Bile rose in her throat as remorse swept through her. “I’m sorry.”
But he held up a hand to stop her. “Enough.” He turned his head.
Priscilla’s throat swelled, but she forced herself to swallow the sobs threatening to escape.
She could not stay at Cliffhouse now, not knowing he’d given up on her.
Her regret made no sense at all. That was why she’d come!
And yet, the thought of never seeing him again was almost paralyzing.
She was so very, very tired of pretending. The last thing she wanted to do now was to have to hide this pain.
She nodded, though, and blinked away her tears.
She would not cry.
“Goodbye, then.”
She didn’t care that he wanted her to uphold their original agreement. She had accomplished what she’d come to do, and it was time for her to go. It was over.
She and Chloe could leave first thing in the morning.
She stopped herself from apologizing again, but just as she reached the door, he turned around.
“It’s not your fault.” The words seemed not to come easy for him. In his eyes, she saw regret, resignation, and… longing?
Their gazes trapped one another’s one last time.
Fearful of what would come out if she went to speak, Priscilla simply nodded and then stepped into the foyer.
The soft click of the door closing behind her ought to have given her relief.
Instead, she despaired at the finality.
* * *
It had taken all her resolve to walk away from Emerson’s study. And yet Priscilla couldn’t bring herself to return to her chamber or one of the drawing rooms.
She shouldn’t have been surprised to find herself in the kitchen.
Only, instead of the expected music of dishes clanging, fires burning, and workers chatting, she was met with silence.
But of course, Lady Hardwood would have taken advantage of the guests’ outing to give her servants some well-needed time off. Likely, the guests would take their meal in the village.
The weight bearing down on Priscilla’s chest crawled up her throat.
Tears. That’s what the weight was—big, guilty, sorrowful tears.
She released one sob, but approaching footsteps kept her from releasing another.
“Ah, Miss Meadowbrook. Can I help you with something?” Cook went to busy herself, but when Priscilla didn’t answer, she turned back to stare at her.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” Priscilla said. “I guess I was hoping to—” She glanced around. No pots boiling on the stove. And the big bowl of dough, covered with a white cloth, didn’t need her either. “Help,” she finished lamely.
Cook glanced around the now tidy kitchen, her mouth twisting. “You aren’t, er, going anywhere this afternoon?”
“No.” Priscilla forced a wobbly smile.
