The dots start like he’s typing something, then stop. I hope we can dial back the awkwardness and wrap up this strange trust business.
Blushing, I remember how nice that almost-kiss was.
Maybe we can just pretend the almost-kiss didn’t happen.
Lucy purrs into my side through the covers, and I rub her back.
I might be wearing nineteenth-century widow’s weeds, but even I’m not that delusional.
After a hot bath, I venture out wearing my favorite black silk pajamas.
Pausing at Heathcliff’s bedroom door, I watch him snoring softly. He has Philip’s hair color and face shape. I tug the covers up and kiss him, inhaling that wonderful little-boy smell of sweat and cotton Batman pajamas.
Downstairs, Ms. Fernsby sits at the kitchen table with a scrapbook. “You took a good nap, luv.”
“It was nice. As was the bath afterward.”
She puts a red teakettle on one of the gas burners, turning it on with a few loud clicks.
“Have some biscuits while I reheat dinner,” she says, pushing a cookie plate toward me.
I realize how hungry I am. Soft and delicious, the shortbread cookies have a subtle maple flavor. After three, I remind myself that well-behaved widows probably didn’t binge on baked goods. While Ms. Fernsby puts a platter of roast beef and asparagus into the oven, I hesitate, then go ahead and reach for a fourth cookie. Widowed Queen Victoria certainly looked like she gave up on squeezing into corsets.
I start flipping through the open scrapbooks. Most of the photos are polaroids with what is undoubtedly a younger Ms. Fernsby and a look-alike girl.
“That’s my Mabel. She’s your age, and she’s trying to go back to school. She didn’t do so well her first time at uni. But she’s a good girl and tired of working in the coffee shop.”
I stare at the little girl cuddling a Cabbage Patch doll.
“You’re probably wondering who her father is.”
“Oh... uh...no?”
“Lord Archibald Routledge—Sarah’s father.”
I almost choke on the cookie. Sarah never said anything aboutthat.
“It happened soon after I started working here. His wife stayed married to him on account of his money, but she never fancied me. I hadn’t wanted to hurt her. But...” Ms. Fernsby shrugs. “He felt badly and kept me employed. He was also always afraid of it leaking out—that someone with the newspapers would learn he had a daughter with his young housekeeper. I had mixed feelings about staying here, but I had nothing—no schooling, no money. He could give Mabel a life I thought I couldn’t. It’s his money she’s using to go back to school.”
The teakettle screams. She steeps our teas and brings the mugs to the table with a little porcelain dish of sugar.
“It hasn’t been a bad life.” She spoons a teaspoon into hers and then nudges the sugar bowl to me. “But it never felt like mine.”
I swallow a sip of the lavender tea, warm and comforting.
“Henever belonged to me. The house never belonged to me. Mabel’s the only thing that’s truly mine, and I needed him to support us. Strangely, I still often feel like I’m keeping the house nice for Lord Routledge even though he’s gone now. If it all hadn’t happened, I would have wanted my own proper family.”
She leans forward like she’s whispering a scandalous secret. “You know, I tried one of those dating apps last year. I had no luck at all. They were all thrice divorced solicitors or perverts.”
I chuckle.
“And you should get yourself on one of those sites when you’re ready. It’s an experience.”
I imagine myself scrolling through profiles, “swiping right,” as the young singles say. And then, troublesome grief comes out of nowhere. I want Philip back. I don’t want to spend my evenings on dating apps.
I start ugly-crying over the plate of shortbread cookies.
“Awww... I’m so sorry, Lizzie. I didn’t mean...” She hands me a handkerchief and holds me while I wipe my eyes. Again, her smell of gardens and baking chocolate comforts me.
