“What did she ask?”
“She asked that I stay here until he arrived. Only then could I leave, and I would know when the time was right.”
“Well, that sounds utterly ridiculous…” he began.
“I know,” Willow continued. “And I’m still not sure exactly what or who she meant by it. I went through what few papers Madame had left, but there was no clue whatsoever as to the meaning of her request.”
“I see.”
“So, when an injured man was dumped at my doorstep, unconscious and clearly quite ill, I had no choice but to take him in. He turned out to be you.” She spun on her heel and returned to the table, sitting down forcefully. “Mrs Smithers, a wonderful woman who lives next door, saw the trouble I was in and has been helping ever since.” Her shoulders sagged. “What else could I say, Harry? You were lying there on the floor, and I truly had no idea if you were still alive. When she tapped on the door and offered her assistance, I had to accept. And the only thing it occurred to me to say was that you were my husband.”
“I see,” he said again, watching her face.
“I spun a neat tale about you having been travelling on business and professed my ignorance as to what had happened to your horse. And it all worked.”
Harry watched as she poured tea, noting the tiny tremor of her hands as the kettle clinked against the china mugs.
Pushing one across the table, she met his gaze at last. “My hope is that this…this…pretense will go no further than Little Witham. I see no reason why it should. And once you are recovered and on your way, I shall remain here for a little while longer, announce that you have left on business, and that I will be able to join you once I’ve sold this house.”
“Ah.” He reached out for the mug and cradled it in his hands, staring now at the fire, his thoughts turning over what he’d been told. “You would sell, then? Or wait until this mysterious person arrives?”
“I cannot live here forever, Harry. Although this place has its charms, I miss Forest Grange and my family. Ashe and Florinda are due to have a baby soon, Cherry is married, and Holly announced her engagement just before Christmas.” She sighed. “The family is doing what families do…marrying, settling into their own lives. When I do go home, it may well be to an empty house.”
He managed a chuckle. “That will not happen, Willow. Your parents will always have family there, and it will always be a home to you all. Although ’tis good to hear that your brother and sisters are happily settled.”
“You’ve been away for quite some time, but you must know you’re a part of the Trease family, don’t you?”
“After they learn what you’ve done, dear girl, I’m likely to be thrown out on my ear.”
“Don’t be stupid.” She shot him an angry glare. “How will they know?”
“There’s always someone who will discover something, some hint or whisper of impropriety. Someone’s aunt or cousin who lives nearby and heard a rumour, and passed it to her third cousin twice removed who happens to be close to the young man walking out with Lady Jersey’s seamstress…” He stared at her. “The name Trease is not unknown in London, Willow. And you know as well as I that there is always a thirst for the new and the scandalous.”
“I don’t care.” She stared back at him. “Since my other option was to let you die, I think I made the right choice, even if I have to spend the rest of my life hidden away in a nunnery.”
Harry dropped his head and laughed, weakly, but with humour. “A bit Shakespearean, dear girl.”
“Oh be quiet and drink your tea. Eat something too.”
Obeying her command, he picked up some bread and butter, then took a bite, letting his gaze roam around the room as he did so. He was warm, felt almost human despite his blasted ankle, and in a way, strangely comfortable.
“Tell me about your Madame Lépine. She had an interest in art, apparently.” He narrowed his eyes at an impressive painting over the fireplace. A large canvas depicting ships, some with sails fully hoisted, against a turbulent sky. One looked as if it was firing a cannon, but perhaps it was a salute, since there was no hint of a battle.
“She was a wonderful lady,” Willow answered his question. “A splendid tutor, and someone who made sure that the lessons were interesting. She was very knowledgeable about many things, an astute politician, according to Papa, who had many lively discussions with her, and someone who—I believe—shared his distaste for Napoleon.” She shrugged. “How right she was.”
“Do you know who did that painting?” A casual question, no more, since Harry did not want to discuss the situation in France with Willow. It was too terrible for her tender ears.
“I believe it was a Dutch painter. Hendrik somebody or other.” She sipped her tea, unaware that Harry had stilled at the name. “Wait, I have it. Hendrik VanDerVries. You can see his name scrawled in the lower corner, but it’s barely legible. Madame told me who he was. A friend of her family from a long time ago, I believe.”
“Ahh.”
“You know his work?”
“No. No, I don’t. But I will say I find it most pleasing.” His thoughts whirled. “Willow? When do you think I’ll be able to return home?”
She looked at him, her expression one of puzzlement at his rapid change of topic. “I…I would think you might be fit to travel within a few days if your ankle heals adequately. A carriage, of course. No riding for a while.”
“I see.”
