His gaze was cynical. “You’re much too smart to believe in such a staggering coincidence.”
“But what if Darien is innocent?” I said at last. “He could hang for this, for something that he didn’t do.”
“That’s what trials are for. You seem to think that sharing a bloodline automatically creates some sort of bond between us. His turning up on the doorstep unannounced does not constitute a relationship between us, and if he is guilty, he ought to hang for it.”
I blanched at the callousness of this sentiment. “But, Milo…”
His eyes locked on mine. There was a flash of unguarded irritation in them—uncharacteristic of him to let me see it—and then he answered in a voice that had grown hard. “Amory, I’m done discussing this.”
I blinked. He had seldom used that tone with me, and I was startled.
I clenched my teeth against the desire to retort, to plead with him that he could not let this happen without lifting a finger to prove his brother’s innocence. I could tell from the way he had spoken to me, however, that it wasn’t going to do any good to argue with him.
“Very well,” I said, rising from my seat. Without another word, I turned and left the room.
* * *
I BLAMED MY pregnancy for the tears that sprang to my eyes as I hurried away from the drawing room. I was furious with Milo: furious for his refusal to at least consider the possibility that Darien was innocent, furious for the tone he had taken with me, and furious that he hadn’t followed me when he knew I was hurt.
Swiping away the angry tears, I went into the morning room. Glancing at my knitting still sitting on the sofa, I knew that I was in no mood to sit still. Besides, on the off chance Milo did come in search of me, I didn’t want to speak to him.
In this contrary frame of mind, I thought a walk might do me good. Since Winnelda always acted as though I’d suggested climbing a mountain or swimming the Channel when I attempted any sort of physical activity, I decided against going to my bedroom to collect a jacket. The light jumper I wore would have to suffice.
I ventured out through the French doors in the morning room. The early evening air was cool, and I breathed deeply in an attempt to calm myself.
It wouldn’t do any good, I knew, to get overwrought. I just needed to calm down and think. I was certain that, in time, I would be able to talk some sense into Milo.
I set off down the little path that led from Thornecrest’s kitchen garden, along the hedgerows to a little wooden gate and then across a field to a stone fence where there was a sturdy stile. The path on the other side of the fence led to the village, and I had taken it often. It was a safer path for an evening walk than the main road, as there would be no chance of encountering vehicles. I didn’t move as fast as I once did, and I didn’t want to walk along the curving road, in case of speeding automobiles.
It was a beautiful spring evening. The sun was shining through the clouds as it began to make its descent, tinting their edges with bright gold. The air was fresh and smelled of lavender, verbena, and wild roses. In the distance I could see the shadowy hillsides spotted with sheep.
A cool breeze blew, rustling my hair, and I pulled my jumper a bit more tightly around me as I looked across the landscape.
Thornecrest looked beautiful in the evening light. Looking at its serene stillness, its stones and spires bathed in golden light, one would never imagine the turmoil that had just occurred within its walls. That’s the way it was with all houses, I supposed. They hid so much of what was happening within: years, even centuries, of joy and heartbreak. The fleeting foibles of its occupants insignificant in the scope of time.
Only they were not insignificant to us.
My anger fading slightly, I tried to see things from Milo’s perspective. I could understand how Darien’s arrival was difficult for Milo. Indeed, it was not exactly convenient for me. This was not something I had expected to deal with in the weeks leading up to the baby’s birth. We had been prepared for a baby; we were not prepared for the arrival of a heretofore unknown male relation and the inherent problems that came with him.
The suspicion of murder aside, I didn’t know what to make of Darien. There was something very reckless and selfish about him. I suspected he’d been indulged much of his life, the same way Milo had been. He hadn’t been raised with Milo’s money, but being extremely good-looking was a definite boon in life. It was already quite apparent that he charmed women with the same skill and ease Milo had always done. There was no telling what else he had done to benefit himself.
Nevertheless, I could detect in him something of the uncertain young man he had no doubt been only years ago. He was illegitimate, abandoned by his father, and had been raised in less-than-prosperous circumstances. He had enough confidence in himself, that was certain, but he lacked the confidence Milo had always had in his situation in life, the knowledge that there were always vast resources at his disposal.
Though Darien could be a most unlikable young man, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. And, after all, he was my husband’s brother. I felt as though it was our duty to help him in some way. At the very least, we needed to be sure that he wasn’t falsely convicted of a crime he hadn’t committed.
I considered, objectively, the possibility that he might have killed Bertie Phipps. The threat I set aside as a hotheaded response to a physical altercation. And lovely as Marena Hodges was, I didn’t see Darien as the type of young man to kill for love, or his version of it. No, those things were less concerning to me than the items that had been found in his room. But, as I had told Milo, surely Darien was too clever to leave the proof of his crime sitting about. It seemed more likely that someone had put the items there. I just didn’t believe that he was guilty.
Beyond all that, there was a feeling I had, the instinct that had served me well in other such situations. It was the expression on his face when the inspector had come to arrest him, the mixture of disbelief and uncertainty, that had really convinced me. And perhaps it was my newly developing maternal instincts, but there was something in Milo’s cold rejection of Darien that made me want to care for him.
My thoughts were interrupted by the rustling of footsteps on the grassy path, and I turned to see Imogen approaching. She caught sight of me a moment later and stopped, surprised.
“Oh! Mrs. Ames. What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Just taking a walk,” I said, wondering the same thing about her.
“I was, too,” she said. “It’s lovely here, looking across the countryside.”
“Yes.”
We stood for a moment, looking out at the pleasant vista before us. I didn’t believe, of course, that she had merely been taking the evening air. While it was true that this path led directly to the village, few people took it unless they were coming to Thornecrest. There were a great many country paths at a closer proximity to Mrs. Cotton’s rooming house Imogen might have taken if she were merely seeking an evening constitutional.
As I had hoped, the weight of silence seemed to do the trick.
“I … I … in truth, I was coming to see you,” she said at last. “Or, at least, I was working up the nerve to do so.”
“Oh?”
“I … I need to confess something.”