Everything would fade away. His entire life. The last cords holding him to the things he loved—and he was not ready to sever them.God, how could You take everything?
Mr. Abram squeezed William’s shoulder. “One day, you will be lookin’ back and seein’ that it was good. That the Almighty be watchin’ out for you all along.”
He had been watching William. That much was certain. But He had done nothing to stop the tragedies that robbed William of everything.
Indeed, He did not even seem to care.
Mrs. Morrey had been right. The man seated on the other side of the table looked little like the father she knew.
The tailcoat, usually fitted to perfection, seemed loose at his hunched shoulders and chest. More grey had crept through the black of his hair, and his cheeks sagged beneath his eyes—the eyes that held hers with too much fervency to glance away from.
She nodded her greeting then slipped into her chair in front of a full plate. The steam rose, moistening her skin, as a thousand questions tried to spring from her throat. She spoke only one of them. “William?”
“He is gone.” Silence fell. Father reached for his glass of sherry, squeezed the glass stem with white knuckles. He opened his mouth as if to explain, to plead that he had tried, that there was nothing else he could do, that she must forgive him—
No.She could not do this. She could not remain in this room. Not with him. Not now. She lunged from her chair, darted through the door, and ran from the manor into the evening air.
Sobs racked through her as she descended the stone steps. She raced into the garden. She should not come here. Not the one place in the world that haunted her dreams as much as the seashore.
But she found the white bench anyway, wilted upon it. All the hurt overflowed. Her eyes stung, her throat ached, and the sense of loss was so hollowing that she felt irrevocably emptied.
“I have something to say to you, and I want you to sit up and listen to me.”
She had not realized Father had followed her, and though she wanted to keep her face hidden, she could not disobey such a tone. She faced him with choppy breaths. What could he possibly do or say to make this better?
“I searched for your Mr. Kensley and could not find him. I may never find him. For that, I sympathize greatly with your heart, as I can see now that you did indeed love him—”
“What do you know of love?” Too many years of confusion, of hurt, flew out with the question.
His steady gaze narrowed. “Much more than you know.”
“You do not speak truth.”
“Isabella—”
“I am not a child any longer. You cannot believe me oblivious to the coldness you held in your heart for Mother. I was there that night.”
“What night?”
“When she begged you to …” Isabella shook her head, more tears dripping past her jaw. “It does not matter. Please, Father. Please leave me alone.”
“You expect me to protest my love for her.”
“You need not bother.”
“I shall not, for it is not true.”
Hearing the words again washed her afresh with grief. “How could you pretend all those years? How could you be so cruel as to feign your heart?”
“I feigned nothing. Your mother knew I did not love her when we married. Indeed, I can say in truth that she did not love me.” His eyes moistened as he took one sweeping glance at the twilight garden. “But do not accuse me of knowing nothing concerning love. I know love too well.”
“Constance—”
“Yes.” A heavy breath. “Yes, Constance.” He stepped to a rosebush, plucked one of the vibrant red petals, and crushed it in his palm. “I know love so well it makes me sick when I wake in the morning and leaves me bereft when I go to bed at night.”
Isabella stood. “If this is true, why did you not marry her?”
“She was beneath me. For almost three months, that did not matter. I met her here, in this garden, every midnight. My father discovered us. He threatened that if I did not marry the squire’s daughter, I would inherit nothing.”
