“I see,” Lady Pascoe said coldly, “that you are as uncontrolled as you ever were. I cannot have my granddaughter—”
“Ma’am,” Abigail said, “isshe here? Not in Essex?”
“She is upstairs in the nursery,” General Pascoe said. “Her nurse is awaiting your visit.”
“Oh.” Abigail got to her feet and took Gil’s hand. It closed about hers like a vise.
Lady Pascoe sat like a statue.
“I would ask,” the general said, “though I cannot command, that you give her a little time, that you not take her away this morning. Give her a day or two. My butler will be waiting outside the door to escort you upstairs.”
Abigail hesitated when they were at the door, and looked back. The general was on his feet, his hands at his back. Lady Pascoe was still seated, her gaze directed straight ahead. Abigail hurried across the room toward her.
“Ma’am,” she said. “Oh, ma’am, I understand your pain. We will deal with this gently, I promise you. We will take her home when she is ready to go. And we will see to it that her grandparents remain central to her life. I will not let a day go by without reminding her of you, and I will make sure she sees you regularly, either here or in Essex or at Rose Cottage. And I do commend you from my heart for the care you have given her all the time Gil has been away at his military duties.”
Lady Pascoe’s eyes had focused upon hers. “You do indeed have a glib tongue,” she said. “I will hold you accountable, Mrs. Bennington, for any harm that comes to that child. Go, now. She is waiting for you.”
•••
The butler opened the door into a large, comfortable room, brightly furnished, filled with sunlight. Gil stepped inside with Abby—and his heart stopped.
She was over by the window with Mrs. Evans—a tiny, dainty child in a frilly white dress with white shoes. Her very dark hair had been combed back from her face and tied high on the back of her head with a large white ribbon. The rest of her hair hung loose to her shoulders. She had a narrow face with a pointed chin and large, dark eyes.
Wary eyes.
She ducked half behind Mrs. Evans’s apron as the woman smiled and clasped her hands at her waist. One dark eye and the white bow were still visible as well as half the white dress and one white shoe.
Katy.
Oh good God.
His heart remembered to beat again—with painful thumps that robbed him of breath.
The door closed behind him.
“Good morning, sir, ma’am,” Mrs. Evans said, and Gil remembered her lilting Welsh accent. “We have been waiting impatiently, but now we are shy. Here is your papa at last,cariad. And your new mama.”
Cariad.A Welsh endearment, Gil could remember her explaining when his daughter was a baby. The word forlove.
Katy did not emerge from behind the apron. Neither did Gil emerge from wherever it was he had taken refuge. Somewhere inside himself. He stood rooted to the spot, his hands crossed behind him while Abigail proceeded farther into the room.
“Mrs. Evans,” she said, extending her hand and smiling warmly. “Gil has told me about you. How pleased I am to meet you. And Katy. Did you dress up in your best clothes to see Papa?”
One little hand went up to touch the ribbon and she ducked an inch or two farther behind the apron.
“New shoes,” she said.
And oh, God, her voice! High pitched and tiny, just like her.
“Oh. Let me see,” Abigail said, and one little foot was pushed into full view and her skirt hoisted almost to her knee. “Very pretty. Do they pinch? Sometimes new shoes do.”
A shake of the half-hidden head. And then for a moment both eyes came into view as she darted a glance at Gil. She pointed at him and then hid again.
“Not a day has passed,” Mrs. Evans said, “when I havenot told her about her papa and how he loves her and will come as soon as he is able to take her back home.”
“And now he has come,” Abby said.
“I have a dolly,” the child told her.
