I missed Mama. So much. All the little things she said and did. The scent of her lavender perfume and the sound of her playing the pianoforte. She was as talented as she was beautiful and likely could have had her choice of husbands, but I was glad she had chosen Papa.
“What are you thinking of?” Damon asked.
“Nothing of import,” I said.
“Nothing of importwould not crease your brow so deeply.”
I consciously relaxed the worry from my forehead. “I was pondering whether it was possible to miss something that never belonged to you.”
“I know it is.” Damon held my gaze for a long moment and then continued. “So you were thinking of Ollie then?”
“No. I was mostly thinking about my mother,” I admitted. “And her choice to marry my father. Though they did not have much in terms of possessions, they were happy.”
“Couldyoube happy as a poor man’s wife?” Damon asked.
“Yes.”
He gave me a small smile. “You don’t even have to think about it, do you?”
“What’s there to think about? My mother married for love, and she was happy. Why not I?”
“Not many are as brave as your mother. Financial burdens often turn the sweetest of couples bitter.”
“For some that may be true, but I have never been afraid of living a simple and quiet life.”
“You are a wonder, Hannah. My brother does not deserve you.”
“I do not wish to speak of Ollie just now.”
“Nor I.” Damon shifted in his seat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What do you wish to speak of?”
“Your tenants.”
“Of course you do.”
“This home is in utter disrepair, but the tenants do not despise you. Why?”
A shadow fell over Damon’s face. I expected him to tease away the topic, but then he met my gaze and said, “Because I help them.”
“That much is obvious. I would like to knowhowyou help them.”
“Money.”
My eyes narrowed. “How is that possible? Everything in your possession is your father’s. And seeing as he is aware of the conditions yet refuses to send aid, I hardly think he’d approve of your charity. And if you were to simply take his money without permission, he would notice when his books reflected a deficit.”
“You miss nothing, do you?” He shifted in his seat, the wood creaking beneath his weight. “The money I give them I have earned through gambling.”
“Gambling?” I frowned. “That cannot be a wise or reliable method of securing funds.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I am up at the tables more than I am down. And I know horseflesh, so I can usually make a tidy sum at the racetrack. But most importantly, my profits, and the way I spend those profits, are not easily traceable.”
“And you freely give your earnings to your tenants?”
Damon glanced at the children playing on the threadbare rug, then lowered his voice again. “They have more need of it than I.”
Across the room, a chair squeaked when Betsy stood. “Time for bed, children.” They groaned, and Betsy silenced them with a pointed look.
Mr. Turner stood with effort from the table to help, and as he limped toward his little family, I realized where I’d seen him before. Mr. Turner was the man I’d seen Damon give the parcel of banknotes to. At the time, I’d thought they were about something nefarious. Guilt twisted in my stomach for thinking poorly of them.
