"I suspected. His letter hinted at 'creative solutions' to the debt situation. I should have realised what that meant."
"Is that why you came? Why you made the journey in this weather, at such speed?"
Sebastian was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful. "I came because I was summoned. But I stayed,I involved myself because I could not stand by and watch your family be exploited in their moment of weakness. Richard would never have forgiven me."
Richard. Always Richard. Every kindness Sebastian offered, every consideration he showed, was attributed to his friendship with her dead brother.
"And if Richard had never existed?" Harriet asked. "If you owed nothing to his memory? Would you still have refused?"
Sebastian turned to look at her, and something in his eyes made her breath catch. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you are not a commodity to be traded. Because you deserve a choice in your own future. Because…" He stopped, seeming to catch himself. "Because it would be wrong. Surely that is reason enough."
"Most men would not concern themselves with what is wrong, if it benefited them."
"I am not most men."
"No," Harriet said quietly. "You're not."
They sat in silence for a moment, the wind rustling through the overgrown roses, the distant call of a bird somewhere in the trees. It was not uncomfortable, Harriet realised with some surprise. She had expected awkwardness, tension, the familiar prickling hostility that had characterised their interactions for years. But here, in this wild corner of the garden, something had shifted.
"I used to come here with Richard," Sebastian said suddenly. "When we were boys. He would drag me out here to explore,convinced there were buried treasures hidden among the brambles."
"Did you find any?"
"Once. A rusted tin box containing three marbles, a broken compass, and a note in your handwriting declaring this to be theSekret Headquorters of the Fordshire Adventurers Society."
Harriet felt heat climb her cheeks. "I was eight."
"I know. Richard kept the note. He showed it to me at least a dozen times over the years, whenever he wanted to prove that his little sister was more interesting than mine."
"You have a sister?"
"Two, actually. Both wedded now, both considerably more sensible than I am." Sebastian's lips curved slightly. "They were very fond of Richard. They wept at his funeral."
"Everyone wept at Richard's funeral."
"Not everyone."
Harriet thought of that day, the grey sky, the black clothes, the numb disbelief that had carried her through the service. She had not wept. She had stood beside her mother, dry-eyed and rigid, convinced that if she allowed herself to crack, she would shatter entirely.
"I couldn't," she said, not sure why she was admitting this to Sebastian, of all people. "I wanted to. I could feel it there, behind my eyes, waiting. But I couldn't let it out. I thought…" She stopped, shaking her head.
"You thought if you started, you might never stop."
It was not a question. Harriet looked at him, startled by the understanding in his voice.
"Yes," she said. "How did you know?"
"Because I felt the same way." Sebastian's gaze was fixed on some distant point, his expression distant. "Richard was the first person who ever truly knew me. The first person I could be honest with, without fear of judgement. When he passed I feltas though a part of myself had been amputated. A limb I hadn't known I needed until it was gone."
Harriet had never heard Sebastian speak so openly. The mask he usually wore had slipped entirely, revealing something raw and vulnerable beneath. She found herself leaning slightly toward him, drawn by the honesty in his voice.
"I'm sorry," she said. "For what I said at the funeral. For sending you away."
Sebastian shook his head. "You were grieving. I understood."
