“I cannot say. His health is rather poor at present, but he is making progress. I thought to wait until he recovered more to submit the request.”
Margaret placed a hand on my arm. “Do keep me informed of his condition. And let me know should you need anything.”
“Thank you, Margaret.”
The remainder of our time together was spent on more amiable topics, and my heart was far lighter as I left Margaret’s cottage. Still, I could not help the lingering worry I felt on her behalf. Mr. Wilcot may have treated her better these last months, but that undoubtedly came as a result of his mother’s presence. Now that he had his wife alone again, would he revert to his despicable ways?
It was unfair, the control he exercised over Margaret, rarely permitting her to so much as leave the house, but matters could grow worse. Theyhadbeen worse for a time.
Walking the road to Kenwick Castle, I tried and failed to push my concerns to the back of my mind. At present, there was little I could do to help my friend beyond lending her an ear and whatever support I could. And perhaps pray that Mr. Wilcot would come to respect her. Care for her, even a little.
The basket swung leisurely from my arm, much lighter now that Margaret and I had consumed the tarts. Well, most of them anyway. The last one had a special purpose, and just the thought of its intended consumer taking a large bite brought a wide grin to my lips. I would end this day with a point of victory.
I rounded a bend, and Kenwick came into view, its sandy-colored stone face peaking above the trees. Sunlight poured between the parapets, bathing the edges of the battlement in a soft orange glow that made the walls almost appear to have caught fire. The old structure, with its square towers and splayed windows, was majestic and solid in the eyes of many, but to me, it was simply home.
Dirt crunched beneath my boots as I followed the path through the old gatehouse and around the house into the courtyard. Well-kept grass encircled the outer edge of the oval-shaped path that ended in front of stone stairs leading up to the castle’s entrance. I stepped into the vestibule, greeting our butler, Branson, with a slight nod. Before I could even remove my bonnet, Rus’s familiar voice sounded from the split grand staircase that rose to the second floor on both sides of the room.
“Well, what do we have here?” he said in a sing-song voice that held far too much glee. “My most favorite sister.”
“You claim I am your favorite, but with how you treat me, I dare not ask how utterly miserable you make life for Bridget.” Not that I believed I was his favorite, in truth. My younger sister easily claimed that role, but I suspected that had more to do with Mother warning Rus against teasing the sixteen-year-old than anything else.
He placed a hand over his heart, his expression dramatic. “Wounding me again, I see. How many stabs can my poor heart endure before I am forced to surrender to death’s pleading toll?”
“Hopefully, this blow was the lethal sort.”
Hetsked. “I fear I shall recover, much to your dismay.”
I rolled my eyes. Brothers, I had decided, were the bane of my existence. Followed closely by any man who would count himself a suitor.
Rus descended the stairs, sweeping a hand through his auburn hair, a color he and his twin, Rowe, inherited from our mother. Mine was more fiery red like Father’s, and my two younger siblings, Jack and Bridget, had managed a more docile blond.
“What do you want, Russell?” I asked as he stopped in front of me.
“Is this the kind of greeting your dear brother is to receive?”
“Yes.” I stepped around him, but he quickly maneuvered back into my path. I put on a display of irritation, though it was a ruse. I had anticipated this very situation, as Rus had a proclivity to interfere with my plans without being privy to them. I suspected he bribed the servants for information.
“What kind of delicacy has Cook made this time?” he asked, his gaze falling to the basket.
I swung it behind my back. “It hardly matters, seeing as there is none left. I took them all to Margaret.”
Rus’s lopsided grin made an appearance. “Then why hide the basket out of my reach?”
“Because…” I averted my gaze.
“Because you brought home one of whatever Cook made. You always do, Netty. Always so predictable.”
I scowled at him. “I am notpredictable.”
“And yet, every year after we return from London and you visit Mrs. Wilcot, I steal your treat.”
He did, the scoundrel, but this year he would wish he hadn’t.
My brother reached for my arm, and I dodged the attempt. Rus, not one to give up easily, mirrored my steps until he cornered me against the wall. He held up a hand and pointed at me. “Stand and deliver, Netty!”
“I am already standing, you imbecile.” I whacked him with the basket, and in his momentary distraction, I ducked under his arm. Laughter billowed from me as I raced toward the stairs—just not too fast that Rus would not catch me before reaching the first step. After all, I needed him to think he had won, and I had no desire to be yanked down the stairs to achieve that.
His arm wrapped about my waist, and I squealed when he lifted me into the air. With his free hand, Rus wrestled the basket handle from my fingertips.
