“Not sick like when ye get a cold in the winter,” he replied carefully. “But she’s very sad, and that’s a kind of sickness. The remedy is time and a lot of love from ye.”
Sophie nestled back into her uncle’s chest. “Because of papa?”
“Because of papa.” Jeremy kissed the top of the girl’s head.
She puffed out a weary breath. “I miss papa.”
“I do, too.” His throat clogged. “I do, too.”
She was too young to fully understand the depth of grief as an adult might. He knew she had been inconsolable in the days before he left for England, but when everyone around her kept explaining that her father had ‘gone to a better place’ and ‘was in heaven, looking down on her’ and ‘had been called back to be with the angels,’ then what reason did she have to be overwhelmed by loss? To her, her father was not truly lost; he was just somewhere else. Her sorrow stemmed from his immediate absence, not from the painful reality that he was gone forever.
Maybe her lack of tears and obvious grief was not easy for Beatrice to handle. Or perhaps, Beatrice was jealous of her daughter’s ability to just move on as if nothing had happened, playing, laughing, and smiling.
By the time Jeremy had carried her out of the barn, Sophie was asleep in his arms, finally giving in to the nap that she had been fighting.
Beatrice was waiting outside, and when she saw her daughter sleeping in her uncle’s arms, her expression showed no relief. Her demeanor grew cold, and her reddish-brown eyes narrowed as they fixed on Jeremy, as if he had somehow betrayed her.
“I think Sprightly finally wore her out,” he whispered, as he made to hand the girl into her mother’s arms.
But Beatrice took a step back. “I daenae want to disturb her sleep,” she said tightly. “Ye can carry her upstairs, since it’s ye she decided to behave for.”
“Don’t do that,” Jeremy said quietly, subtly covering Sophie’s ear in case some part of her was still listening. “I know ye’re hurting, but don’t do that. It’s not her fault. None of this is her fault, and she’s not choosing sides, Bea. Thereareno sides in this.”
Beatrice’s forehead crinkled, and for a moment, Jeremy worried he might have hurt her. A tear formed on her lashes, quickly brushed away, and she took in a deep, shaky breath.
“Still, will ye carry her?” she asked. “I daenae think I have the strength today.”
There was no apology; it was not necessary. Beatrice had lost the love of her life, a man she had spent a decade with, a man she had imagined spending many more decades with, having more children, though it had been difficult for them to conceive. Sophie had been their miracle, but they had always longed for more.
“Aye, I will carry her.” Jeremy offered his free arm to his sister-in-law, but she shook her head and wouldn’t take it.
Together, at a respectful distance from each other, they walked back to the manor in silence. Douglas might have made a joke, pulled a face, or told them both to cheer up, and it was his voice that seemed to fill the space between them: the memory of him, always knowing exactly what to say at the right moment.
Jeremy wasn’t speechless for long. Not silent, anyway.
In his absence, Stonebridge was attacked by someone with what seemed like an endless supply of cloth: blankets, tapestries, coverlets, old curtains, and even a few rugs. They now hung from the ceiling in a strange kind of divide, while a series of ropes split the staircase into two paths. One set of curtains completely covered the entrance to the hallway where Anna’s study was, while the entrance to the kitchens had no covering at all.
“I guess the wee dowager is drawing her lines,” Beatrice said with a huff that could have been derision or admiration. “Cannae blame her. If there had been a castle left and someone came in trying to claim it as their own, I’d have done worse.”
Jeremy did not know what confused him more: the clumsy divisions or Beatrice’s words. But he certainly knew which one frustrated him more. This was not about splitting up the manor into Anna’s and Jeremy’s; it was about what had happened in the study. It was about retribution for daring to make her feel something, for revealing what she was missing, for having the audacity to desire her.
It was about keeping him away from her, so she could not give in to temptation again. So he could not have her, no matter how much he craved her.
“I will deal with this,” he muttered as he handed Sophie to her mother. “Ye go and rest, the two of ye.”
Beatrice said nothing as she took Sophie into her arms and headed up the stairs, while Jeremy veered right, passing straight through the curtains that had ‘sealed off’ the hallway to her study.
But when he tried to enter that room, the door was locked, and though he knocked on it to be sure, there was no reply. She was not here, so where else could she be?
He retraced his steps, stopping at every door. The servants—herservants—seemed suspiciously scarce as he made his way back to the entrance hall and marched straight up the stairs, uncertain of whether he was on the ‘right’ side or not. It hardly mattered. He would not live in a manor divided, especially not one designed to torment him.
Just then, he spotted a maid who was clearing old flowers out of a vase.
“Oi! What’s the meaning of this, eh?” he called out, gesturing to the ropes and blankets, most of all the curtains that covered up the path to Anna’s bedchamber.
Apparently, she was claiming a whole hallway to herself. True, his chambers were on the opposite side of the landing, unrestricted by the divisions, and so were the guest chambers of his niece and sister-in-law, but that was beside the point.
The maid jumped, her hand flying to her chest. “What do you mean, Your Grace?”
