“Miss Martin?” he said. “Sydnam Butler, ma’am. I have come to speak with Miss Jewell.”
“She will be here in a moment,” she said. “I have sent Keeble to inform her that you are here. Miss Walton will conduct the rest of her mathematics lesson.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Sydnam inclined his head again.
“If your tardiness in coming here is indicative of your eagerness to do your duty, Mr. Butler,” she surprised him by saying, her posture unchanged, her face stern, “I beg to inform you that Miss Jewell has friends who are willing and able to offer her shelter and support for as long as she needs them. Women do have some modicum of power when they stick together, you know.”
He could begin to understand why the woman had not crumbled before Bewcastle.
“I thank you, ma’am,” he said. “But I also am willing and able—andeager—to secure Miss Jewell’s comfort and security and happiness.”
They gazed at each other, taking each other’s measure.
He could not dislike the woman. It pleased him to know that Anne had such a friend. Obviously Miss Martin knew the truth, but far from tossing Anne out of the school in moral outrage, she was prepared to offer her a home and support if need be.
“I suppose,” she said, “you must be worthsomethingif you have been able to perform the function of steward to the satisfaction of the Duke of Bewcastle despite your obvious disabilities.”
Sydnam almost smiled as she looked him over frankly and critically from head to foot, particularly down his right side. He didnotsmile, though. He felt that somehow they were engaged in a battle of wills, though over what he was not sure. The only thing hewassure of was that he was not going to lose.
The door opened behind Miss Martin before either of them could speak again.
Anne Jewell.
She looked pale and rather unwell, Sydnam thought. She seemed to have lost weight. She was also even more beautiful than he remembered.
There had been a time, for a week or two after she left, when he had tried and tried and failed to recall her face. And then there had come the time when he would have been happy to forget both it and her. Remembering had been painful and deeply depressing. And his solitude, which he had so resented giving up when she came to Glandwr with the Bedwyns, had turned to undeniable, gnawing loneliness after they had all left.
And deep unhappiness.
Her eyes met his across the room, and he bowed formally to her as if she were not standing there with his child in her womb.
The truth of it smote him and made him slightly dizzy.
“Ah, here is Miss Jewell now,” Miss Martin said briskly and unnecessarily.
“Thank you, Claudia,” Anne said without taking her eyes off him.
A suitable name for the headmistress of the school, Sydnam thought—Claudia. A strong, uncompromising name. She bent one more severe look upon him, a softer look upon her fellow teacher, and left the room without further ado.
He and Anne Jewell were alone together.
And so good-bye had not been good-bye after all, he thought.
He was painfully glad to see her.
And painfully aware of the reason.
She was pregnant with his child.
“You must have thought,” he said, “that I was not coming.”
“Yes,” she said. “I did.”
She was standing to one side of the door, half a room away from him. Three weeks must have seemed an endless time to her, he supposed. She was unmarried and with child—for the second time.
He hated to think that that fact somehow put him on a level with Albert Moore.
“The rain delayed both your letter and my journey to London,” he explained. “I am so sorry, Anne. But you must have known that you could trust me.”
