“She made the parrot sound real. Can you do that, Uncle?”
“No, I do think that is above my abilities.”
“When you read, you just sound like… you,” Philip added. “Not that your voice sounds so very bad, Uncle. But…Robinson Crusoeis special. Special like Miss Lewis…”
Ambrose sat on the edge of the bed, feeling a sharp pang of inadequacy. “I can try, boys. Let’s try the beginning. ‘I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York…’”
“Stop,” Philip cried, sitting up with fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “It’s wrong. Everything is wrong.”
“What did I do now?” Ambrose rasped, his voice sharper than he wanted it to be.
“Why did she leave, Uncle? Did we break her? We tried so hard to be good! Was it because I didn’t practice my sums enough? Or because I was sick for so long?”
“Oh no, no Philip,” Ambrose said, reaching out to touch the boy’s shoulder, only for Philip to flinch away and shimmy under the covers. “It wasn’t you. It was… adult matters.”
“What are adult matters?” He asked. “I don’t understand what that means.”
“Complicated things,” he replied cryptically, unsure how to explain matters of the heart to such young souls.
“Everything is complicated with you,” Arthur spat, his young voice trembling with a bitterness that shocked Ambrose. “She was the only one who didn’t look at us like we were a problem to be solved. Now you’re just bringing in those mean ladies with the pinched faces. And that one lady really did smell horribly of cabbage, Uncle! Even you know it!”
“I am trying to find someone to care for you,” Ambrose argued, his own frustration bubbling up. “You cannot be so picky!”
“We don’t want just someone,” Philip sobbed. “We wanther.”
“We needherUncle. Don’t you?” Arthur cried.
Ambrose stood, the book slipping from his fingers and hitting the floor with a dull thud. He tried to offer a comforting word, a gesture of solidarity, but the words died in his throat. He realized, with a soul-crushing certainty, that he was trying to fill an open canyon with pebbles.
He retreated to his study without another word. He picked up a crystal decanter of brandy, then set it down. He looked at the maps on his wall, the ledgers of his estate, the symbols of his power and title. What did they matter if he couldn’t provide stability and care for his wards?
He had the wealth of a kingdom and the authority of a Duke, yet he couldn’t even make two little boys smile. He had tried to be the protector, the stern guardian, and the pillar of the Lockhart and Welton names. But as he stared into the embers of the cold hearth, he knew that without Imogen, he wasn’t a pillar at all. He was just a man in a very large, very empty house, listening to the echoes of a happiness he had been too late to claim.
“Jones,” he called out with a ring of his bell. “Jones!”
“You rang, Your Grace?” He asked as he stepped through the door.
“Send word immediately to Mr. Longborn. It is time we investigate the Presholms,” he barked as he handed over a note. “Have him be discreet, but learn everything he can about them and about Miss Lewis’s connection to their household. Leave no stone unturned.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” he said with a small bow. “Will that be all?”
“For now.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The afternoon post that arrived the following day carried the final blow for Imogen. She sat at the scarred wooden table in the inn’s common room, staring at the thick cream paper of the newest rejection letter she’d received.
Dear Miss Lewis,
While your credentials from the Duke of Welton are beyond reproach, we have received information regarding your suitability for a household of high standing from another source. We regret that we must decline your application for employment.
Sincerely,
Lady Barkham
The words blurred before her eyes. Lady Presholm had been as thorough as Atilla the Hun. There was nothing to be done. Thereference Ambrose had written with such care was being treated like a forged document, tainted by the poison Julia had dripped into the ears of every granddame in London.
“I have nothing,” Imogen whispered, her head sinking into her hands. “I am nothing.”
