He was weeping.
“Gabriel?” she whispered.
“Oh good God,” he muttered. “Devil take it.”
He released her and turned away from her. He went to stand facing the fireplace, one forearm resting on the mantel.
Jessica picked up their dominoes and set them on one of the chairs at the table where they dined. She leaned back against the table and looked at him. He was drawing deep breaths and releasing them a bit raggedly. Men found it so embarrassing to weep, foolish creatures. Though she was blinking her eyes more than was normally necessary and swallowing several times to quell the gurgle in her throat. She pushed herself up to sit on the table, something she could not recall ever doing before.
He took out his handkerchief, blew his nose, and put it away. And he turned his head to look at her.
“He is mycousin, Jessica,” he said. “Second cousin, to be exact. Philip was my cousin. My uncle Julius was my father’s brother. They are—were, in some cases—myfamily. And then consideryourfamily.”
Life was rarely fair, was it? She had realized that, probably for the first time, eight years ago, when life as she had known it had been shattered. Yet her family had held firm and prospered. They were always there to lean upon or simply to love.
“You were lonely, Gabriel?” she asked. Oh, surely more than lonely. His father died when he was nine, his mother years before that.
“The world is full of lonely people,” he said, coming toward her. He took hold of a ringlet of hair that was hovering over the corner of her eye and hooked it behind her ear. “It must never be used as an excuse for unhappiness or self-pity. Consider Mary.”
“Your aunt was her sister,” she said. “Were they not close?”
“No,” he said. “My aunt did her duty by taking Mary to Brierley with her after her marriage to my uncle, and he did his duty by giving her a home of her own and making her an allowance. Much can be said for duty. It ought to be done. But it is no substitute for love.”
“Your uncle did his duty by you,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And then,” she said, “you went away and worked hard and found both happiness and love—with your mother’s cousin.”
“Cyrus,” he said. “Yes.”
She felt infinitely sad. She cupped his face with her hands. How cruel it must have seemed when Cyrus died in a senseless accident. “And ultimately duty brought you back to England.”
“And love,” he said. “I love Mary.”
“Yes.” She leaned forward and set her lips softly to his. He did not immediately respond, though he did not draw back his head either.
“And now,” she said, “you love everyone else at Brierley, all those who are suffering from having had Manley Rochford there for a while.”
“I did not know,” he said. “I ought to have. I have been derelict in my duty.”
“But not any longer,” she said. “You must not be hard on yourself, Gabriel. You had duties in Boston too. You dealt with those by leaving your friend in charge, confident that he will carry your legacy forward. Now you will solvethisproblem. And you have already started. Manley will no longer be there. And you and I will. I will be there by your side. It is why you married me.”
“Jessie,” he said. “That is not—”
She set a finger across his lips.
“And it is why I married you,” she told him. “Duty and—”
“Love?” he said.
Ah, but she did not want to load that sense of guilt upon his shoulders. “Affection,” she said. “You feel some for me. I know you do. And I feel some for you. It is a start, Gabriel. It is a very good start.”
“Yes,” he said, and they gazed at each other.
What was the difference, she wondered, between affection and love? Or between desire and affection—and love? Whatdidshe feel for her husband? What did he feel for her? But did it matter by what name it was labeled? It justwas.
His hands came to her hips then and his mouth returned to hers. But open and hungry this time. And hot. Oh, so hot.Hewas hot. Whatever that meant. Words again. Words could be so stupid. Stupidly inadequate. So could thoughts.
