Anne had been that close to her family for several years.
She was looking very smart in a russet brown pelisse and matching bonnet with burnt-orange ribbons. She was also looking rather pale. Her gloved hand lay in his—today he was sitting beside her while David rode with his back to the horses. At the moment his nose was pressed against the glass and excitement was fairly bursting out of him.
Sydnam smiled at Anne and lifted her hand to his lips. She smiled back, but he could see that even her lips were pale.
“I am glad I wrote to say I was coming,” she said.
“At least,” he said, “the gate was open.”
He wondered how she would feel—and howDavidwould feel—if they were refused admittance. But he still believed this was the right thing to do. Anne had faced most of the darkness in her life on the little island at Alvesley four days ago, and it seemed that the sunshine had got inside her since then. They had made love each night, and it had been clear to him that doing so had given her as much pleasure as it had given him.
But today, of course, the sun was not shining—either beyond the confines of the carriage or through her.
“Thisis where my grandmama and grandpapa live?” David asked rather redundantly.
“It is indeed,” Anne said as the coachman opened the door and set down the steps. “This is where I grew up.”
Her voice was low and pleasant. Her face looked like parchment.
The house door opened before anyone had knocked on it, and a servant, presumably the housekeeper, stepped outside and bobbed a small curtsy to Sydnam, who had already descended to the courtyard, his good side to her.
“Good day, sir,” she said. “Ma’am.”
She looked up at Anne, who was descending, one hand on his.
But even as Sydnam opened his mouth to reply, the servant stepped to one side and a lady and gentleman of middle years appeared in the doorway and came through it. Two other, younger, couples followed them out, and behind them a group of children clustered in the doorway and peered curiously out.
Ah, Sydnam thought, they had gathered in droves to greet the lost sheep, had they? Perhaps on the assumption that there was safety in numbers?
Anne’s hand tightened in his.
“Anne,” the older lady said, stepping ahead of the gentleman Sydnam assumed was Mr. Jewell. She was plump and pleasant-looking, neatly dressed and with a lacy cap covering her graying hair. “Oh, Anne, itisyou!”
She took a couple more steps forward, both hands stretched out before her.
Anne did not move. She kept one of her hands in Sydnam’s and reached up to David with the other. He came scrambling down the steps and stood beside her, his eyes wide with excitement.
“Yes, it is I,” Anne said, her voice cool—and her mother stopped in her tracks and dropped her arms to her sides.
“You have come home,” Mrs. Jewell said. “And here we all are to greet you.”
Anne’s eyes went beyond her mother to survey her father and the two younger couples. She looked toward the doorway and the children fairly bursting out through it.
“We have called hereon our way home,” she said with slight emphasis on the last words. “I have brought David to meet you. My son. And Sydnam Butler, my husband.”
Mrs. Jewell’s eyes had been fairly devouring David, but she looked politely at Sydnam, who had turned fully to face them all. She recoiled quite noticeably. There was a sort of collective stiffening of manner among the others too. Some of the children disappeared inside the house. A few bolder ones openly gawked.
Just a few months ago Sydnam might have been upset—especially about the children. He had spent years basically hidden away in a place where he was known and accepted and very few strangers ever came. But it did not matter to him any longer. Anne had accepted him as he was. More important, perhaps, he had finally accepted himself for what he was, with all his limitations and all the exhilarating challenges they offered him.
Besides, this moment was not about him. It was all about Anne.
“Mr. Butler.” Mrs. Jewell curtsied as he bowed and turned to introduce the others—Mr. Jewell; their son, Mr. Matthew Jewell, and Susan, his wife; Sarah Arnold, their daughter, and Mr. Henry Arnold, her husband.
Sydnam’s eye alighted on that last gentleman and saw a man of medium height and pleasant looks and balding fair hair—neither a hero nor a villain as far as looks went. He exchanged a brief but measured look with the man and had the satisfaction of seeing that Arnold knew thatheknew.
There were bows and curtsies and murmured greetings—and a great deal of awkwardness as Anne inclined her head to them all as if they were strangers.
But Mrs. Jewell had returned her attention to David.
