The decanter on his desk was half empty. It had been half empty for days. He couldn’t bring himself to finish it or pour it out, so it sat there. He hadn’t returned to the shop. He couldn’t face her. Couldn’t face the memory of how she’d looked at him—the hope dying in her eyes, the shuttering of her expression, the careful dignity with which she’d backed away and disappeared into the crowd.
The door opened behind him with a soft groan of hinges.
“My lord.” Graves stood in the doorway, his hands clasped in front of his waistcoat. “Lady Philippa’s carriage has just come through the gates.”
Dominic turned from the window, his brow furrowing as he checked the mantle clock. “I was not expecting her until Christmas.”
“No, my lord.” Graves permitted himself the smallest twitch of a smile as he stepped aside. “I believe that was her intention.”
Commotion erupted in the entrance hall. A voice commanded servants with the authority of a general marshaling troops. Dominic barely had time to straighten his waistcoat before the study door swung wide and Lady Philippa Westmore swept into the room.
Travel dust clung to her deep blue pelisse. Her silver hair had escaped its pins, disheveled from hours in a rattling coach. But her eyes, sharp as ever and missing nothing, swept the study with the efficiency of a battlefield commander. She noted the untouched correspondence, the half empty decanter, and the curtains drawn against the light though it was barely past noon.
Her mouth pursed into a thin line. “Nephew.”
“Aunt.” Dominic crossed the room to kiss her cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and road dust. She’d always understood him in ways the rest of his family hadn’t troubled themselves to try. “What has happened? Is something wrong?”
“Your mother wrote to me.” Philippa settled into the chair across from his desk, waving away his offer of refreshment with an impatient flick of her wrist. “Three letters in as many weeks. She is worried about you.”
Dominic snorted, dropping into his own chair and leaning back. “Mother hasn’t worried about me since I was in leading strings.”
“She worries in her own way.” Philippa’s voice softened, though her attention remained fixed on his tired features. “She says you’ve refused every invitation since returning from London. She says you don’t leave the estate and that the servants whisper about you pacing the halls at night.”
“The servants gossip too much.” Dominic looked away, his jaw tightening.
“The servants see what is in front of them.” She leaned forward, her weathered hands gripping the carved arms of the chair. “You are not well, Dominic. I can see it in your face. You look like you haven’t slept in a fortnight.”
He hadn’t. But he wouldn’t tell her why.
“I am fine.” He offered the lie, though it sat bitter on his tongue.
“You are hiding.” Philippa gestured at the stack of unopened invitations on the corner of his desk. “What are these? Lady Morton. Sir Russel.” She picked them up, sorting through the cream-coloured cards with brisk efficiency. “Will you decline them all?”
“I don’t like parties.” He offered a casual shrug, his expression remaining entirely unreadable as he looked past her toward the exit.
“You used to.” She retreated into a sudden, heavy stillness. “Before the war. Before Vivienne.”
He flinched at the name. It still cut him, even now.
Philippa set the invitations down and picked up one that had been separated from the rest. She examined it, her lips curving into a slow smile. “Sir Huxley’s autumn garden party. This afternoon.” She looked up, meeting his eyes with a challenge. “We are going.”
“Aunt, please.” He shook his head, a long, ragged breath escaping him.
“Don’t argue with me.” She rose, brushing the travel dust from her silk skirts. “I have just spent hours in a rattling coach because your mother was afraid you’d drink yourself to death. The least you can do is escort me to one garden party.”
“It will be tedious.” He felt his resistance weakening. It always did when she was involved.
“Then we shall be tedious together.” She paused at the door, turning back to rake her eyes over him one final time. “One hour. A clean coat. And shave, for God’s sake. You look like a highwayman.”
Nell stood in her kitchen, kneading bread she didn’t need to knead. She tried not to think about the harvest festival.
The shop was closed for the Sabbath. Upstairs, she could hear the muffled sounds of her children. There was Lily’s occasional cough and the soft, repetitive scrape of Oliver’s whittling knife against wood. It was quiet domesticity, yet this was the life she’d built, as it was the life that should have been enough.
She punched the dough harder than necessary, her knuckles dusting with flour.
The green silk was still in her wardrobe. She couldn’t look at it, yet she couldn’t give it away. She couldn’t decide which would hurt more: keeping it as a ghost or letting it go forever.
She is nothing of consequence.
