“Let’s see what my mother has to say first.” Henry slit open the second envelope and unfolded the letter from his mother.
Dearest Henry,
I trust you are spending your time wisely and have given serious thought to our last conversation. For my sake, Lord Stokeford has decided to give you yet another chance in allowing Hobsworth to invite you for a visit. I expect you will accept the invitation and take the opportunity to show your stepfather that you are remorseful and have reformed your ways.
Your loving mother,
Lady Stokeford
“Oh dear, your face tells me Hobsworth won’t be permitted to visit us here.” Ottilie picked up Alice and kissed her on the cheek before handing her to Bastin, who kissed the child’s face until the little girl shrieked with laughter.
Ottilie pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’d be sorry for you to leave us. Perhaps a short visit will satisfy your mother.”
“I don’t have to go at all,” Henry said. “I am my own man. Lady Stokeford has no hold on me.”
“But she’s still your mother, Henry, and the only one you will ever have.” Ottilie caressed her stomach. “Trust me, until you have your children, you won’t understand how much she loves you.”
Henry sighed. An image of Anne embracing the burly stranger flashed in his mind, and escaping Canterbury suddenly seemed very desirable.
“Very well. I’ll go. You’ll give my apologies to Violet?” He raised his eyebrows in question.
“Of course; when will you leave?”
“Today.” Henry pushed back his chair and stood up. “If I wait, I’ll likely change my mind.” He walked over to his cousin. “But not to worry, I’ll be back within a week—two at the most.” He kissed Ottilie on the cheek, and Bastin brought the baby forward so he could kiss her.
“Goodbye, Alice. I’ll have another present for you next time I see you.” He bent to kiss the little girl’s rosy cheek.
“Baba!” she said.
“All right, I’ll bring you another one of those.”
“You’ll spoil her,” Ottilie said.
“That’s what uncles are supposed to do, isn’t it?” He shook Bastin’s hand. “Perhaps seeing Hobsworth will lift your spirits.”
“Jack’s right. You seem a bit down lately. Did something happen?”
“No, I’m perfectly fine.” Henry worked to keep his voice light. He hadn’t realized his gloomy mood had been noticeable to others.
The three of them left the room, and Henry returned to his breakfast, thrusting his spoon into the white flesh of his boiled egg. He held the spoon to his mouth and then plopped it down again.
He had no appetite for food. All he wanted to do was forget the image of Anne in that stranger’s arms.
*
“I’m so sorrywe have to leave you,” Mrs. Taylor sat next to her husband on the couch with an orange and brown blanket spread across her lap and spoke in a breathy whisper, “You’ve been such a help to me. And Rupert simply adores you.”
“I wish I’d been more helpful. If only I hadn’t stayed out—”
Annabel swallowed the guilt that sat like bitter medicine in her throat. Mrs. Taylor’s illness had left her too weak to continue her work and care for Rupert, who’d made a remarkable, full recovery. The doctor said it was likely the strain of continuing to work and care for a sick child while feverish herself that had caused Mrs. Taylor’s body to weaken permanently. But by a stroke of luck, Mr. Taylor had arrived home unexpectedly from the sea and was so shocked to discover that his wife and son had been near death that he decided to close her little shop and move them to live with his sister in Cornwell. The good woman, who now worked diligently to complete Mrs. Taylor’s unfinished sewing, had rushed to Canterbury to help her brother and was forced to share a room with Annabel until Nate found alternative lodging for her. He seemed to think it a good idea to move her out of town and farther into the countryside.
“Don’t blame yourself for anything,” Mrs. Taylor continued and then paused to catch her breath. “If it weren’t for you—” she rasped—“I fear the outcome would h-have been quite different.” The sentiment seemed to have exhausted her, and she leaned against her husband’s strapping frame and closed her eyes.
“Hush now, my love,” Mr. Taylor said. “You mustn’t speak. You need your rest.”
Annabel pulled Rupert onto her lap, and he grinned. She reached for the wooden horses his father had carved for him, and he clutched one in each fist, chewing first on one and then the other.
Mrs. Taylor’s eyes fluttered open. She gave her husband a faint smile before her eyes closed again. Mr. Taylor put his arms around his wife’s shoulders and gently maneuvered her body into a lying position on the couch as he stood up. Annabel watched as he lovingly placed a cushion under her head and rearranged the blanket to cover her body. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor’s marriage was very different from Papa’s and Mrs. Leonard’s, who’d always behaved like stiff soldiers and never displayed the tender care she witnessed here.
