noticed, though. They followed Mrs. Whitlock down the hall and disappeared around a corner as she led them to their rooms.
“Are you well?” Gwendolyn’s voice rang from below with worried softness.
He cleared his throat and lifted a boulder-heavy leg to the top of the landing. “Yes. Of course.”
Steps, almost silent, behind him, then she appeared beside him, looking up, her eyes wide with careful observation. “I do not think I believe you.”
“’Tis neither here nor there.” He strode away from her. “You’d best catch up to Mrs. Whitlock to learn what chamber she’s put you in.” He stopped before his parents’ room.
She stopped right behind him, laid a hand on his shoulder. “If you need my help, Jackson, I will give you what I can. I would like to do you some good instead of…” She swallowed her words.
“Only work here, Miss Smith. As you wish.” He tried to make his voice cold, practical.
Then only cold where the warm square of her hand had been, only the ghost of her presence haunted him with the scent of mint and roses. She kept peppermint-flavored treats in her pockets to help her focus while she worked, and something she bathed in soaked her in the heady fragrance of blooming flowers.
He would know the interesting combination anywhere, forever associate it with her.
He snuck his hand into his pocket, finding the warm, curved metal of his pocket watch, taking strength and courage from it, from his father. He stepped forward, pressing fingertips to the oak doors before him. Cold and solid and silken. He’d walked by them once, pressed his ear to them, heard things his parents would likely rather he forget—sounds of laughter and love. They’d loved each other fiercely. They’d loved their children just as well.
And Jackson had failed them.
