“We will withdraw to the library, Sydnam, since you happen to be here,” he said, “and discuss what is to become of Ty Gwyn.”
Anne was exhausted with play by the time she arrived in Bath. The nurse’s motion sickness was worse than ever on the return journey, and Anne vigorously kept the children amused so that they would not grow petulant with the tedium of long hours spent in the carriage.
When they stopped for meals and for the night, she was determinedly cheerful as she conversed with Joshua and Lady Hallmere. She would not for one moment have them believe that she was in low spirits, though in fact they were as low as they could possibly be.
How foolish of her to have believed that she could lie with a man and then simply forget about it.
How foolish to have believed that they could take away each other’s loneliness for an hour and remember simply with gratitude.
And how foolish to have hoped she could lie with Sydnam Butler and taken pleasure from the experience just as if she were a normal woman.
Memory was like a raw wound that each passing mile only aggravated.
She hadknownhim. She had been knownbyhim. And yet her body had somehow remained aloof from the wonder of it.
She had been terribly afraid that he would not come to say good-bye.
She had been terribly afraid that he would.
And then when hehadcome, when she had looked for the very last time into his handsome, damaged face, there had been only pain.
And the terrible temptation to tell him that she had changed her mind.
She had not.
They had gravitated toward each other during the past month and spent time with each other—ah, yes, and lain together—because they were both lonely.
But that explanation was wearing very thin.
Surely it was not just the knowledge that she was alone again, without a man in her life again, that caused the sharp pain in her throat and chest that would not go away?
She supposed she had fallen ever so slightly in love with Sydnam Butler. Or perhaps a whole lot in love with him.
She had fallen in love with an impossibility.
The carriages stopped outside Lady Potford’s house on Great Pulteney Street, since Joshua and his family were to stay there for a couple of nights before returning to Cornwall. The one carriage was to continue on its way to Daniel Street with the baggage, but Anne and David chose to walk the rest of the way in order to stretch their legs. Joshua insisted upon accompanying them. He offered Anne his arm. David walked close to his other side.
“Anne,” he said, “it was a pleasant month, was it not?”
“Very pleasant indeed,” she assured him. “Thank you so much for thinking to invite us, Joshua.”
“And yet here you both are,” he said, “Friday-faced on a Tuesday.”
“I am not—” Anne protested.
“I wish we could have stayed forever and ever,” David cried passionately. He had come very close to shedding tears again a short while ago as he said good-bye to Daniel and Emily and shook hands with Lady Hallmere.
“Yes, it would have been desirable,” Joshua agreed. “But all good things end, lad. If they did not, there would be no new good things to look forward to. If Miss Martin can spare you, perhaps you will both come to Penhallow for Christmas. That will give us all something new to look forward to.”
David, Anne suddenly noticed, was actually holding Joshua’s hand, something he normally considered quite beneath his nine-year-old dignity.
“Anne,” Joshua said, turning to her as they made their way up Sutton Street toward the school. “I am sorry Sydnam Butler does not live closer to Bath. Yours was a friendship we all watched with interest.”
She was very glad she had not realized that at the time.
“It wasjusta friendship,” she assured him.
“Was it?” He looked into her face.
