“Oh Papa, Papa, Papa!” she said, hugging him in a death grip around his neck. “You came, you came!” She was laughing and sobbing at the same time.
He hugged her to him, his little girl, all legs and arms now. So tall. Eleven. He couldn’t speak for the lump in his throat. Oh, those lost years. He ached for them.
Eventually Judy loosened her grip on him and slid down to resume her own two feet. Smoothing her hair back, he turned to greet his other two daughters.
There was Selina, the image of her mother, staring at him with big blue eyes—her mother’s eyes. She waited on the stairs, making no move to approach.
“Lina, it’s Papa. It’s Papa!” Judith shouted.
But when Lina had last seen her father she was not quite four.
“You don’t remember me, do you, Lina?” James said gently.
She just looked at him, her forehead furrowed. And then she shook her head.
“But it’s Pa—” Judy began.
“It’s all right, Judy,” he said. “Lina was a very little girl when you left. She was not quite Deborah’s age. It’s not surprising she doesn’t remember me.”
He glanced at Deborah, the child he’d never met, and took a swift breath. Dark-haired little Deborah didn’t resemble her mother in the least. She was the image of his brother, Ross, at the same age. There was a portrait somewhere of Ross as a child, with the exact same expression. She eyed him suspiciously, then, scowling, plonked her bottom on the stairs and folded her arms, making it clear she had no intention of coming closer.
He almost laughed; Ross, too, had had that same stubborn expression.
A hesitant tug on his coat drew his attention. It was seven-year-old Lina. After an intense, troubled scrutiny, she held up her arms, the way she used to as a toddler. “Up?” James said softly, as he used to.
She nodded, and he picked her up, a stiff, wooden doll in his arms. And then she suddenly softened and leaned forward and pressed her face against his neck. “Ohhhh, you smell just the same,” she whispered and hugged him tightly. “I do remember you, Papa, I do.”
James just held her for a long, long moment, fighting back unmanly tears.
And then it was time to meet his third daughter. He approached the stairs and knelt down so that their faces were more or less level. “Good afternoon, Deborah. We’ve never met, but I’m your f—”
“Debo,” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m Debo, not Deborah.”
He nodded. “I see. Well then, Debo . . .”
She leaned sideways and looked past him at Judy and Lina standing behind him. “You sure this is Papa?”
They assured her he was. She examined him carefully. She didn’t look too impressed. Her scowl was as black as ever. She leaned forward and hit him on the shoulder. “You left us.”
“I did,” he admitted. Technically they’d left him, but he wasn’t going to argue.
“Why you left us?”
“I had to. I was a soldier, and the king needed me. A soldier works for the king.”
“The king?”
He nodded.
“Because of the king . . .” She considered that. Her scowl deepened, and her lower lip pushed out. She hit him on the shoulder again. “Then I hate the king.”
And there it was, another piece of his heart given over to a small, helpless, angry creature.
“We’re all going to be together now. I’ve come to take you and your sisters home.”
“Where is home?” Debo demanded.
“With me, with all of us together.” He hadn’t yet taken control of the country estate—he still thought of it as Ross’s estate, Ross’s home. But he’d lived there as a boy, and it was his now. “I have a house in London and a house in the country, but we’re going to live in London first.” There was work to be done in London, documents to be signed, reports to consider and act on.
And a lovely, skittish lady . . .
Debo considered the possibilities, then tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “You got a cat in London?”
“No.” Cats made him sneeze.
“Hmph!” The scowl was back.
Behind him Miss Coates spoke, “Deborah has a great fondness for cats. She has been waiting for the kitchen cat to have kittens.” She added softly, “The kitchen cat is a very fat tom.”
James turned back to his smallest daughter. “There might be a cat in one of the houses, Debo—I don’t know.”
The frown didn’t lift. Clearly “might be” wasn’t good enough for this small, adorable despot.
“I suppose we could get a kitten.”
“Good.” Debo stood up. “We going now?”
Chapter Nine
Alice sat at her desk, doing the accounts, as she did at the end of each month. She’d always done the domestic household accounts—Thaddeus considered them women’s work; he’d dealt with everything else. His allowance to her for the household had never been generous, and Alice had been taught by her mother to keep strict account of everything.
After Thaddeus died and the extent of his personal debts was discovered, Alice had worked hard to clear herself of debt and bring everything back into balance. But now the money Bamber had given her for Lucy’s expenses was all gone, and she was sliding once more into debt.
She hadn’t been extravagant; the money had mostly gone on clothing and shoes—and Alice didn’t begrudge a penny of it. A young lady entering the marriage mart needed to look stylish and fashionable if she were to have any success—and everything depended on Lucy marrying well.
Both she and Lucy were used to making ends meet, and Miss Chance, too, had done her best, designing several evening dresses with removable gauze overdresses so that three dresses could become nine. And wherever possible, Alice had lent Lucy shawls, hats, gloves and other accessories.
Neither of them wore much jewelry, either. The pearls Lucy had worn that first day were so obviously false it was better to wear nothing. In any case, Lucy favored a pretty gold locket her mother had owned.
Bamber had promised to send Alice more money, but none had been forthcoming. And with no way to contact him, it didn’t look promising.
Alice closed the account book, locked it away in her desk and went looking for Lucy.
She found her, as usual, in the garden, under her favorite tree, the big old plane tree, with her sketchbook. Seeing Alice coming, she hastily shut it. Whether she actually ever did any drawing, or whether it was a ploy to enjoy some free time, Alice didn’t know. Lucy had never offered to show her drawings to Alice, and Alice didn’t want to pry.