“I apologize,” she gasped, setting aside her tea to dab at the corners of her eyes with a linen handkerchief procured from a hidden pocket stitched into the skirt of her gown. “I…I do not know what has come over me.”
Generally speaking, she prided herself on controlling her emotions. It was a hallmark of every Weston; their uncanny ability to disguise what they were really feeling behind a cold smile and empty eyes.
Her brother had perfected the art following his return from Eton, and had been a veritable walking, talking glacier before Evie Thorncroft melted him into a puddle. It had taken Brynne a little longer to learn how to effectively shield her innermost thoughts (as a woman, she was charged with the unique task of always being approachable while holding everyone at arm’s length), but with a little practice she’d managed to erect a wall around herself and her feelings. A wall that had grown immeasurably taller after the complete and utter collapse of her marriage. Which was why she was dismayed to find that it was failing her at the moment she needed it the most.
“I cannot claim to be an expert on such matters,” Mrs. Grimsby began, her humble, soothing tone a steady balm on the raw, exposed nerves that pricked and burned just beneath the surface of Brynne’s composed countenance. “Mr. Grimsby and I have been blessed with a quiet, uneventful life. An impatient word spoken here and there, true, but for the most part, we have loved each other day in and day out since he stumbled his way through a proposal when we were both hardly more than children.”
Brynne managed a wisp of a smile. “That sounds very nice.”
“It is,” the housekeeper nodded. “It is indeed. But I can imagine that a secret elopement, and whatever drove you to return to a place you’ve never been terribly fond of, and then the reappearance of the man who, if memory serves, you asked me to have shot on sight, would be enough to drive anyone to a few tears, if not worse.”
“How long have you known?” She crumpled her handkerchief into a ball, but didn’t return it to her pocket as she sensed she may have need of it shortly. “That Lachlan…that Lord Campbell and I…that we…”
“Are wed?” Mrs. Grimsby said gently.
She nodded past the lump in her throat.
“Long enough, dear. Do not forget your toast.”
Obediently, she took a bite, then dusted the resulting crumbs off her lap. It really should have come as no great shock that Mrs. Grimsby knew about her marriage to Lachlan. Servants were often privy to information that was not widely circulated. Especially a housekeeper, who had the eyes and ears of every maid and footman in the manor.
“He wasn’t supposed to come here.” Bitterness chased away her tears as she made herself sit up straight, Miss Hardgrave’s lessons (“young ladies do not slouch, young ladies do not speak out of turn, young ladies do not fraternize with boys of ill repute”) as much a part of her as the color of her hair. “When we…when we ended things between us, I made it clear that I never wanted to see him again.”
“What did Lord Campbell have to say to that?” Mrs. Grimsby asked.
“He was not inclined to agree.”To put it mildly.“But I did not give him a choice.”
“I see.” Lapsing into thoughtful silence, the housekeeper made an act of removing a small silver figurine off the table beside her and rubbing it to a shine with her apron. She replaced it carefully, then regarded Brynne with a calm, measured smile. “If Lord Campbell has come all this way, I can only presume that he should like to make amends for whatever transgressions he committed.”
“I am not interested in any sort of reconciliation, and I have already asked him to leave.”
“And here I just had him settled in the East Wing.”
Brynne stared blankly at Mrs. Grimsby. “You did what?”
“He is your husband, dear. Estranged or not.”
“He is a rogue!” What remained of her toast fell to the floor as she surged to her feet. “And a liar besides. I wantnothingto do with him, and you’ve–you’ve put out the welcome banners? Mrs. Grimsby, how could you?”
The housekeeper clucked her tongue. “I had a room prepared for a family member, my lady. The same as I’ve done a hundred times before.”
“Lachlan Campbell isnotmy family.” As anger boiled and betrayal slapped, Brynne’s natural defenses shored themselves up, encasing her behind a towering partition of ice. “You are excused, Mrs. Grimsby.”
“My lady–” the housekeeper began, her brows knitting.
“Out,” she whispered, jabbing a finger at the door.
“Very well.” Stiffly, Mrs. Grimsby stood. But she did not immediately quit the parlor. “I shall say this once, Lady Brynne, and not again. I probably should not say it all, but I’ve known you since you were a girl. I’ve rocked you in my arms when you had bad dreams. I’ve stood guard over you when you were terribly ill with fever. I’ve mended your cuts and tended your bruises, and long have I considered you to be one of my daughters, even though there is no blood between us and I am your social inferior. Which is why I hope you heed my words when I say that in my experience, it is rare that a person has done something so grievous that it cannot be undone with time and forgiveness.”
Guilt filled Brynne. Every word the housekeeper spoke was true, and she felt terrible for her harsh tone. It was a basic human instinct to cause hurt when you were hurt. To alleviate your pain by invoking pain in others. But it wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair, and she owed Mrs. Grimsby more than the curt dismissal she’d given her.
“I apologize,” she said. “I…I have not been myself. Not since Lord Campbell arrived. I wish forgiveness was as easy as that. Truly, I do. It would make everything that much more simple.” As a smile, sweet and fleeting, stole across her lips, she hugged her arms to her chest. “Lachlan and I…we did love each other. Once. But now…now it’s better for everyone that we stay apart.”
Mrs. Grimsby raised a brow. “I never said anything about forgiveness beingeasy, dear. And love is many things, but simple is not one of them. It is, however, the third most important thing worth fighting for.”
“And the other two?” Brynne asked.
Mrs. Grimsby may have never attended a ball in London or met the queen at Kensington Palace or sat in a box at the Royal Theater, but she was an indispensable source of wisdom nevertheless. Her common sense view of the world had often served as a guide for Brynne over the years. Certainly, the housekeeper had given her better advice than any nanny or governess, and while she hadn’t the same experience with thetonas Lady Crowley had, her guidance was just as invaluable.
