“You didn’t. I have far thicker skin than that. In truth, that you’d abandon your manners so thoroughly in my presence makes me think you consider me a friend.”
“I do, Mr. Duffy, very much.”
“While we’re offering apologies, let me give you one. I regret that work has kept me from calling on you. I miss your company.”
“That’s kind of you.” She paused to smell a rose. “Would it surprise you to know that, in your absence, I’ve been cheering you on?”
“A little, I suppose. But whatever for?”
“All those billable hours—surely they’re helping you save for your house.”
“They are, but I still prefer time spent with you.”
Caroline wished she felt the same way.
They kept going at a sedate pace, around the beds of fragrant gardenias and under the arched trellis covered in wisteria thick with cascades of lilac-blue blooms.
“Miss Bennet,” Walsh said, turning to face her. “Hearing your father refer to your mother by her given name makes me long to do the same with you. Will you call me Walsh and allow me to call you Caroline—when we’re private, at least?”
Such a simple question, yet it fell on her like a chunk of steel from his mill, and Caroline spent several moments debating how she should reply.
The progression of courting advanced as unrelenting as the tide. The dropping of formal address didn’t equate to betrothal, but each step closer fed the suitor’s hope. “I will,” she finally said. “But only when we’re alone.”
“Of course. Thank you for indulging me.”
The elation in his eyes made her sick in the pit of her stomach. She was leading Walsh down the proverbial primrose path, encouraging endearment when she felt virtually none of her own.
“Do you enjoy croquet?” he asked as they rounded the circular path.
“I do.”
“You must keep this to yourself for now, as the invitations have yet to go out, but Aunt is in the throes of planning a garden party for three Saturdays hence. Will you accompany me, Caroline?”
“Yes, Walsh. I will.”
He smiled and laid a hand on top of hers where it rested on his forearm as they returned to the yard.
“Nelson?” her mother said.
Caroline paused then picked up her pace. Something about her mother’s tone was off.
As she and Walsh neared the tables, her father stiffened, and his face contorted as if he’d been struck. The glass of lemonade slipped from his grasp and shattered on the stones below as he slumped sideways.
“Papa!” Caroline cried and ran to him.
Walsh followed at a sprint and caught him under the arms before he slid from the chair entirely. “Help me lay him down. Watch the glass.”
Caroline took hold of her father’s ankles and helped Walsh position him, while her mother stood frozen, pale hands pressed to her mouth.
Walsh glanced up. “Mrs. Bennet, kindly get damp cloth and a pillow—something for his head.”
Her mother snapped into action, catching up her skirts and running for the house.
Caroline knelt beside her father, whose brow bore a fine sheen of sweat. His breathing shuddered, and his right arm lay limp and lifeless. He was too heavy to extricate from his sack coat in his current state, so she settled for removing his tie and detaching his collar. “Papa, can you hear me?”
His eyes met hers, his right lid sagging as the side of his face began to droop. The side of his lips that wasn’t flaccid moved as if trying to form words, but only a garbled, unintelligible sound came out.
“It’s all right,” Caroline soothed, holding back tears. “Don’t try to speak right now. Just rest.”
