It was an impressive part of the garden, running along the whole width of the house as it did. There were trellises, archways, hedges, flower beds, low walls, the wall of the house itself, all of them loaded with roses at various stages of blooming. A high hedge, cut with geometric precision, extended all the way down the side of the arbor farthest from the house, giving the impression of deep seclusion and the reality of breathtaking beauty. Even the sounds of voices and laughter seemed muted here.
“I think,” Lady Jessica said, “this is what heaven must smell like.” She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly.
“We will have to be very virtuous for the rest of our lives, then,” he said, “so that we may enjoy it together for eternity.”
“Which might be an embarrassment,” she said, opening her eyes, “if I should end up with a different husband and you with a different wife.”
“Impossible,” he said.
“Do you always get your own way, Mr. Thorne?” she asked, cupping a yellow rose in both hands, though she was not quite touching it, he noticed.
“Only in the important things,” he said.
“And I am important?”
“Yes.”
She looked around until she saw a wrought iron seat close to the wall of the house, with its climbing rose plants, and went to sit on it. She left room for him beside her. The floor of this top tier was paved with pinkish brick. There was a small fountain in the middle, its granite basin shaped like a fully opened rose.
“Is Thorne your real name?” she asked him.
Ah.
“Yes,” he said.
“Not Rochford?” she asked.
“No.”
She closed her parasol and set it down on the seat beside her. “I believe you are lying,” she said.
“You think I am the long-lost earl, then?” he asked her. “Just because I share a first name with him?”
She looked up at him as he stood by the fountain, his hands clasped at his back, and her eyes roamed over him. “Areyou?” she asked, her voice so soft it was hardly audible.
He gazed back. Secrecy had not been his original plan when he decided to come to London rather than go direct to Brierley. He had merely wanted to be better prepared to go there. He had wanted to look like an English gentleman for starters. He had wanted to hire a good lawyer and agent and acquire an experienced, reliable steward. He had wanted to find out what he needed to do to verify his identity and establish his claim. He had wanted, perhaps, to find out if there might be any trouble awaiting him—legal trouble, that was—though he did not believe there would be anything he could not handle. He was no longer the frightened boy who had fled England thirteen years ago. Too many details were circumstantial at best, and he had a decent though not infallible alibi. But there might be some sort of trouble facing him anyway, in the form of resentment, even outright hostility, from the people living in the vicinity of Brierley. He had always had a decent relationship with almost everyone, but things might have changed at the end and been perpetuated by his absence. He had felt it wise to find out what he could before he went there so that he would know exactly what he was facing. Mary could not be expected to know everything. She lived the life of a near hermit.
He had not intended any great secrecy, then. If he had, he would surely have changed his first name, which, though not unique, was not common either. He wondered if Lady Jessica was the only one who had guessed the truth. Several other people, including Anthony Rochford himself, had heard him own to the nameGabriellast evening.
But he had been asked a question. And a lie was pointless. Lies usually were.
“Thorne was my mother’s name,” he told her, “and that of her cousin in Boston. He officially adopted me as his son after I had lived there and worked for him for six years. His wife was dead and he had no children of his own. My name was legally changed, with my full consent. I had used it when I took passage to America, and I had used it there. I would rather be a Thorne than a Rochford, though I do regret any disrespect that shows to my father, who was a decent man.”
“You are the Earl of Lyndale,” she said. She appeared to be speaking more to herself than to him.
“Regrettably,” he said.
“Why do you regret it?” She frowned.
“I was happy in America,” he said. “I was never happy at Brierley.”
“Why have you returned, then?” she asked him. “Why have you not just let everyone continue to assume you are dead? Or perhaps you still intend to do so. Perhaps you have come here to amuse yourself before returning to the life that makes you happy. But no, that cannot be your intention. Why would you hope to marry me if you intended to resume your life as Mr. Thorne, wealthy businessman from Boston? Your wishing to marry me makes sense only if you intend to be the Earl of Lyndale.”
He moved closer to her and stood looking down at her for a while before setting one booted foot against the edge of the seat beside her and resting one forearm across his thigh. “Why have I returned?” he said. “And why have I decided to stay? Call it duty, if you will, to those who work—or worked—at the house and on the estate.”
“Have you known all this time that your uncle and cousin were dead?” she asked him.
“For most of the time, yes,” he said. “Letters are slow in crossing the Atlantic, especially in winter.”
