“I would rather be entertained at a house party than face my own abode.”
“You have more choices than that.” He pulled a chair from the table. Turned it backward and straddled it, a habit that seemed less wretched before Miss Whitmore than it had Mother. “You can stay here.”
“Forgive me, but that is a comfort even you shall not have soon.”
“While the house is mine, you will stay.”
She shook her head. “I shall go to Hollyvale.”
“He is dangerous.”
“One whispered disagreement cannot convince me of that. Besides”—she scooted away her half-eaten plate, as if appetite had fled her—“it is just the excuse you need. You may explore the possibilities of his guilt without hindrance.”
“It is more than Alexander Oswald I want answers from.”
“Oh?”
“His sister. Eleanor. How much do you know of her?”
“Very little. Only that she has spent a great deal of time abroad and that she is near my age without ever having married.”
Married.The word snagged. Too many things attacked him. Ruth and the worn gold ring he had slipped on her thin, calloused finger. The rafters of the old church, with bird nests above their heads and creaking floorboards beneath their feet.
The cabin.
The hanging quilt.
The smell of forest in her hair and…
“Simon, Son, I wish to speak with you a moment.”Father’s hand resting on Simon’s twelve-year-old shoulder in the Sowerby yard.“Do you see little Miss Whitmore yonder?”
He had nodded.
Alone, she occupied a bench beneath the flowered pergola, dainty and childlike hands clasped in her lap. White-blond hair waved over her shoulders. Sunshine had already pinkened her cheeks, and her expression was one of delicate sweetness.
“Many years ago, her father and I made an important decision.”The grip on his shoulder had tightened.“We promised the two of you in marriage.”
Simon had understood so little concerning marriage at the time, but the notion warmed him. The girl was so lovely. She was all the things he was not certain he could capture in a painting if he tried.
Then the hand left his shoulder. Father walked away and Simon started for the bench, but not before two other young lads swarmed the girl.
She laughed, and blushed, and teased them as they teased her.
“Mr. Fancourt, what is it?” Now, two feet across from him in the breakfast room, the same girl stared at him. He wondered if she still blushed at other gentlemen. If she still teased them.
If he should have married her at seventeen years old.
If he should marry her now.
No.Fear, guilt—whatever it was—slammed him so hard he hurried from his chair. “I must prepare for our stay at Hollyvale. I will send a servant to retrieve your luggage.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” He left the room with an odd regret pulsing through him. He was either the wisest man in the world.
Or a fool twice over.
“Do you think it wise to leave the children?”
