There, the lane leading to the house. Another signpost, the tree struck by lightning when she was seven. The creek, the grove, all landmarks she’d known from her childhood.
The only sign a two-story house had once stood in that spot was a soot-darkened brick half wall and the remnants of the kitchen fireplace. Saplings poked up through the blackened earth, as if the forest was attempting to reclaim the spot, healing it with new growth.
A swift breeze skittered across her face like an icy hand.
Veronica closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe calmly, slowly, deeply.
“What happened?” Montgomery asked.
She didn’t open her eyes.
“A fire.”
She would have stepped away from him had the gondola been larger.
He didn’t speak, didn’t pry, granting her the privacy of her past she’d denied him. They hovered over the site until a gust carried them eastward. In those moments, it felt as if God were testing her. As if He wanted her to feel everything she’d successfully hidden all this time.
Because she’d been so insistent that Montgomery share his secrets with her, could she do otherwise?
“My father woke me,” she said, pushing the words free. “He was shouting. He put his strongbox in my hand and saidsomething, I never did understand what. Then he went back inside to get my mother.”
Montgomery remained silent.
“They never came out. I tried to get to them,” she said, glancing down at the scars on her palms. “I couldn’t get the door open. I stood there and watched as the house burned, and I couldn’t do anything.”
She’d stood there for hours and hours, waiting for her parents to appear. They never had, and when the roof had fallen, she’d known they were dead. When three of the four walls caved in, she’d remained there, clutching the strongbox tightly as if her father’s spirit were trapped inside. Finally, a few of the villagers had urged her to come away, and she had. She’d seen to it that they were buried in the churchyard only days before Uncle Bertrand had arrived to take her to London.
Her heart felt as if it had been carved open by a spoon.
Montgomery put his hands on her shoulders, moved closer.
She didn’t want his pity or even his comfort. If he was kind to her, she’d begin to cry. Everyone had wanted her to be so strong, and she had been. Her uncle considered excessive emotion a character flaw, announcing that tears would not honor her father or her mother.
At her uncle’s house, there had been few opportunities for her to give in to her grief. But seeing what was left of the house nearly overwhelmed her.
She lowered her head.
“I’m sorry, Veronica.”
She nodded.
He squeezed his hands on her shoulders. She closed her eyes on her tears, felt the sway of the gondola in the wind. God Himself might have been cradling her in apology for His earlier test.
“My parents died of fever,” he said. “I still miss them.”
She nodded, wanting to thank him for sharing that information with her. The reason he did so wasn’t hard to understand. He’d seen her grief and wanted to ease it. But it wasn’t just grief she felt.
“It was Cook’s half day,” she said, her voice flat. “By afternoon, she still hadn’t returned. I wanted a cup of tea, so I put the kettle on. I don’t remember if I took it off the stove.”
He nodded, his chin brushing against her hair. “So all this time you’ve thought you were responsible for the fire.”
She nodded.
“You’ll never know, Veronica.”
She nodded again.
“We all feel guilt for something,” he said. “Regret for acts done or undone. Or for a word spoken in cruelty or kindness.”
