She reached for another sandwich.
Finally, Alistair slotted together the puzzle pieces—the things she wasnotsaying.
It started with the fragile thinness of her arm stretched over the tea tray, her wrist bone protruding alarmingly as if begging to be fed. His eyes moved upward to the sleeve of her gown, the edge frayed and worn. The fabric had been turned, he realized—a painstaking process that required unstitching a dress entirely, turning the sun-faded fabric over, and restitching the whole. An economy when coin to purchase new fabric was scarce.
A faint frown creased his brow.
Abruptly, he feared he understood only too well what “getting on with life” meant. His chest ached as if the thought of Chris existing hungry and cold and ill-clothed violated the very laws of his heart.
Alistair cleared his throat. “I assume your husband...”—Blast it all. How to ask this politely?—“or your father left some sort of...of annuity...” He allowed the words to drift off.
The teacup rattled atop the saucer in her hand, but she said nothing for a long moment.
“As well you know, any possession of mine became my husband’s upon our marriage.”
She said nothing more.
It wasn’t truly an answer, but Alistair read between the lines. Neither husband nor father had provided for her.
“And now?” he asked.
“Well . . . my mother’s sister—”
“Your Aunt Eunice?”
“Yes,” she replied too brightly, eyes finally lifting to his. “Aunt Eunice has been kind enough to offer me a place to stay.” She pronounced Eunice’s name in the Italian fashion—ay-oo-NEE-chay. “When I am not engaged in archaeological activities, of course.”
From Alistair’s memory, Aunt Eunice was a terrible skinflint. Showing such benevolence to her niece seemed...uncharacteristic.
And so he said as much. “Such generosity seems...unusual for your aunt.”
Chris blinked in surprise, perhaps at his bluntness...or perhaps his unflagging recollection of her family dynamics.
“Yes, well, Aunt Eunice is nothing if not eccentric.”
Memory washed over Alistair, unbidden and unwelcome—Chris laughing at her aunt’s idiosyncrasies as they strolled the Roman excavation site, fingers clutching his arm. He could still recall the very words Chris had spoken, the playful cadence of her voice.
“Aunt Eunice insists on us all pronouncing her name as if she is an Italian lady—ay-oo-NEE-chay. Mind you, she was born and raised in Sussex and has never dipped a toe in the Mediterranean Sea. Aunt guards every penny of her fortune, as she wishes to pass it all intact to my cousin, Freddie the Feckless. Therefore, she will not hear of a single cent being spent unnecessarily. I haven’t the heart to tell her that Freddie will likely lose the whole at the gambling table or the racetrack or both and will not give a fig (what with his feckless heart and all) that Aunt Eunice so scrupulously protected her fortune for him. I would put the coin to much wiser use. But as with most situations in life, Aunt Eunice feels that fortunes are better entrusted to the male line.”
Now Alistair studied Chris, trying to discern the reality behind her emotionlesswords.
He gave up and asked directly. “Knowing Aunt Eunice’s spendthrift ways, I must admit I am surprised.”
Chris pursed her lips. “Well, I did not say she provided anythingotherthan a place to lay my head, now did I?”
Her wit sparked with the woman he had known.
Unbidden, a smile touched his face. “And what, precisely, does that mean?”
“Merely that Aunt Eunice will permit me to grace one of the five empty bedrooms of her manor house, provided I pay for my own coal and meals.”
“Ah. Freddie the Feckless will be safeguarded to the very end, I see.”
“Aunt Eunice might have many foibles, but inconsistency is not one of them.”
He smiled again, faint but there.
They sipped their tea in silence.
