“Ah, the nursery. It’s almost complete,” her sister said. Indeed, the half-finished chamber with its yellow blanket and row of quiet books had her heart clutching. Oh, how she’d wanted a child.
“It’s lovely. Almost like one of your paintings,” she whispered.
“What a very nice thing to say.” Antonia hugged her. “Thank you, Rose. I do believe there is something different about you. I’m so very happy you’ve come to visit.”
It was by reflex that Rose nodded her response as her heart refused to settle.
Twenty
Hope House had once blended into its neighbors with its aged brick, weary stoop, and a door that bore the quiet burden of secrets. But today, something felt changed. Or perhaps it was just Emerson, still dusted with Sussex and too many miles of questions.
He lifted the brass knocker and let it drop—firm, with purpose. It appeared newer than he recalled. The sound barely echoed before the door cracked open.
The stout housekeeper whose name failed him in that moment stood in the narrow space, her starched apron immaculate, her eyes widened. “Mr. Whitmore, is it?” There was no disguising her Scottish accent.
He inclined his head. “Indeed. I’m here to see Lady Stanford.”
She didn’t so much as blink. “Lady Stanford has departed for the day, sir.”
It was not a mere dismissal. It was a statement of fact, resolute and unyielding.
“Do you know when she’s expected—?”
“Nay. ’Er schedule, ’tis not always…er, regular.”
His lips firmed, but before he could press further, a voice floated in from the hallway behind her.
“Is that Mr. Whitmore, Mrs. Keir? Do move aside and admit the man.”
The door widened, exposing Lady Huntley, riding gloves in hand, a wide smile curving her lips. “Well, well. Mr. Whitmore.” She waved a bare hand. “We’ve just sat down to tea, and I’ve been dying to speak with the man who’s made my sister so infuriatingly smug with his generosity.”
Mrs. Kier stepped aside. Emerson offered her a courteous nod as he passed, noting how her expression remained carefully neutral, but not indifferent.
Inside, the air was warm and faintly fragrant with lemon oil, starch, and something heartier—clove perhaps.
“Come.” Lady Huntley led him down the familiar hall. “We’re in the drawing room. I know the young women would love to thank you personally for the dresses they shall soon take possession of.”
He didn’t require thanks, but he did want information. Precisely, Lady Stanford’s current location. “I would be delighted,” he murmured.
Upon entering the comfortably shabby parlor, he found tea was already being poured. Lady Huntley motioned him to a low chair near the hearth.
“You’ll have to forgive the state of our humble abode,” she said breezily.
Emerson’s boots likely left a trail of Sussex dust behind him. “It’s quite acceptable,” he said with a wry smile.
Several pairs of interested eyes flicked over his mud-splashed hem, travel-worn coat, and rumpled cravat. “Good God,” she murmured with a grin, “have youbeensomewhere?”
“Sussex, my lady. A family matter.”
“How rustic.” She sat, smoothing her skirts. “We’ve a cook who’s recently taken to walnut cake, though her first attempt might’ve offended the walnuts.”
Emerson took the seat offered, noting the worn rug, the careful arrangement of books in a corner cabinet he also hadn’t noticed previously, the threadbare but clean settee. No extravagance, but unmistakable order and purpose. The room was lived in, but curated. Certainly respected.
“Miss Botha, would you please pour for our guest?” Lady Huntley said.
Emerson studied the obviouslyenceinteMiss Botha from lowered lashes. He remembered her from his previous visit. She was much too young, though he’d no idea of her actual age. Her eyes, however, reflected soul years’ experience of suffering, compounded by her current stance.
“Yes, milady,” she said. Her voice was steady. No simpering or pretense.
