Louise’s teacup rattled against its saucer as she set it down. “I’m not sure what you mean, my lady.”
“My dear girl, you’ve been vibrating with curiosity since you sat down. You want to know about Aaron.”
Heat flooded Louise’s cheeks. “I simply want to understand our situation better.”
“Hmm.” Lady Merrow helped herself to another piece of toast. “What would you like to know about my nephew?”
Everything. Nothing. Why did he help us?
“His Grace seems very … controlled.” Louise forced herself to select something appropriate.
Lady Merrow’s laugh held little humor. “That’s one word for it. Aaron learned early that showing emotion invited trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“Let us say his childhood was not a happy one.” Her fingers traced the rim of her teacup, and her gaze was distant. “My sister died giving birth to him, and the household that remained was not one designed for nurturing a young boy.”
Louise thought of Aaron’s rigid posture, the way he held himself apart even in his own home. “That must have been very lonely.”
“Lonelier than any child should bear.” Lady Merrow’s gaze drifted to the window, where Emily’s laughter drifted in. “I visited when I could. But a visiting aunt is a poor substitute for what he truly needed.”
Louise understood that too well. How many times had she tried to be both mother and sister to Emily?
“Yet he helped us.” She couldn’t keep the wonder out of her voice. “A man with every reason to be guarded took in strangers.”
“Aaron keeps his heart well hidden, but it is there.” Lady Merrow leaned forward, and a small smile played at her lips. “He will never admit it, of course. But I suspect protecting others gives him a sense of purpose he rarely finds elsewhere.”
Through the window, Emily’s delighted shrieks told that Buttercup had found something disgusting to roll in. Louise watched her sister chase the dog with a stick, looking more childlike than she had in months.
“Your brother,” Lady Merrow said gently. “Aaron mentioned you’re estranged?”
Louise’s shoulders tightened. “George is missing.”
“Missing or hiding?”
Lady Merrow certainly knew how to cut straight through polite fiction.
“Both, I suspect.” Louise met the older woman’s eyes.
“Aaron will find him.”
“Why would he bother?” The question burst out, raw with frustration. “George is nothing to him. We’re nothing to him.”
“Are you?” Lady Merrow’s smile held secrets. “You, my dear, are not nothing. You’re my companion now, and our guests.”
Lady Merrow stood, smoothing her skirts. “Come. Let me show you the house properly. You’ll need to know your way around if you’re to make it your home.”
Home.
The word sat strangely in Louise’s chest. This wasn’t home; it was a beautifully appointed refuge. Temporary shelter until George surfaced and their world righted itself.
If it ever did.
They collected Emily from the garden, where she and Buttercup had indeed found something to investigate. Snow and churned-up dirt streaked the hem of her dress, a miserable reminder of every icy puddle she’d plowed through. Louise tried not to think about how they would ever get it clean, or worse, pay for a new dress.
“This is the library.” Lady Merrow threw open the massive double doors.
Louise’s breath caught. Floor to ceiling books, thousands of them, their leather spines gleaming in the morning light. A fire crackled in the hearth, warming air that smelled of paper and binding glue and knowledge.
