“Mine is ready too,” I said.
“We must wear our new gowns to the ball,” she said.
I agreed, and Amelia continued fanning my face.
Though we’d only known each other for a short time, I was grateful for Amelia’s friendship. It had been so long since I’d had a friend to talk to about inconsequential things like this—since before Mama took ill. I missed it more than I’d realized.
I wanted to be honest with Amelia about everything that had happened between Damon and me. But what would I even tell her? I had developed feelings for Damon, but I didn’t know if he felt the same for me. We’d shared some meaningful moments and candid conversations—or at least I thought we had—but he’d disappeared to London without so much as a goodbye or note of explanation, and I did not know when he would return.
Still, I held on to hope. Until Damon returned and we had a chance to speak, I would not know how he truly felt. And it did not seem prudent to talk of things I did not yet understand. Not to mention unkind. Amelia had been hurt by a friend before, and I did not want to cause her any more pain by dragging her needlessly through a similar situation.
No. I would wait to say anything to her until Damon returned.
“You are still looking a little pale,” Amelia said. “Perhaps you need refreshment. Shall we find Lady Winfield and my mother in the rose garden?”
I nodded. “Yes, let us go.”
She threaded my arm through hers, and we made our way around the back of the manor.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Two days later, as Idressed for dinner, a carriage clattered up the drive. And although I could not see the drive from my window, I could hear voices outside. Lord Winfield and Damon.
“Nora,” I called. “Help me dress.”
She did, and I rushed down the stairs.
I found Damon in the portrait gallery. He stood in the middle of the black and white marble floor with his back to me. Hands clasped behind his back, he stared up at a painting of the first Earl of Winfield with so much intensity that he did not even seem to hear me approach.
“Damon.”
At the sound of my voice, he turned to face me. His gaze was direct, but his eyes were as cold as the marble statues surrounding us. “Miss Kent,” he greeted with a bow of his head.
Surprised by his formality, I bobbed a quick curtsy. “I see Mr. Rowley was able to educate you in gentlemanly behavior.”
“Indeed. I found my lost manners in London.” He gave me a weak smile, then turned back to the life-sized painting before him.
I stood at his side and stared at the imposing portrait. Damon had told me the first earl’s story so many times as children that I would never forget it. He had been given the earldom by King Henry VIII after the siege at Boulogne for his bravery and valor and was bestowed with Summerhaven.
Damon rubbed the back of his neck, then dropped his hand back to his side. A flash of gold caught my attention. A signet ring on his smallest finger.
“What is this?” I asked.
He followed my gaze to the ring, then looked up at me. “Hannah,” he said, his voice heavy. “My trip with Father to London was not an educational endeavor as he led everyone to believe.”
I waited for him to say more, but he only looked at me with a pained expression, his eyes hooded, his lips pinched. “Is everything all right?” I asked.
He shook his head and bit down on his lower lip as if to stop himself from saying anything more.
My first thought was that their journey had something to do with their tenants. That perhaps Lord Winfield had found some way to punish the Turners for Damon’s aid, or that Baby John’s condition had deteriorated and the worst had happened. But how would London fit into either of those equations? It wouldn’t. “You’re scaring me. Why did your father take you to London?”
“He was there to secretly see a doctor who specializes in consumption of the lungs.” A shadow crossed Damon’s face. “Hannah”—his voice broke—“my father is dying.”
A memory, sudden and sharp, of Mama lying in her sickbed filled my eyes with tears. “Oh, Damon. I am so sorry.” I laid a hand on his forearm, wishing there was something I could do to spare him from the agony of losing a parent.
He clutched my hand and wove our fingers together. A moment passed, and he did not loosen his grip. He clung to me like I was the only thing holding him to the earth. “Father’s condition has been worsening for some time,” he continued. “I didn’t know he was even ill. I only learned of his illness on this trip. He never said anything. He’s been trying to prepare me to take up my duties, always pushing and prodding me to do more, to be more, and I hated him for it. What kind of son doesn’t even notice how ill his own father is?” His words came out in a rush, one sentence after another like he was still trying to make sense of it all.
But having lost Mama, I knew there was no sense to be made. Death was a thief in the night that offered no explanation. I squeezed his hand, and in a sudden motion, Damon turned into me and fell into my embrace. His arms circled my waist, enveloping me, and I held him tightly so he would know he was not alone.
