He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Good night, Miss Ettie.”
For several seconds, she did not release him. Then, sucking in air, she walked away down the hall, the candlelight fading back into blackness.
The empty corridor echoed her words, “It should not have to be this way.”
But it was.
And he had no intention of running.
“There you are.” William leaned inside the rubblestone-and-brick potting shed, Mr. Nolan’s dog squeezing in ahead of him.
Shelton rose from the workbench. Morning sunlight fell through the windows, making visible the dark circles beneath his eyes and the grim pull to his lips. As if he, too, had spent a night without rest.
Hurt nipped at William. He tried to push it away and tell himself it meant nothing, that whatever Shelton did, he did for a reason. Whatever he said—or didn’t say—had purpose. That was the way of him. This was no different.
Except that it could cost William’s life.
As if in scent of a varmint, Mr. Nolan’s dog growled and sprang to the corner of the shed, knocking over several potted plants.
William whistled and rushed the animal back outside. “Here. Let me help.” He got on his hands and knees beside the older man. They worked in silence, setting the pots upright, cupping damp soil back around the plants, the sun warm on the back of their necks.
“Tell me of my father.”
As if he hadn’t heard, Shelton continued scraping dirt from the floor. Not until he’d stood to his feet and turned to a shelf of garden tools did he let out a breath. “There is nothing to tell.”
“What was he like?”
No answer.
“What did he die of?”
Still, nothing.
William brushed dirt from his breeches as he stood. His heartbeat thrummed his neck. “Why do you not answer?”
“You already know the answers.”
“If they are true.”
Shelton glanced back at him. Some of William’s own hurt, his own confusion, was mirrored in Shelton’s gaze.
William nodded and stepped back. “Forgive me. I will ask no more.” He pivoted and was crossing the threshold when—
“William.”
He paused without turning.
“You are the one who must forgive me.” A catch disrupted Shelton’s voice. He cleared his throat, moved closer, and rested a hand on William’s shoulder. “Meet me in the labyrinth at dark. I shall tell you everything tonight.”
Everything.The word plummeted through him like one of Horace’s taunts—but worse. How much did William not know?
He didn’t arrive for dinner. He didn’t even slip down to the kitchen, as he sometimes did when he had no wish to dine with his cousin, for some cold meat and soup.
Instead, he went to her chamber.
The one he avoided.
The one he’d entered only once or twice in his life.
