But he grasped feebly for her wrist as she stood up, and tears sprang to her eyes. His hand was a thin, bloodlessclaw. Grandpapa had always been robust.
“Jule,” he said, “I wanted to see you settled, girl, before Igo on my way. I feel an obligation to you because of yourstepmother. She loved your father and you. And your papaleft nothing. I love you as my own granddaughter.”
“I know, Grandpapa,” she said, swallowing tears. “Don’t worry about me. It is time for your sleep.”
He looked at her broodingly. “But I do worry,” he said, “What is going to happen to you, Jule?”
“I am going to go from this room,” she said, bending to kiss him once more, “so that you can rest. And then I amgoing to go outside for some air and sunshine. That is whatis going to happen to me. Aunt Millie will look in a littlelater to see if you are awake and need anything.”
“I’ll be sure to be asleep, then,” the earl said. “Millie always shakes my pillows until they are all lumps and kicks the bed with her slippers so that all my bones jangle.”
Julia chuckled as she let herself quietly from the room. But amusement faded quickly. Grandpapa really was failing fast. She could no longer pretend, as she had all winter,that he would rally again once spring came. It was June,more summer than spring, and he was weaker than ever. He had not left his room since just after Christmas. He had not left his bed in three weeks or a month.
He really was dying, she thought, admitting the truth to herself for the first time. It was difficult to imagine theworld without Grandpapa in it. And it was still difficult torealize that he was not really her grandfather at all. He hadalways treated her as if he were, perhaps because he had nograndchildren of his own. Her papa and her stepmother haddied together in Italy three years after their marriage. Therehad been no children of the marriage. All they had left behind were debts.
Julia tapped on the door of Aunt Millie’s sitting room—Aunt Millie was Grandpapa’s maiden sister—opened thedoor quietly, and found her aunt asleep in her chair, hermouth open, her cap tilted rakishly over one eye. Juliaclosed the door softly. She would be sure to come back inside to check on her grandfather herself within the hour.
She proceeded on her way outside for a stroll in the formal gardens without stopping to pick up a shawl. It was a warm day despite the breeze. She breathed in the scent offlowers as she crossed the cobbled terrace and descendedthe wide stone steps to the gardens. It was going to be hardto move away, to have to stop thinking of Primrose Park ashome. It had been home since she was five years old. Shecould not remember any other with any clarity.
Julia changed her mind about strolling along the graveled paths between the flower beds and box hedges and satdown instead on the second step from the bottom, claspingher knees and gazing across the colored heads of flowers. Itseemed self-centered to be thinking about losing her homewhen Grandpapa was dying. As if her grief over what washappening had less to do with him as a person than withwhat he represented to her—comfort and security.
But she need not feel such guilt, she knew. She loved him dearly. He was the only parent figure she had knownsince the age of eight. There was Aunt Millie, of course,but Aunt Millie had always been all adither. Even as a child Julia had felt protective of her, almost as if their supposed roles were reversed.
Perhaps for Grandpapa's sake, Julia thought, she should have made a more determined effort to choose a husband.She could have been reasonable about it, choosing the leastobjectionable candidate. But the trouble was that she couldnot choose a husband with her reason. She was a romantic.A foolish one. For in looking for romantic perfection sheknew that she was very likely to end up as a spinster, asGrandpapa always warned. Indeed, she was one and twentyalready. But no, even to please Grandpapa she could nothave married anyone who had yet shown an interest inher—or in the dowry Grandpapa was prepared to offer withher.
She did not really believe his threats. Grandpapa loved her and would not doom her to having to go to live withrelatives who did not want her. No, he would provide forher, she was sure. She did not know details, but she didknow that Grandpapa was enormously wealthy and that agreat deal of his wealth and some of his property—including Primrose Park—was at his disposal, to be left towhomever he chose. He would leave her an allowance sufficient to enable her to live independently. She knew hewould. In fact, he would probably leave her even more than that.
She was not really afraid for her future but only depressed by it. Soon there would be no Grandpapa and no Primrose Park. And no husband either. No grand romanticpassion to set her on the path to the happily ever after.Sometimes life seemed very dreary. And her mood was notimproved at all by the fact that she had disappointed hergrandfather. He would have liked to see her contentedlymarried before he died.
Julia's attention was caught suddenly by movement beyond the gardens. A carriage had emerged from the trees far down the driveway and was making its way toward the house. Not a wagon or a gig, but a fine traveling carriage.Who was coming? It could not be any of the family, surely.
Grandpapa had given strict orders that none of them be informed of the poor state of his health, and the family never came until July or August.
She stood up and watched the carriage approach the terrace, shading her eyes against the sun.
He felt rather like a vulture, the Viscount Yorke thought as the house came into view. Primrose Park, with its neatPalladian manor and well-kept formal gardens and picturesque park, was neither the largest nor the most accessible of the Earl of Beaconswood’s estates, but it was the onewhere he had elected to live most of his life. And so it hadbecome the focal point of family life, the place whereeveryone tended to gather during the summer months.
But the viscount, the earl’s nephew and heir, had not been there for six years. He had been busy with his own estate and other responsibilities. And with his own life too.And so he felt a little embarrassed coming now, in June,without an official invitation. He felt like a vulture. Primrose Park was unentailed, unlike the earl’s other estates. Hecould leave it to whomever he chose after his death. Andthe earl was dying, if the strange, apologetic, secretive letter sent the viscount by his aunt was to be believed. Probably it was. His uncle must be close to eighty years old. Hewas certainly years older than any other member of thefamily.
And so the viscount was coming at his aunt’s request, though she had advised him in her letter with lengthyapologies for the presumption not to divulge the fact thatshe had written. He was supposed to arrive just as if he hadtaken it suddenly into his head after six years to call uponhis uncle. Or just as if he had been passing throughGloucestershire by some chance and had decided to call topay his respects.
But it would look, the viscount thought, as if he were coming to gloat over all that would soon be his and as if hewere perhaps trying to ensure that Primrose Park would behis too.
He was coming because it was the dutiful thing to do. He was, after all, the earl’s heir and if it was true that the oldman was dying, then he should pay his last respects to hisuncle. And of course it would be as well for him to be onhand afterward to deal with all the business of the funeraland the will. There would be many things to be done andAunt Millie had never been a competent manager.
He had come out of duty, he thought, peering out of the window as the carriage turned onto the terrace and slowedbefore the marble horseshoe steps leading up to the frontdoors. But he could think of other things he would rather hedoing. He would rather be back in London, though this wasthe first year he had gone there for the Season for manyyears. He had gone to begin to look about him for a wifesince he was at that awkward age of twenty-nine and hismother’s hints were becoming persistent.
And surprisingly he had found Blanche, a grave, sweet, and pretty eighteen-year-old, who suited him very nicelyindeed despite her youth. The courtship was proceedingslowly but promisingly. He chafed at the delay this visit tohis uncle was creating. And perhaps it would be a prolonged delay. Perhaps, he thought, he should have actedwith less than his customary caution and made his offer toBlanche’s father before leaving town. But he had not doneso and it was too late now.
There was a woman standing on the steps leading down to the formal gardens. Aunt Millie? But he realized theridiculousness of the thought as soon as his eyes focusedproperly on her. She was too young a woman. She wasrather lovely, too, by Jove. She was not wearing a bonnet.The breeze was blowing her short dark curls back from herface. It was also blowing her light muslin dress against avery pleasing figure indeed. Shapely but not too voluptuous. Just very—feminine.
Good Lord, he thought, leaning forward suddenly. Good Lord, it was Julia. She had been little more than a child thelast time he saw her. But of course that had been six yearsbefore. His lips thinned as he remembered all his formerdisapproval of the girl. Hoyden, daredevil, show-off, pest. And of course, Uncle's great favorite. The apple of his eyedespite the fact that she was no direct relation but thedaughter of an irresponsible adventurer.
Well, perhaps she had changed. He had not seen her for six years. By the time the carriage had come to a stop andthe steps had been lowered and he had got out, she wasstanding on the lowest of the horseshoe steps, looking athim. Her eyes were almost on a level with his.
“Good afternoon, Julia," he said, touching his hat and inclining his head to her. “How are you?"
She was looking rather flushed, perhaps by the wind. “Hello, Daniel," she said. “How did you find out?”
