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Papa was, as expected, in the library. When she entered, it wasn’t just the scent of pipe tobacco and paper and leather that greeted her, though—there, too, lingered the scent of lemon and spice.
Justin
. She very nearly retreated, but then she’d be left with only her own company, and she had days ago grown annoyed with herself. “Have a pleasant chat, Papa?”

Justin had been here
hours
today. Hours.

And her father had the gall to smile over his newspaper. “I did. We were discussing the latest advancements in aeronautics. You should have joined us, my dear. You would have enjoyed it.”

“Papa.” She sank into her usual chair, at right angles to his. “Why will you not turn him away?”

“Because I enjoy his company.” He reached for his pipe and put it between his teeth, though he didn’t light it. He never did while she was in the room, after she’d once coughed. “Clever young man. I can see why you like him so well.”

“
Liked
.”

“Come now, my dear, we both know you’re only so miserable because you’re in love. One of these days you’ll relent long enough to talk to him, and it will take but a single honest, earnest conversation for you to put aside your differences.” He
took the pipe out again and used it to point at her. “When that day comes, I would prefer the pleasure of saying
‘I knew it
all along’
to the regret of saying
‘I’m
sorry for treating him poorly while you were at odds.’
”

“Papa.”

“You cannot avoid him forever.”

Why not? Why would he not go away? Back to London or Gloucestershire or India or Africa or
anywhere
—so long as it wasn’t Whitby Park? She rested her elbow on the arm of the chair and then her head in her hand. “I don’t want to see him. There’s nothing left to say.”

“I think there is.” He put newspaper and pipe aside and leaned forward, resting his hand on her knee. “Brook, whenever I walk into your room, I see the same book sitting on your bedside table. What does it say to do?”

“That isn’t fair.” She had tried looking for comfort in
La Bible
. She had tried to find answers. But it had just been words these past weeks, never sinking deeper than her mind. “I know we are to forgive. And I will. But that doesn’t mean that we can go back to the way things used to be.”

“Who ever said you should?” He sat back up, shaking his head. “But God does not just instruct us to forgive—He instructs us to trust. To trust that, even though life hurts us, He will take care of us. That even if we lose the ones we love, He will sustain us through it.”

Her brows knit. “
Trust
is not my problem.”

“Isn’t it?” He gave her knee a squeeze. “You are afraid to love, my dear. Afraid that if you do, it will only come to a miserable end. And it may—life comes with no promises. But it’s worth it. It’s worth the risk.”

She shook her head, intending it to be a denial that she was afraid. But with each movement, her resolve shifted. “No. No, it’s not worth it. How can I possibly love him when it means
arguing like we have been? When it means he doesn’t want me to spread my wings lest I get hurt in the flight—”

“Brook, he is the one who taught you how to fly! But is it so unreasonable that he asks you to look before you leap?”

How was it that Justin could make her feel the fool even when he wasn’t in the room? “What is the point, though? We will only hurt each other. Or . . . or lose each other later.”

He gripped her hand, resting their clasped fingers on the book she’d left on the side table last night. “Must I quote Shakespeare at you, my dear? ‘It is better to have loved and lost—’”

“No! It isn’t!”

Silence greeted her outburst, and it reigned long enough to make her glance at her father’s countenance. To see the patience there . . . and the sheen in his eyes. Of all the people for her to have said such a thing to . . .

His fingers tightened around hers. “Should I not have loved your mother, then? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Papa . . .”

“I lost her. I lost you. And it brought me to my knees. It tormented me for years and made me shut myself off from society. But it brought me to my knees—and the Lord was there, through it all, supporting me. The Lord was there, shaping me through my loss into the man He wanted me to be.”

She lowered her head, her gaze. “I didn’t mean . . .”

“You did. But you don’t understand, Brook. Had I run away in fear from the things she made me feel, I would not have mourned any less when she died. I would have mourned
more
. Mourned the loss of the happiness we could have had and didn’t. I would have mourned what could have been and wasn’t. I would have been even more miserable, I would have turned bitter, I would have been hounded not just by questions but by crippling regrets.”

“But—”

“If Justin were killed today, and you had all this between you, what would it do to you?”

Her breath balled up in her chest, choked her.

He patted her hand and then leaned back. “Love is much like Oscuro, my dear. Yes, it is dangerous. You may get hurt. But the victory of the ride . . . Would you be willing to miss out on that, just because at any time he might shy at something and send you to the ground?”

And now her lips tugged up. He knew her language all too well. She sat up straighter—and then started when running steps burst into the room.

Deirdre halted halfway in, her eyes wide and her hands shaking violently as they clutched at a slip of paper. “Beg pardon. But I—it’s my mum.”

Brook pushed herself up even as her father did. He stepped forward, the pipe in his hand again. “What has happened?”

She was glad he had asked. Her tongue was knotted. Pratt had made good on his threats.

Deirdre must have known her thoughts. She looked her way, shook her head. “Sickness, it says. Bad. My brother, he says I need to come home. I know I oughtn’t to ask—”

“Of course you ought.” Brook slid up beside her father, knowing he would have said the same. “You need to go to her.”

“You can make the afternoon train west if you hurry. I will send ahead to procure a steamer ticket for you.”

Deirdre blinked rapidly and clutched the paper to her chest. “I’m indebted to you, your lordship.”

“We’ve been through this, O’Malley. Family first. And give your uncle our regards—he’s still there convalescing, is he not?”

“Aye. And thank you. And again, thank you.” With watery eyes, Deirdre flew from the room.

Brook turned to her father. “May I drive her? She cannot walk in this weather.”

“Of course.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “But be careful of all the mud. And consider what I’ve said. I hate seeing you like this, Brook. You are meant to be sunshine and tempests, not dreary fog and rain.”

Unable to think of any response, unable to think why it sounded like such a compliment, she could only wrap her arms around him and hold on for a long, fortifying moment. Then she ran from the room in search of Deirdre.

“But I want to come. I want to meet her, DeeDee, and if it’s bad enough that they’re calling you home . . .”

Tears stung at the implication, but Deirdre couldn’t give them purchase yet. Couldn’t let them overtake her. She swallowed the fear down and paused at the end of the servants’ hall to put a hand to Hiram’s face. “I know. And if I get there, and it’s that bad, I’ll send you word. I promise it, I will. But I couldn’t take the time to explain to his lordship
why
you should come with me. We’ve said nothing, and now—”

“Now the train leaves so soon, and you must be on it.” Because he was Hiram, he brightened. Nodded. Leaned down to press a quick kiss to her lips. “Send me word no matter what. Let me know you’ve got there safe, or I’ll worry all the week long.”

“I promise. I’ll wire you before I board the ship, again when I dock, and then from Kilkeel. I promise.”

“Good.” He kissed her again and then jumped away from her when hurried footfalls reached them.

Deirdre recognized the step, though she heard it rarely in this part of the house, and straightened as the baroness came running down the last few steps.

Her ladyship looked relieved to have caught her. “There you are. I’ll drive you, but we must hurry. The roads will be a mess.”

She hadn’t the time to argue, though she felt she should. Instead, she flew into her room and tossed what she hoped were suitable items into her bag, then dashed back out. The baroness no longer stood in the hall, though Hiram still did.

“She went to fetch her hat and a wrap, said to meet her at the car.”

Nodding, Deirdre ran down the hall, figuring even Mrs. Doyle wouldn’t chastise her for it in this case. Hiram kept pace, though she halted him at the door that would lead them out into the rain and muck. “You mustn’t muddy your livery.”

He looked about to argue but must’ve decided not to waste the time. With a heave of breath, he kissed her again and drew her in for a quick embrace. “I love you, Dee. Go with God.”

“Pray for Mum. And I love you too.” She held tightly to him as long as she dared and then darted out into the rain.

The baroness had beaten her out and was already driving the car from the carriage house. Deirdre climbed in, barely getting the door shut before they were off. “Thank you. Though sure and I’m sorry to leave you without warning.”

Her ladyship didn’t look over at her. She had scarcely touched her with a gaze these two weeks, except when it was unavoidable. “It is no great thing. You must be with your family. I know what they mean to you.”

“Aye.” Her throat went tight. The baroness knew the lengths Deirdre would go to in order to provide and protect. And surely hated her for it. “Ought I to bother coming back?”

The baroness sighed and shifted the gear lever. “O’Malley—Deirdre. What you did . . . were it not for the letters, it would be nothing.”

“Letters . . .” There were some yet she hadn’t answered for. Hadn’t even thought of them in the wake of the major’s death. “Forgive me, my lady. He had me plant more in your trunk, in London. I forgot about it when all . . . And when we got home,
you’d finished the unpacking on your own.” She clutched the handles of her bag until her fingers hurt. “I’m so sorry. I can’t say it enough. I never let myself think how it would hurt you. I never thought it would so ruin things with the duke.”

The lady’s fingers tightened, too, on the wheel. “Can I trust you now? If Pratt comes to you again—”

“I’d go straight to you and his lordship. I swear it.” Her heart thudded in her chest. Was it possible her ladyship would grant her another chance? She shouldn’t. But, oh, how Deirdre prayed she would.

“Then . . .” She eased to a halt at the base of the drive, glanced both ways—and then at Deirdre. “Then come back when you’re satisfied your mother is better. I’ll handle my father.”

“Thank you.” The tears pressed again, but she blinked and cleared her throat. “That sounds so feeble. But I’ve no other words.”

A corner of the baroness’s mouth tipped up as she pulled out onto the road for Whitby. As her father’s so often did. “If it’s more words you’re looking for, you could start with ‘Hiram and I . . .’ That wasn’t the first I’ve seen you with a flush in your cheeks in his company.”

They heated now, though not from embarrassment. The one joy since they returned to Yorkshire had been those moments by his side. Knowing that he knew the worst of her and loved her anyway, that he would give up all he’d worked for to be with her, and to help her family. “He’s asked me to marry him. I’ve said yes. Though we haven’t said anything to anyone yet, not knowing if . . . if we’d have to leave.”

“Well.” Her ladyship glanced her away again, her smile full and bright. “I’ll be sure and alleviate that concern for him when I get back. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, my lady.” There would be new problems to figure, now that she knew they could stay at Whitby Park. God
willing, children would come, and rare it was that any of the domestic help had a child underfoot.

“Don’t fuss over the details yet.” And when had her ladyship learned to read her so well? “We can worry over where you’ll stay after you get back. For now, focus on your mum, knowing you’ve a good man awaiting your return.”

“Aye.” The worry seized her mind again. How ill must Mum be for Killian to send for her? Had they money enough for a physician? She let her eyes slide closed so she could better pray.

By the time they pulled up outside the railway station, the rain had gone from downpour to drizzle. Still, puddles splashed around the roadster’s tires. And already a train puffed its steam from the tracks. She’d better hurry, in case it was hers. “Thank you again, my lady.”

“Let us know how she is—we’ll be praying.”

Deirdre didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to fend off the tears. Perhaps on the train, in the overcrowded anonymity of third class, she would indulge in a few of them. “I will. Drive safely home.”

Without wasting another moment, she let herself out and dashed up to the rain-soaked platform.