“There’s only one coach in and out of Ballaburn,” he told her. “It’s already gone.”
She nodded. “I know I’m not going anywhere today, but I’d still like to be alone to think about tomorrow.”
The dining roomat Ballaburn had a western exposure. The brilliant white sun of the early afternoon had lowered and washed the foothills with pink-and-gold light. Flames crackled in the fireplace behind Irish’s lace at the head of the large table. He looked up at Lydia’s entrance and set down his water glass. His head bowed slightly in acknowledgment of her presence.
Nathan stood, skirted the table, and held out a chair for Lydia on Irish’s left. He felt her infinitesimal start of surprise when she saw Irish’s wheelchair, but her fixed, gentle smile did not falter. He returned to his own seat across from her and struggled for distance in the way he was seeing her and feeling about what he saw.
He was not even certain she would join them for the evening meal, and here she was, freshly bathed and coiffed, every last vestige of traveling dust and weariness washed away. Except for the heavy, faintly slumberous look of her eyelids, there was no evidence that she had ever cried. She was wearing a deep lavender silk gown with piping, fringe, and buttons all just a shade lighter.
The collar was high and the tight bodice buttoned down the front well below her waist, making her seem breakably slender. She wore gold-and-pearl earrings that swung delicately when she turned her head.
Nathan glanced at her hands and felt a chill creep under his skin that eventually reached his eyes. Lydia was not wearing her ring.
“I’m pleased you decided to join us,” Irish said. “Molly thought you might. She wants you to especially try her bread. It’s just fresh from the oven.”
Lydia looked over the table. There was a steaming leg of lamb, roast chicken, boiled buttered potatoes, mint jelly and gravy, corn and beans, and a covered basket bulging with hot rolls. “Everything smells delicious. May I?” she asked.
Irish nodded. He expected her to fill her own plate. Instead, she bowed her head and said a blessing. Afterward she served him, then Nathan, and finally herself and missed the look that passed from Irish to Nathan, the look that expressed surprise, confusion, and a certain softness of feeling.
“What should I call you?” she asked, turning to Irish as she raised a slice of meat to her mouth. His hesitation almost made her regret the question, for in that moment she saw what he really wanted and it was impossible for her to comply. “I can’t call you Father,” she said gently. “My father’s in San Francisco. I hope you can understand.”
“Samuel Chadwick,” Irish said.
She nodded. “Mother calls you Marcus. Nathan’s always called you Mad Irish.”
Nathan grinned. “I don’t call him Mad Irish to his face, Lydia. No one does. I’d prefer we forget what I call him behind his back.”
“As if I didn’t know,” Irish scoffed, wagging his fork at Nathan. To Lydia, he said, “I’d be pleased to have you call me Irish. I probably wouldn’t answer to anything else anyway.”
“Irish it is.”
“Does this mean you’re staying at Ballaburn?” he asked.
Lydia looked from Irish to Nathan. “I honestly haven’t decided. I’ve written to Mother and Papa, explaining as much as I know of what’s happened, and I’ve asked Papa to send money for my passage. I may stay here or in Sydney until then.”
“Sydney!” Ruddy color rushed to Irish’s face and he made a blustery protest. “Where would you go? What would you do? You don’t know anyone in Sydney.”
Still looking at Nathan, Lydia said quietly, “I don’t know anyone here, either.” She lowered her eyes then and continued eating.
Irish opened his mouth to say more but closed it again when Nathan caught his eye with a quick warning to stop. Not used to being told what to do, Irish took the advice without much good humor, stabbing at his food when he returned to his meal.
“You wrote a letter once before to your parents,” Nathan said to Lydia. “At the orphanage, remember? Just after you recovered from your fever.”
“I wrote what you told me to write,” she said. “And it was a lie. We didn’t elope. I doubt that Papa believed it anyway. It had to have confused him. He was there when I sent you and Brig jumping from my bedroom window. Heknewhow I felt about the both of you.”
“Jumping out of windows?” Irish interjected, his iron gray brows making a single thick line above his eyes. “What’s this about? Nathan?”
“Later,” Nathan said shortly. “I also wrote a letter, Lydia. One to Pei Ling to be given to your father. I told him all about Marcus and the wager and my part in it.”
“Did you?” she asked, clearly disbelieving.
“Yes.”
Lydia hesitated. The way he spit out the single word was like a slap. “Then you told him more than I know,” she said, refusing to be baited. “I’ve heard about this wager, of course, but I don’t think I’ve ever been told the truth about it. Have I?” Nathan started to say something, but Lydia held up her hand, cutting him off. “No, I’d like to hear it from Irish.”
“Nath was right,” Irish said. He wheeled away from the table to the liquor cabinet and poured himself three fingers of whiskey. “You do have spirit. Scratch the surface of that serene Madonna face and one can see right away that you don’t back down. Do you get that from Madeline, I wonder, or from me?”
He came back to the table. “I suppose you think you’ve been the one wronged here, the one who’s had everything donetoher andagainsther. You’ve probably never considered you’re the person everything’s been donefor.”His fingers pressed whitely on the tumbler and he stared at his drink, not at Lydia. “This afternoon before you fainted you said my name. I was surprised that you knew about me at all. I’d have thought Madeline would have kept it a secret from you.”
