“I hope you will accept my apologies for this afternoon,” he said, and although his voice was reserved, she could see the entreaty in his eyes, sense that her forgiveness was very much desired.
“No apology is necessary,” she said quickly, and it was the truth, she supposed. How could she know if he should apologize when she didn’t even understand what had transpired?
“It is,” he said haltingly. “I overreacted. I—”
She said nothing, just watched his face as he cleared his throat.
He opened his mouth, but it was several seconds before he said, “Marina nearly drowned in that lake.”
Eloise gasped, not realizing that her hand had flown up to cover her mouth until she felt her fingers on her lips.
“She wasn’t a strong swimmer,” he explained.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Were you—” How to ask it without appearing morbidly curious? There was no way to avoid it, and she couldn’t help herself; she had to know. “Were you there?”
He nodded grimly. “I pulled her out.”
“How lucky for her,” Eloise murmured. “She must have been terrified.”
Phillip said nothing. He didn’t even nod.
She thought about her father, thought about how helpless she had felt when he’d collapsed to the ground in front of her. Even as a child, she’d been the sort who needed todothings. She’d never been one of life’s observers; she’d always wanted to take action, to fix things, to fix people, even. And the one time it had all truly mattered, she’d been impotent.
“I’m glad you were able to save her,” she murmured. “It would have been horrible for you if you hadn’t.”
He looked at her oddly, and she realized how strange her words had been, so she added, “It’s ... very difficult ... when someone dies, and you can only watch, and you can’t do anything to stop it.” And then, because the moment seemed to call for it, and she felt oddly connected to this man standing so quiet and stiff in front of her, she said softly, and perhaps a bit mournfully as well, “I know.”
He looked up at her, the question clearly in his eyes.
“My father,” she said simply.
It wasn’t something she shared with many people; in fact, her good friend Penelope was probably the only person outside her immediate family who knew that Eloise had been the sole witness to her father’s strange and untimely death.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“Yes,” she said wistfully. “So am I.”
And then he said the oddest thing. “I didn’t know my children could swim.”
It was so unexpected, such a complete non sequitur, that it was all she could do to blink and say, “I beg your pardon?”
He held out his arm to lead her to the dining room. “I didn’t know they could swim,” he repeated, his voice bleak. “I don’t even know who taught them.”
“Does it matter?” Eloise asked softly.
“It does,” he said bitterly, “becauseIshould have done so.”
It was difficult to look at his face. She couldn’t recall ever seeing a man so pained, and yet in an odd way it warmed her heart. Anyone who cared so much for his children—even if he didn’t quite know how to act around them—well, he had to be a good man. Eloise knew that she tended to see the world in blacks and whites, that she sometimes leapt to judgment because she didn’t stop to analyze the gradations of gray, but of this she was certain.
Sir Phillip Crane was a good man. He might not be perfect, but he was good, and his heart was true.
“Well,” she said briskly, since that was her manner, and she preferred to deal with problems by charging ahead and fixing them rather than stopping to lament, “there’s nothing to be done about it now. They can’t very well unlearn what they already know.”
He stopped, looked at her. “You’re right, of course.” And then, more softly, “But no matter who did the teaching, I should have known they were able.”
Eloise agreed with him, but he was so obviously distressed, a scolding seemed inappropriate, not to mention unfeeling. “You still have time, you know,” she said softly.
“What,” he said, his mocking tone turned upon himself, “to teach them the backstroke so that they might expand their repertoire?”
