“Not as much as I once did,” Fabianus replied. “The struggle is in allowing the whole business—anger, guilt, remorse, regret, and even the remembered joys—to fade. She is gone, but I am still alive, with a child to raise and much of my life ahead of me, I hope.”
A little litany of sorts, a prayer for his future self.
“I can see myself home from here,” Lady Daisy said. “Thank you for your escort.” She’d kept her hand in his, and when Fabianus would have bowed his farewells to her, she instead leaned against his side, as she’d leaned against the half-blind horse.
Then she was off, descending the hill at the same businesslike pace she’d set crossing the fields and pastures. He watched her until she disappeared through the front door of the manor, because he simply enjoyed the energy with which she covered ground. He waited a moment longer among the bare birches, picturing her tossing her hat onto some unlikely hook in the comfortable surrounds of her home.
He was no longer The Widow’s Revenge, but hoped he’d provided her ladyship some honest conversation about difficult subjects. She had a long, hard road ahead of her, despite the gracious home and the comfort of family.
Marianne had been gone for nearly three years, and yet, when Lady Daisy had leaned against Fabianus so briefly, he’d been tempted to lean on her a little bit too.
And tempted to make her smile again, which daft notion suggested the cold air had addled his mind.
Chapter Two
Daisy would have liked to have invited Lord Penweather in for a cup of tea, a polite fiction of hospitality when their walk had taken less than thirty minutes. Then too, Penweather had the sort of constitution that took little notice of frigid air, frozen terrain, or an inchoate snowstorm.
He was a granite construction physically and emotionally, not so pretty, but dignified and built to last. In Daisy’s present frame of mind, that was attractive. He had no more need for a restorative cup of tea than she needed another demanding husband, but she’d been able to talk to Penweather, truly converse rather than exchange platitudes.
The sight of a stolid bay standing in the traces of an unprepossessing gig in the stable yard had dissuaded her from allowing Penweather to accompany her even to her own doorstep.
“Where is he?” Daisy asked, handing her wretched bonnet to the housekeeper.
“In the family parlor, my lady. He saw himself there, else I should have put him in the guest parlor.”
Mrs. Michaels could say more with a silence than any bishop had ever said in a whole Sunday sermon. Her dark eyes conveyed not only a dislike for Walter MacVeigh, but also distrust.
“He is family,” Daisy said, undoing her cloak. “When my late husband’s brother calls, he ought to be shown to the family parlor.” Only as she spoke did Daisy realize what exactly had put Mrs. Michaels’s back up.
Walter MacVeigh hadn’t waited to be shown to a cozy parlor. He’d wandered the house on his own, choosing for himself where he’d tarry.
“Exactly,” Mrs. Michaels replied, taking Daisy’s cloak. “He should be shown. The tea tray is already waiting for you, my lady.”
“Thank you.” Daisy assessed her appearance in the pier glass hanging outside the porter’s nook. Her cheeks had roses, thanks to the cold and the exertion. Her mission at the Hall had been frustrated, but she’d enjoyed a few frank words with Lord Penweather.
All in all, a worthwhile outing.
“Best not keep my guest waiting,” Daisy muttered, mentally preparing for the ordeal of Walter’s solicitude. She opened the door to the family parlor, a smile of greeting firmly in place, though the room was empty.
The fire crackled merrily on the hearth. The tea tray sat on the low table before the settee. A few sconces had been lit against the gloom of a winter afternoon, but no Walter.
Odd and more than a little unsettling. Daisy’s first thought was that her brother-in-law had decided to make a visit to the nursery, though that wasn’t his habit. She was halfway to the main stairs when the door to the estate office opened.
“Walter, good day.”
“Madam, there you are.” His smile was as pleasant as Walter’s smiles ever were, his gaze assessing. “Mrs. Michaels said you were off to the Hall, but should be quickly returned. Is exposure to the elements wise when you are so newly bereaved?”
Daisy did not exactly like Walter, but Eric had been on cordial terms with his older half-brother. They had different fathers, with Eric’s father bequeathing him considerable means, while Walter’s situation was only modestly well fixed.
Walter had been a conscientious older brother, nonetheless, taking Eric to London as a very young man, showing up for the occasional family dinner, and asking Eric to serve as best man at his wedding. Walter was patient, shrewd, and self-restrained, qualities not as evident in his younger brother.
“I enjoyed a short walk to see my family,” Daisy said. “The tea tray awaits us in the family parlor, and I could do with a cup. If you’d like to look in on the children, I’m sure they’d love to see you too.”
Walter approached and took her hand. “Meaning no disparagement of your Dorning relations, my lady, but your family is here.” He bowed and tucked her hand over his arm.
He chided gently, but with increasing frequency, and Daisy resigned herself to another half hour of being chided, instructed, and generally treated like a dimwitted schoolgirl. Penweather hadn’t treated her like that—he’d made her think, made her inventory her emotions. Perhaps that’s why she’d enjoyed his company.
His lordship had spoken honestly, of his own sorrows and of sorrow generally, and though it lurked well below the surface, he had a sense of humor.
“How are the children?” Walter asked when Daisy had escorted him to the family parlor and passed him a cup of tea.
“They are restless,” Daisy said. “Cold weather is hard on high spirits, but the tutor and governess are clever about keeping the children occupied. I also try to get the children out of doors regularly.”
Walter considered his tea cup and then considered the snow that had begun to fall in earnest. “The boys lost their papa only weeks ago. How can their spirits be high?”
Actually, the loss was getting to be several months ago, much to Daisy’s consternation. “They miss Eric, but they are children, Walter, and thus their emotions can racket from grief to curiosity to anger and over to glee in the course of an hour. Then too, they have each other, and I think that is the greatest of consolations in childhood, to have siblings and familiar surroundings, a known routine, a secure home, and family to rely on.”
And yet, in her youth, Daisy had been desperate to escape the ongoing pandemonium of a Dorning Hall full of strutting young men, a whiny mother, a harried oldest brother, and an older sister poised to snatch up the most eligible bachelor in the shire.
Daisy had been much like Pandora, clamoring for attention and making bad choices as a result.
“I have not yet been blessed with offspring,” Walter said, “but I do know frolicking in the chilly air cannot be good for my nephews, high spirits or not. You will please put a stop to such nonsense. I have no desire to bury a nephew or two as well as a brother.” He softened that direction with another chiding smile.