“You are very kind,” she said.
But there was no more light chatter or laughter. They had served their purpose—she was now calm whereas it had been clear that she was in high distress when he first saw her.
There was no more conversation at all, in fact, as he drove them the rest of the distance, turning onto the long driveway to Sidley, turning off it again almost immediately to take a narrower, wooded trail to the dower house.
He helped her down, unhitched the horses before leading them into the stable stalls and laying out some feed for them, and then took Susanna into the house.
“It is very prettily situated,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed, taking her by the elbow and leading her to the sitting room. “I have always loved it almost more than the main house. I have always felt at home here.”
The sitting room was also the library. There were several tall bookcases filled with books, many of them his boyhood favorites. The large sofa and chairs were of soft, ancient leather, probably in no way elegant in the eyes of the fashion sticklers, but marvelously comfortable.
He went down on one knee by the fireplace without first removing his greatcoat, and lit the fire that was already laid there.
“Come and warm your hands,” he said.
“I like this room,” she said as they stood side by side, almost shoulder to shoulder, holding out their hands to the thin flames that would soon crackle into full life. “It is cozy. I could be happy here.”
“Could you?” He turned his head and found himself in the middle of one of those moments of heightened awareness. He was sure she was blushing even though her cheeks were already rosy from the cold.
She lowered her glance and removed her bonnet. She undid the fastenings of her cloak too, though she left it around her shoulders as she sat in the chair to one side of the fire. He threw off his greatcoat and took the chair at the other side.
This, he supposed suddenly, was not at all proper.
But to the devil with propriety.
“I am glad you chose to read the letter,” he said, “and I am glad you chose to do it here. Was it very hard to read?”
She touched her middle fingers to her temples and made circles there for a while as she looked down at her lap.
“I had not realized,” she said, “what a…livingthing handwriting is. It was his handwriting, and it was as familiar as his face. I felt as if I were looking at him a few minutes before his death.”
He said nothing.
“He loved me,” she said, looking up into his face and lowering her hands.
“Of course he did.”
“He thought his death would be the best thing forme,” she said. “He was facing disgrace and perhaps worse, and he chose death formysake. Can you imagine anything more foolish than that?”
He watched tears well into her eyes. She blinked them away.
“How could his death benefitme?” She drew a deep breath and released it slowly. “He made provision for me, and told me I would behappy.”
“Provision?” he said.
“Oh, Peter,” she said, “they are coming to Fincham today—my two grandfathers and my grandmother, all the way from Gloucestershire. But they arestrangers. Whatever am I to do?”
He thought of her as a twelve-year-old in London, trying to find employment and of the same child being sent to school in Bath as a charity girl, all alone in the world. How very different her life would have been if she had waited.
He would never have met her—except on that one barely remembered occasion when they were children.
“I would not plan ondoinganything if I were you,” he said. “Meet them and allow the relationship to develop from there. They are your blood kin.”
“I am so frightened,” she said. “And what a very foolish thing to say.” She sat farther back in her chair.
“It might be worth remembering,” he said, “that as they draw nearer to Fincham today, they are probably very frightened too.”
