Annie paused inthe dining room doorway and regarded her morning’s work. The past few days had been spent sorting through the boxes that had been locked in the attic. She’d lost count of how many times she had ascended and descended the stairs, burdened or not. There had been moments when she’d regretted her refusals of help, due mostly to her physical exhaustion. Otherwise, she had no desire to share this deeply personal experience with anyone. She didn’t want to be stoic. She wanted to be the weak woman at the graveside, prone to hysteria, succumbing to whatever her emotions demanded. Doing so, she hoped, might finally grant her a measure of peace.
So far, it continued to elude her.
The sad pile of clothes on the chair by the window, including herwedding dress, was destined for charity. The items on the dining table would be kept. It was notable, she thought, eyeing those items, that the things she cherished most had little to no monetary value. Daisy was nothing more than a raggedy cloth doll from childhood, well-worn and somewhat frayed around the edges. The stack of her favorite books had been read and re-read and would absolutely be read again. The carved wooden trinket box was a treasure in its own right and contained yet more childhood treasures within. A marble she’d found in the park. A cockleshell collected from the beach at Eastbourne. A French coin she’d also found in the park. And a fragment of pottery, with a little blue sailing ship on it, that the gardener had dug up in their small rear garden one day.
How innocent and happy she had been back then, confident of her place in the world, blissfully unaware of her true circumstances. She’d never seen herself as anyone but Annabelle Edwina Fairfax, daughter of a respected physician. Now, whenever she looked in the mirror, she saw someone else. A stranger with familiar features.
Annie’s gaze shifted to his chair, and the usual knot of grief tightened beneath her ribs. A memory drifted into her head, one that had established itself at Myddleton House when she’d questioned the duplicity of men.
Papa, at least, was an honest and honorable man.
Not quite.
She looked down at the sleeping-cap grasped in her hand, the one she’d purchased for her father the day she’d bumped into Julian Northcott. For some reason, she hadn’t been able to put it with the other items slated for charitable donation. She still needed to inventory the actual contents of the house and decide which to sell and which to keep.
On the positive side, with the exception of her father’s trunk, she had all but emptied the attic. The trunk could wait. For now, exhausted by the endless turmoil of heart and mind, Annie wandered into theroom, sat at the table, and put the sleeping-cap next to her cloth doll. Bad enough that echoes of the past rang mercilessly through the house. Worse that the echoes no longer rang with quite the same resonance. And, of course, that was not all that weighed on her. The most devastating thing of all was the loss of a potentially wonderful future and the love it had promised.
Almost a fortnight had passed since she’d sent the letter to Julian Northcott. As far as she knew, there had been no response. At least, she’d not had any word forwarded to her from Derbyshire. Of course, she had no cause to expect a response. She’d made it quite clear she didn’t want to see him again and her mind was made up.
More lies. More shame. Hers, this time.
But her lack of expectation did not prevent her from daring to hope. Hope had filled the blank spaces between each and every heartbreaking word she’d written. Hope that Julian would see beyond the lies she’d spewed, and question them, challenge them. In her dreams, she dared to imagine he would not hesitate to seek her out, demand to know the real reasons for the letter, and then swear he didn’t give a damn about any of them. That he loved her, despite everything.
So much for dreams.
The hall clock began to strike, the chimes accentuating the silence as it announced the hour. Eleven. The morning was almost over. Annie’s stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten that day. She didn’t actually feel hungry, just weary in heart and mind. Maybe a walk would be beneficial. She glanced at the window. At least the rain had stopped.
A short while later, suitably attired, she stepped out and locked the door behind her. Then, giving the cloudy skies a dubious glance, she descended the steps and paused to look right and left. And then right again.
As always, she recalled that first day when Julian Northcott hadturned and walked away from her. Which was why she silently cursed her sudden and ridiculous reaction to the man who was currently walking toward her, a bouquet of flowers clasped in his hand.
Damn her lying eyes, it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. Such things only happened in dreams and romance novels. But, God help her, it looked so much like him. Maybe her weary mind was playing tricks. Maybe itwasa dream. As she had on one other inconceivable occasion, she dug her nails into her palm.
Doing so changed nothing.
The man drew closer, his identity now undeniable, yet still unthinkable. Annie’s vision misted, blurring his image. She blinked once, twice, releasing her tears, and his image returned, clear and sharp. Her hand fumbled as it sought to grasp the iron railing that fronted her house. A necessary crutch.
Julian Northcott halted an arm’s length away, jaw clenching as his gaze searched her face, but he remained silent. He was wearing the pearl pin, the one he’d worn the first time they met.
Annie drew a shaky breath. “Good day to you, Mr. Northcott.”
A slight frown came and went. “Good day to you, Annie.”
The sound of her name on his lips almost robbed her of breath. “Wh…what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you, of course.”
“But, how did you know where I was?” She shook her head. “Did you not get my letter?”
“The one where you said I mustn’t come looking for you?”
She hiccupped on a sob. “Yes, that one.”
“Yes, I got it.” He pulled a folded handkerchief from his coat pocket, and moved closer to dab the tears from her cheeks. “Please don’t cry. Look, I brought you some flowers. I don’t suppose you happen to have a vase in the house, do you?” A smile appeared as he eyed the bouquet. “Red roses. I thought we might arrange them together. They represent love, I’m told.”
“You obviously don’t understand, sir.” Annie’s grip on the railing tightened. “There are things you need to know. Things about me. Things I didn’t mention in my letter.”
He put the handkerchief back in his pocket as his gaze flicked to the railing. “If you’re feeling a little unsteady, Annie, take my hand.” He held it out. “I’ll not let you fall.”
