His jaw dropped. “Youposted it?”
“I did,” she said composedly. “And it achieved what both Judith and I intended.”
“And what was that?” This woman was surprise after surprise.
“It brought you here.” She leaned forward across her desk. “Those girls need a home, Lord Tarrant, not a room of their own in a boarding school, no matter how good the school, and I pride myself that this is one of the best. I’m quite willing to keep them—they are dear girls, one and all—but it is my opinion that they need to be part of a family, to belong, to have a home and to feel loved.”
He blinked. “I couldn’t agree more. While I thought they were happy and being well looked after by their grandparents, I was content to leave them. Life in the army was no life for small girls, not without their mother.”
“And what has changed?”
He refolded the letter and tucked it away. “My older brother died recently, and I inherited the estate and the title and the responsibilities. I now have a home to offer my children, and the income to support them. I have resigned my commission and intend to make my life here in England, with them.”
She sat back, smiling. “I am so glad.” She picked up a small bell and tinkled it. A moment later a young woman appeared. “Would you bring down the Tarrant girls, all three of them, please.” The young woman’s gaze slid to James, but the headmistress said, “Don’t explain—just tell them they’re wanted in my office.” The young woman left.
James waited. Impatient and absurdly nervous, he rose to his feet and began to pace around the headmistress’s office. The door was open. He could hear footsteps and voices on the stairs. He glanced at the headmistress. “If you don’t mind, I’ll...” and he was out in the lobby, gazing up the stairs, waiting for his children.
They came down the stairs in a group, three across, Judyand Lina on the outside, little Deborah in the middle, holding their hands. The teacher or assistant, or whatever she was, brought up the rear. Not that James even noticed her. He had eyes only for his daughters. They’d grown so much.
They saw him and came to an abrupt stop halfway down the stairs. “P-Papa?” Judith said uncertainly. Then, at his smile, “Papaaaaaa!” she shrieked, and letting go of her little sister’s hand, she leapt down the stairs and flung herself at him, just as she always used to. He caught her and managed not to stagger back.
“Oh Papa, Papa, Papa!” she said, hugging him in a death grip around his neck. “You came, you came!” She was laughing and sobbing at the same time.
He hugged her to him, his little girl, all legs and arms now. So tall. Eleven. He couldn’t speak for the lump in his throat. Oh, those lost years. He ached for them.
Eventually Judy loosened her grip on him and slid down to resume her own two feet. Smoothing her hair back, he turned to greet his other two daughters.
There was Selina, the image of her mother, staring at him with big blue eyes—her mother’s eyes. She waited on the stairs, making no move to approach.
“Lina, it’s Papa. It’sPapa!” Judith shouted.
But when Lina had last seen her father she was not quite four.
“You don’t remember me, do you, Lina?” James said gently.
She just looked at him, her forehead furrowed. And then she shook her head.
“But it’s Pa—” Judy began.
“It’s all right, Judy,” he said. “Lina was a very little girl when you left. She was not quite Deborah’s age. It’s not surprising she doesn’t remember me.”
He glanced at Deborah, the child he’d never met, and took a swift breath. Dark-haired little Deborah didn’t resemble her mother in the least. She was the image of hisbrother, Ross, at the same age. There was a portrait somewhere of Ross as a child, with the exact same expression. She eyed him suspiciously, then, scowling, plonked her bottom on the stairs and folded her arms, making it clear she had no intention of coming closer.
He almost laughed; Ross, too, had had that same stubborn expression.
A hesitant tug on his coat drew his attention. It was seven-year-old Lina. After an intense, troubled scrutiny, she held up her arms, the way she used to as a toddler. “Up?” James said softly, as he used to.
She nodded, and he picked her up, a stiff, wooden doll in his arms. And then she suddenly softened and leaned forward and pressed her face against his neck. “Ohhhh, you smell just the same,” she whispered and hugged him tightly. “I do remember you, Papa, I do.”
James just held her for a long, long moment, fighting back unmanly tears.
And then it was time to meet his third daughter. He approached the stairs and knelt down so that their faces were more or less level. “Good afternoon, Deborah. We’ve never met, but I’m your f—”
“Debo,” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m Debo, not Deborah.”
