On Sparrow Hill (21 page)

Closing the door, she took the key from her pocket and locked the office. She walked to the foyer, where she intended to end her day in the usual way with a walk around the grounds. It was exactly what she needed tonight—fresh air and then to bed.

A light from the family parlor caught her eye. Surely no one had left a lamp lit? With their wanderers, such a thing could be dangerous. Only the high sconces on the walls, where most children could not reach, were left alight after everyone was in bed.

But as she approached the parlor’s open door, she heard Finola’s voice.

“ . . . ’Twas my own father who determined my weddin’ day. He wanted to see it done before he died, and sure and enough, two days after the ceremony my da’ was gone. Yes, the whole village downed a pint that day—in his honor.” She must have seen Berrie’s shadow, for she turned that way. “Oh! I didn’t see you there, Berrie. Have a seat.”

Berrie looked with some surprise, having half expected to find her talking to Duff, who sometimes followed Finola like a dog after its master. But he rarely made it past ten o’clock, as his days were full enough to demand rest.

Instead, looking stiff and uncomfortable, sat Simon. He had a book in his hand and sat near one of the two lighted lamps. Quite the homey scene, if only he didn’t have that pained look on his face. She wondered if he’d had it before she walked into the room.

She shook her head. “No, I was only curious about the light. I’ll be retiring for the night shortly.”

Simon set the book aside and stood. He bowed briefly Finola’s way. “Yes, I agree the hour is late, and so I shall be off as well. Good evening to you, Miss O’Shea.” Then he turned to Berrie. “I wonder if you might see me to the door, Miss Hamilton?”

Dread crept up her spine. She didn’t want to hear whatever he had to say. Had he used the day to figure out how he would see the school closed?

Without a word, she turned and led the way to the door. She braced herself for another argument, wishing for only one thing: the energy to sustain her side.

“I stayed in order to apologize, Miss Hamilton.”

Berrie raised a widened gaze his way. “I beg your pardon?”

He rubbed his palms together once, a frown saying he didn’t wish to repeat himself. “I want to apologize for my words this morning . . . about closing this school. I should never have said such a thing, and I assure you it’s not my intention.”

Too amazed to speak, Berrie stared.

Simon looked at her solemnly. “I was concerned about that student—Grady, I believe is his name—and still am. However, you’ve taken sufficient safety measures in other matters up to this point, and if you’ll agree he needs closer attention than other students, I’m sure any future problems will be avoided.”

She folded her arms. Had he really sought her out to apologize? She might be too eager to jump to the worst conclusion when it came to Simon MacFarland. She really ought to learn to control her tongue around this man. “Thank you.” She didn’t trust herself with more than that.

He put a hand on the door, pulling it open. “I’ll be leaving now and probably won’t return for a fortnight or so. I’ve said my good-byes to Katie, so she won’t expect me in the morning.” He moved to leave, stopping halfway through the doorway. “You really ought to do something about the length of your day, Miss Hamilton.”

Then he left, pulling the door closed behind him before she had a chance to speak. Not that she had a word to say. If the admonition had been spoken in reproach for keeping him waiting so long, she might have bitten out a suitable retaliation. The odd part of it was that his tone had been surprisingly gentle, similar to the one he usually reserved for Katie.

Such an observation was enough to leave her speechless.

31

* * *

Rebecca clicked on the light and sat behind her desk, glancing at the clock. It was ridiculously late to start working; the sun had set hours ago. She’d been delinquent this summer. She was behind in her e-mail correspondence, hadn’t opened her mail since yesterday, and had yet to meet with the marketing firm about new brochures. That, thankfully, had been put on hold until they knew the outcome of the Featherby decision.

But she’d enjoyed being the tour guide for Dana and Padgett and couldn’t think of putting off transcribing old letters or reading hospital records. More than a week had flown by. She’d spent today in Cambridge with Quentin, Dana, and Padgett. The four of them had become a quasi family, missing only Aidan, who seemed to be there in spirit considering how often Dana spoke of him.

A long white envelope caught her eye, and she wondered whether her father had sent yet another offer from the National Trust. However there was no return address, though she noted from the cancelled stamp that it had been among the mail she’d picked up today. She slit open the envelope but instead of a letter pulled out a newspaper article, dated just yesterday. The picture wasn’t very clear—a couple sitting at a small, white table on a veranda. The man wore a white shirt and dark slacks—Quentin, she saw with a longer look. And he wasn’t alone.

Quentin and Lady Caroline Norleigh seemed comfortably ensconced over an outdoor meal, so comfortably that Lady Caroline was wearing a peignoir of some kind rather than the designer clothing she normally sported in so many photographs of her.

Another Adieu? Or has this bachelor already quit his brief affair with commercial manager Rebecca Seabrooke and returned to his own kind, Lady Caroline Norleigh? The couple appeared together briefly at a fund-raiser for Barnardo’s recently. It appears Lady Caroline is once again houseguest at Endicott Cottage, home not only to Lady Elise Hollinworth but as of this summer to her son, Quentin Hollinworth, as well. Is he there to strike up an old flame whilst his new love interest waits just a stone’s throw away at Hollinworth Hall? Impossible to guess why he abandoned the Hall to her, unless of course he knew Lady Caroline would soon be waiting for him at the cottage. Ah, the aristocracy! They never stop supplying us with entertainment.

Rebecca forced herself to read the short article again, to look at the photograph. Numbness covered her as she studied the picture, a ready defense against the pain that was there, waiting to take hold if she let it. It wasn’t a good shot by any means, rather grainy. It had obviously been taken from some distance and had lost its quality when blown up to identify the subjects. But as much as Rebecca wished otherwise, there was no doubt who they were.

With a wince she swallowed an unsuspected lump in her throat. Was this how it would be—having to learn the status of her relationship with Quentin from the newspaper instead of from Quentin himself? She’d spent the bulk of every day with him for the past week and a half. He’d left just a little while ago. All these days without a word of being in touch with Lady Caroline again.

Was she at the cottage now, greeting him after his day away?

Rebecca dropped the article as if burned.

The door of her office opened, and for one disoriented moment she thought it might be him, there to tell her everything. But of course it was Dana, having put Padgett to bed.

“What’s the matter?” Dana asked as she took her seat on the opposite side of the desk.

Rebecca regretted the company just then, wishing she were alone to more easily hide her pain, hide the embarrassment of a public rejection. She’d been comfortable by herself these past three years; she was used to that. Refusing to cave in to the tears that seemed ready to gather, she issued a half smile that was anything but happy. Then, realizing she could share what she felt without falling apart, Rebecca handed Dana the article.

“Oh,” Dana whispered after reading the page.

Rebecca felt her lower lip tremble and clamped it down. “And I thought all I should worry about was a rather grumpy Lady Elise.”

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Dana said. “What kind of picture is this, anyway? It looks like it was tampered with somehow.”

“Probably taken from a helicopter,” Rebecca said. “They fly over the property every once in a while, looking for stories.”

“So there. It’s a made-up story. They’re on the same veranda. His mother is probably there, too, only they blotted her out.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t tell me.” Amazingly, her voice didn’t sound nearly as frantic as she felt. She couldn’t meet Dana’s eye. Sympathy would make Rebecca crack. “She’s there, staying with them. He should have told me.”

Dana set aside the newspaper. “Yes, he should have. But maybe he didn’t want you jumping to the conclusion you’re jumping to right now.”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” Rebecca said. “Not until the right time, after he’s chosen between the two of us.”

“That’s jumping to conclusions, Rebecca. Maybe her being there is no big deal and he didn’t think it was important enough to mention.”

Rebecca found a laugh, albeit a desperately uneven one. “Perhaps you can’t tell how lovely she is from that photo. Here.” She yanked open the drawer on the bottom right, the one she never opened except when she knew she was alone, under what suddenly seemed a guise of her role as Hollinworth family recorder. Her job description had never included keeping a scrapbook of family doings; that had been her idea. Now it seemed clear why. And all those years she thought she’d been over her crush on Quentin.

“You’ll get a better idea of her from these,” Rebecca said bitterly. “Here they are at Leo Endicott’s wedding—the future Earl of Eastwater, Quentin’s cousin. See how striking she is? I think she fits right in, don’t you?” She rifled through more pages. “And here, at Ascot. And another—a garden party his mother held, where the photographer risked all but his life just to get that shot of them kissing.”

Tears were hot in her eyes, but Rebecca ignored them. Dana wasn’t looking at any of the photographs; rather, she was looking at Rebecca.

Rebecca leaned back in her chair, exhausted from her brief but quietly intense upheaval. “It’s pathetic, isn’t it? That I’ve kept these?”

Dana shook her head. “I’d probably have done the same if Aidan was ever in the news. Thank goodness he’s not.”

Rebecca let her gaze fall on the pages in front of her. “I’ll take them to the bin. It’s what I should have done long ago.”

She gathered them up, a modest but embarrassing handful.

“You’ve missed one,” Dana said, taking up the newest addition.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You’re keeping this one?”

Rebecca nodded. “These clippings reminded me Quentin was beyond my reach. I might not need these old ones anymore, but I think I’ll have to keep that one for the time being . . . to remind me he’s still out of my reach.”

The phone rang just then. Rebecca made no effort to set aside the papers and answer it.

“Do you want me to get it?” Dana asked, reaching for it.

“No.” Rebecca’s firm voice stalled Dana, for which Rebecca was grateful. The phone rang on. “It’s Quentin. He’s the only one who calls this number so late.”

“I think you should talk to him, Rebecca. You should tell him about the newspaper. Tell him how it made you feel. Ask him what’s up.”

Instead of acknowledging, Rebecca gripped the newspapers and made her way to the outside trash—far from her office, where she wouldn’t be able to retrieve them.

32

* * *

Did I mention, Cosima, how we gather in the evenings, all of us in our temporary little family, to bring what calm we can to the end of the day? We did so as usual tonight, only a fog had gathered outside so thick we knew it would be dangerous to take anyone out of doors. And so we went to the blue parlor for our family time, where we sing songs or tell tales or share something we are proud of. Katie did not expect it, but I brought one of her pictures to show everyone. It is an extraordinary example of her skill, and I am enclosing it with this letter so you may see it as well.

As you can see it is a lovely bird resting on a nest. Do you not find the strokes of the penciled wing make you believe, if you only tried to touch the little fellow, he might take flight?

Katie’s brother, Simon, was with us tonight. I tell you, Cosima, the man is an enigma. I never know if he is pleased his sister is here or ready to take her away. Even after this evening, the first time we have been in one another’s company and managed to tolerate each other for more than a few moments without resorting to an argument.

“Tell Miss Berrie about your travels, Simon. Please? About your travels?”

He didn’t want to, Berrie could tell instantly by the shrouding of his eyes, the slight droop to the side of his mouth. In that same instant she resisted her own disappointment. It was silly to want to hear about
his
travels, this man she couldn’t help but detest. Still, the innocently cast question reminded Berrie of the times she’d asked her own brothers the same thing. Of Peter, who went to places like Gibraltar and Egypt, even as far away as China. And Nathan, who went to America and India and Africa, who was in Africa still, writing home from time to time of all his adventures. How many hours could she have listened to them, living such explorations? She’d had a mere taste of it on the sole voyage she’d taken, her trip across the Irish Sea—a heady taste, one that led her here to her life’s work. A taste she thought had satisfied her because it led her to the work she loved—work that was far more important than dreams of sea voyages afar.

Still, it might have been nice to hear another tale.

“Please, Simon? What did you see?”

Berrie looked up, afraid for one awful moment she’d uttered those words herself. Thankfully she saw him looking at his sister instead, a reluctant grin on his sculpted face.

“I saw the sun set with nothing but water between our ship and the sky, as far as I could see.”

“And what did you taste?”

“Coconuts in Africa, olives in Spain, grapes in Italy.”

“And what did you smell?”

Berrie watched the two of them, seeing it was some sort of game they were both familiar with. But to Berrie it was a hint of transport, the only glimpse she was bound to have of the rest of the world she’d only read about.