He reddened, swatted at her gratitude. “Bah. No need for thanks.”
“Uncle! Uncle!” the twins called.
“Papa!” And Pansy.
They rushed through the door and tackled him, pulling him to the floor. He rose off the ground, bringing the three children with him, attached to three of his four limbs. “Worse than the kraken you all are. Come along. Give Miss Smith her privacy.” He dragged them from the room, leaving only the echoes of their giggles behind.
And Gwendolyn’s battered heart.
And the cat.
She ignored the pesky feline and plonked out a few more notes. Done. Done and done and done, the only word to every note known to man. Done—she’d told him her plans. Done—he’d accepted them. And done—her time of refuge with this family.
She collapsed onto the keys, pressing her eyes tightly closed and laying her head atop her folded arms. A cacophony of sound. Then silence.
She would not cry. Shedid notcry. Not since the night before she’d crept onto that ship that had sailed her into a new life. She—
What in Jove’s name was that? She looked up and to the side.
The cat sat beside her, head tilted. It stood and moved toward her in a single elegant sweep of paw and fur and butted its head against her waist. And purred.
“Go away,” she muttered.
The cat did not go away. It continued to rub its tiny triangle head against her, purring, a soft vibration that put the tears right back where they’d come from. At least the creature was of some use, then.
“You’re a nuisance,” she said. But she didn’t mean it. Not even a little bit. She reached out and touched tentative fingers to the space between its eyes that looked so very soft. Fluffy. And it was. Startlingly soft. She jerked her hand back as if burned by the fluffiness.
The cat took the opportunity to step onto her lap.
“The effrontery! A gentleman asks a lady first. Are you a gentleman? Or are you a lady?”
She wasn’t about to look again. Seemed a breach of propriety. Or perhaps privacy.
The cat curled up into an oval rug of fluff and purr and gray stripes and closed its eyes, pinning her as neatly as a pin would pierce an insect, mooring it eternally in a dish.
“Bother,” she muttered, but she stretched her fingers through its fur along its back and closed her eyes, enjoyed the comfort another being could give for the first time since the midnight tower in Paris.
She was doing the right thing. Absolutely. A new life. A new beginning in a place no one knew her. No stares on the streets or being recognized by seamstresses. No Jackson, either… but Marianne, if she agreed to join her, would keep the loneliness at bay. And Jackson and his family would be better off without her. And she’d do her best while still here to help him find his father’s book, complete the man’s research. A gift before leaving.
A final connection between severing everything.
Perhaps she could get a cat.
Seven
Jackson woke with the dawn and met Gwendolyn at the study door. He ignored her wide, blue eyes, neat, coiled hair, and mouth still soft from sleep. She had, thrown over one shoulder, her beaten satchel, which he knew held her sketchbook and pencil, some charcoal, usually, and some watercolors too.
They stared awkwardly at one another.
She tilted her head, pressed her lips thin.
He scratched the back of his neck.
“Will we stand here all morning?” she asked.
“Not at all.” He opened the door and ushered her through with a gallant bow. Overdone, but he had to make up for the awkwardness somehow.
“We should break our fast first,” she said, looking around at the book-lined walls, the soft, faded rugs, the small fireplace with chairs and table gathered round, and the large walnut desk dominating the room’s center.
