She pushed the dog away with uncharacteristic roughness. “But you love me!” she said.
“Of course I do.” He moved across the carriage to sit beside her, and lifted her onto his lap. “You are my daughter. My firstborn and my very own. Nothing will ever change that, Pamela. You will always be the first girl in my life. But we can all love more than one person. You loved Mama and you love me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said doubtfully. “And I love Tiny.”
“Well, then,” he said. “I love you and I love Miss Hamilton. And if she marries me and we have other children, I will love them too. And you will always be their eldest sister—always someone special.”
“Is she going to come with us right away?” she asked. “I am going to show her Tiny. She will be surprised to see how big she has grown, won’t she? And I am going to tell her that I was not sick on the boat. Don’t you tell, Papa. Let me.”
“Agreed,” he said, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “I haven’t asked her yet, Pamela. Maybe she will say no. Maybe she is quite happy where she is, teaching in her school and living in her little cottage. But I shall ask her.” He chuckled. “Don’t you ask. Let me.”
“Agreed,” his daughter said, and wriggled from his lap to worry the dog, who had settled peacefully on the other seat.
The duke sat back against the cushions and watched them. It was very possible that she would say no. Indeed, perhaps she was married already—to her Daniel or to some other gentleman of her neighborhood. He must not allow himself to hope too much.
A year before—or eleven months before, when he had finally pulled himself free of the worst of the nightmare surrounding the double death of his brother and his wife—he had felt confident of her answer though he had felt obliged to stay away from her during the year of his mourning. He had allowed himself only that one brief letter.
But eleven months seemed like an eternity. He and Pamela had traveled for the whole of that time and had seen many places and met many people. It seemed like longer than a year since he had been in England.
He could remember the words she had said to him—how could he ever forget? And he could remember the passionate abandon with which she had given herself to him on that one night before he left her. He had relived that night many timesin his imagination. At the time he had believed that her love, like his own, would last for all eternity and even beyond. But now he was less sure.
Her love had not been of such long duration as his own. She had hated him and been repulsed by him—with good reason. It was only in those last days, when they had traveled together in search of Hobson’s grave, that she had grown comfortable with him, that they had developed a friendship and become lovers.
It was understandable under the circumstances that they had ended up in each other’s arms.
Perhaps for her there was no more to it than that. Genuine as her feelings had been at the time, perhaps they had faded in the days and weeks that had followed his departure. He must be prepared to find her cool and embarrassed by his visit.
He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be lulled by the motion of the carriage. He must not expect that she had thought of him every moment of every day—not consciously, perhaps, but deep down where feelings and meanings are. He must not expect that she had made him part of her dreams, both waking and sleeping. He must not expect that she was like him.
Fleur. He would see her the next day if she had not moved away.
At last. Ah, at last. The more than fifteen months since he had squeezed her hands and said good-bye and jumped into this very carriage to be taken away from her seemed longer than forever. Far longer.
FLEUR WAS TEACHING READINGto a group of the youngest children while Miriam was conducting a geography lesson with the others.
But it was doubtful that anyone was learning a great deal, Fleur thought, smiling at one little boy to bring his attentionback to the lesson. There was an air of suppressed excitement in the room. It did not take a great deal to excite these children. They were to go on a nature ramble as soon as morning classes were over, taking their luncheon with them. It was the end of September, the last opportunity they would have for such an outing before the weather grew too cold.
She and Miriam were to accompany the children, as well as Daniel, who often came into the school to give a scripture lesson, and Dr. Wetherald, who had been showing a marked preference for Miriam in the past several months, though Miriam declared in her usual cheerful, forthright manner that they were just friends. Fleur had been interested to note, though, that her friend blushed when saying so.
There really was no need of so many adult chaperones, Fleur thought, but it was a treat for them, too, to get out into the fresh air and the countryside for the whole of an afternoon.
A knock on the door destroyed the last vestiges of the children’s attention. Fleur smiled and shook her head as the eyes of her group of children, and doubtless their minds too, followed Miriam to the door.
“Is Miss Hamilton here, please?” a polite young voice asked.
Fleur spun around on her chair.
“I am afraid there is no one of that name here, my dear,” Miriam said. “Are you …?”
“Pamela!” Fleur was up out of her chair and hurrying across the room, her arms outstretched. “Here I am. Oh, how tall you have grown, and how good it is to see you.” She bent down to hug the child and was instantly aware of a tall, dark figure standing some distance behind her, against the crested carriage.
“Papa says the air of the Continent has made me grow,” Lady Pamela said. “Tiny is in the carriage, Miss Hamilton. Wait until you see how she has grown. She is not tiny any longer.
And I was not sick coming across in the boat from France, though some of the ladies were.”
Fleur was stooped down in front of her. “I am very proud of you,” she said. “And are you on your way home?” If her life had depended upon it, she did not believe she could have shifted her gaze to the man standing a few feet away.
“Yes,” Lady Pamela said. “I can scarcely wait. But Papa wanted to come here first. I am not to tell why. I got to tell you about not being sick on the boat.”
