Did he know that? Had he ever known it?
Mrs. West looked down at the shears in her hand, then back up at Eleanor with a self-conscious smile. “I could ask Mrs. Mullins to do this, of course, but she’s so busy, and I like to muck about in the gardens when I get the chance.”
How often was that? Not very, Eleanor guessed. Reginald West seemed like the kind of man who’d care little if his wife had her pleasures. “It smells lovely out here. May I help you?”
Another smile. “All right.” She handed Eleanor the basket. “I’ll cut if you’ll carry the basket. We can get some dill as well, for the bread.”
Eleanor took the basket from Mrs. West’s outstretched hand. “Another of Cam’s favorites?”
“Yes.” Mrs. West set to work on the rosemary, clipping where the herb’s woody stalks had grown too long. “Camden seems quite . . . fond of you.”
Eleanor nearly dropped the basket.Fond?Cam felt something for her, but Eleanor didn’t imagine it was fondness. Frustration, yes. Irritation, certainly.
Desire.Her stomach fluttered at the thought.
She took care to keep her voice light. “Indeed? What makes you say so?”
Mrs. West kept her eyes on her work. “He doesn’t come to Lindenhurst anymore. He’s certainly never brought friends here.”
“Oh, well, I’m afraid my brothers teased him into making the invitation. They’re keen to hunt, you see.”
Mrs. West gave her a sidelong glance. “I don’t think he did it for your brothers, Lady Eleanor.”
“Perhaps not.” She paused, then, “His memories of Lindenhurst are not, I gather . . .”
Sayit, you coward.
“. . . all pleasant ones?”
Mary West’s hand never faltered over the rosemary, but Eleanor felt the woman stiffen beside her. “He told you about his father, then? About. . . what happened?”
I found out. “Yes,” Eleanor lied, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood on her tongue. “Cam’s father died when he was a child—nine, I think he said.”
Clip, clip, clip. Rosemary fell into Eleanor’s basket, but for a time Mrs. West didn’t speak. At last she darted a glance at Eleanor. “He must be fond of you, indeed, if he told you that story.”
Eleanor pressed her lips together, afraid if she opened her mouth the truth would tumble out.
Mrs. West sighed. “James West doted on them, you know, both Camden and Sarah. Camden was devastated when he died, and Sarah, well, she fell apart, and she never could pull herself back together again.”
Eleanor plucked a few blades of rosemary from a stalk, rolled them between her fingers, and inhaled the sharp lemon scent. She remained quiet, hoping the silence would further loosen her companion’s tongue.
It did. “I don’t like to think about what my husband did to Sarah and Camden, Lady Eleanor. It devastated me at the time, and I regret it even now, all these years later. Sarah was like a sister to me, and Camden is as dear to me as my own son. But James’s death broke Sarah. Changed her. Otherwise she would never have—”
Mary West broke off and turned to look at Eleanor. Her face was ashen, and etched with deep lines of pain.
Eleanor’s throat worked, but somehow she managed to keep her voice steady. “She never would have what, Mrs. West?”
“She never would have taken up with such a man. He pursued her relentlessly—wouldn’t leave her alone until at last she gave in, almost from exhaustion, I think. Either that, or she was so grief-stricken over James she just didn’t care what happened to her anymore.”
“What did he . . .” Ellie stopped, cleared her throat. “What did he do to her?”
Mrs. West looked down at her hands, still clutching the shears. “He used her—ruined her. Three years she stayed with him, so many years, and they turned out to be the last years of her life. But for all that, I don’t believe he ever cared for her. I’m sorry, Lady Eleanor, so sorry to say it, but he abandoned her the moment he found out she was with child.”
Ellie stared at her, puzzled. Why should Mrs. West apologize to her? Did she think Ellie was offended by Amelia’s birth? She would never hold an innocent child responsible for her father’s sins. Just thinking about such a man caused Ellie’s throat to burn with bile. Despicable, to seduce a woman broken by grief, then to leave her and his own child to suffer. What kind of man—
“Reginald found out, of course,” Mary went on. “One can’t hide a thing like that for long, and Sarah was careless. He turned her out of the house, though he hadn’t any right to. Lindenhurst belongs to Camden.”
Eleanor went still, the blades of rosemary still clutched between her fingers. It was all true then, what Winnie and Mrs. Mullins had said. Amelia had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Sarah was her mother, Cam was her half-brother, and her father . . .
