She scoffed. “It is bound to be preferable to the climate within these walls. I need a change of air.”
He opened his mouth as if to respond and then closed it, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. Then, “Will you be visiting Highfield?”
“Why do you ask?” she snapped. “Is it of some importance to you?”
A sigh escaped him. “I wish only to know how long you’ll be gone, Louisa.”
She searched for yet another retort, something scathing and sharp to throw doubt on the validity of his concern but stopped herself. Such churlish behavior went against her nature and served little purpose. Still, she was far from feeling amiable toward the man she’d married and kept her tone austere. “I’m not sure,” she replied. “An hour, maybe two.”
He nodded. “Please be careful,” he said, and turned from her, closing the door.
Sometime later, Louisa reined in atop the moor, cheeks tingling, the tears in her eyes solicited solely by the wind. She breathed deep, her gaze traveling the landscape, pausing briefly at the spot where she’d first seen Maxwell back in February. Only a matter of months since that day, yet it felt much longer. Then she looked toward Highfield Hall, the house itself not visible from her vantage, its distant location marked by an ancient tree and equally ancient watchtower.
She longed to visit but didn’t quite trust the stability of her battered emotions. It would only take one family member to ask how she fared, and the tears would come unchecked, prompting questions she had no desire to answer. She’d give it a little more time. Maxwell and Finlay were leaving for Sheffield tomorrowand would be gone for the better part of a week. Perhaps then, she might find the wherewithal to visit Highfield, and maybe even spend a night or two there.
Not long after, when the clouds began to thicken, Louisa returned home. It had been a shorter ride than usual, but she felt less stale than she had earlier. And, while she’d been unable to eat a bite at breakfast, the thought of some tea and toast now set her stomach growling. She dismounted at the block and handed Byron’s reins over to young George, who’d hurried out to meet her. Then, brushing off her skirts, she headed toward the door, her attention caught by movement at one of the library windows. Maxwell, she realized, who acknowledged her return with a dip of his chin before turning away.
For the rest of the day, she stayed in her sitting-room, curled up on the settee with a book and a blanket, listening to the rain, which now pelted the windows. There had been no tears, just a terrible feeling of emptiness, as if something had reached inside and torn out her happiness.
The tap on her door came around supper time, and Finlay poked his head into the room.
“I wonder, Louisa, if I may speak with you.”
Louisa regarded him warily. “Did Maxwell send you?”
The reply came without hesitation. “No, he did not, nor would he even think of doing so. You know, as well as I do, that delegating personal responsibility is not one of his traits.”
“I’ll grant you that,” she said, “but I must assume you’re here because of him.”
“I’m here because of you both, if you would just spare me a few minutes.”
“I’m not sure this is any of your business, Finlay.”
“Perhaps not, but I feel compelled to speak anyway. Whether or not you’ll pay any mind to what I have to say is, of course, entirely up to you.”
Louisa regarded him, seeking signs of duplicity in his earnest expression, and finding none. “Very well.” She unfurled her legs, settled herself more regally on the settee, and clasped her hands on her lap. “I’ll hear you.”
The slight frown on his brow cleared. He closed the door quietly and perched himself on a nearby chair, leaning forward as he spoke. “How to begin,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose, basically, I’m here to tell you that Maxwell is telling the truth.”
Louisa sighed and shook her head. “What else would you be likely to tell me? You’re his brother, obliged to stand in his corner.”
The frown returned. “This is not a boxing match, Louisa. I’m not standing in anyone’s corner or under any kind of obligation. I’m merely a spectator to misconception, watching two people I love being torn apart by pretense. And the tragic part is, neither of you are to blame for any of it.”
“Neither of us?” She gave him a dubious look. “Your brother lied to me, Finlay.”
“Are you sure? What falsehoods has he told you?”
“Well, to begin, he denied having a mistress while admitting he’s been supporting her for the entire time we’ve been married.”
Finlay tutted and shook his head. “Things are not always what they seem. It’s not my place to explain it all, either. Maxwell must do that, if you’ll let him. I beg you, please give him the chance to do so, before this union is damaged beyond repair.”
Louisa gasped. “Things are not always what they seem? How can you possibly say that? His mistress washere, in my garden, staring up at my home. And not for the first time, it seems. She even knew my name!”
“Aye, I know, and none of that should ever have happened.” He shifted in his seat. “Forgive me, Louisa. My intention was not to upset you more. I merely urge you to look beyond what has occurred and examine the reasons behind it. Ask yourselfwhyFlora McNally came here. I mean, assuming a mistress is in good stead with her lover and reliant on his support, why would she risk any of that by showing up at his marital home?”
Frowning, Louisa glanced down at her hands, her weary mind stumbling over Finlay’s words, seeing the rationale, but fearful of being falsely appeased. She found it easier to capitulate to her curiosity. “I assume you know the woman. That is, you’ve met her.”
He shifted again. “I’ve met her a few times, aye.”
