Helen hurried to her, reaching her just before West did. “What’s wrong, dear?”
Kathleen’s complexion had turned chalky, her breath shallow and fitful. “My father,” she whispered. “I could only read the first part. I can’t think.” Helplessly she handed the letter to Helen.
The news couldn’t be good. Approximately a month earlier, Kathleen’s father, Lord Carbery had suffered an accident at his riding arena in Glengarriff, when his horse had reared and caused his head to hit the edge of a support beam. Although Carbery had survived the blow, his health had been poor ever since.
West gave the water glass to Kathleen, pressing both her small hands around it as if she were a child. “Drink this, sweetheart,” he said quietly. His concerned gaze met Helen’s. “I’ll fetch Devon. He should be close by. He’s meeting with the timberman about felling the oak on the east side.”
“There’s no need to interrupt him,” Kathleen said, her voice strained but calm. “This can wait until he’s finished. I’m perfectly fine.” Unsteadily she lifted the glass to her lips and drained at least half of it in painful gulps.
Looking over her head at West, Helen told him soundlessly “Go,” and he left with a short nod.
Helen returned her attention to the letter. “He passed away two days ago,” she murmured, scanning the written lines. “The farm manager writes that Lord Carbery was troubled by headaches and seizures since the accident. He went to bed early one night and died in his sleep.” She settled a gentle hand on Kathleen’s shoulder, feeling the fine tremors of tightly leashed emotion. “I’m so sorry, dear.”
“He was a stranger,” Kathleen said quietly. “He sent me away to be raised by someone else. I don’t know what I should feel for him.”
“I understand.”
Kathleen’s cold fingers came to cover hers. “I know you do,” she said with a faint, bleak smile.
They stayed like that for a quiet moment. Pandora and Cassandra approached hesitantly.
“Is there something we can do, Kathleen?” Pandora asked, kneeling by her chair.
Glancing into the girl’s earnest face, Kathleen shook her head and reached out to draw her close. Cassandra knelt on the other side and embraced them both.
“There’s no need to worry,” Kathleen said. “I’ll be all right. How could I not be, when I have the dearest sisters in the world?” Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against Pandora’s. “We’ve been through a great deal together in a short time, haven’t we?”
“Does this mean another year of mourning?” Pandora asked.
“Not for you,” Kathleen reassured her, “only for me.” She sighed. “Huge with child, and lumbering about dressed in black—I’ll look like one of those hopper-barges loaded with refuse and sent out to sea.”
“You’re too small to be a barge,” Cassandra said.
“You’ll be a tugboat,” Pandora added.
Kathleen let out a dry chuckle and kissed them both. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks. She stood from the chair and straightened her skirts with a few deft tugs. “There’s much to do,” she said. “The funeral will be in Ireland.” She gave Helen a stricken glance. “I haven’t been there since I was a child.”
“You don’t have to make decisions right now,” Helen said. “Perhaps you should go upstairs and lie down.”
“I can’t, there are things I must—” Kathleen stopped as Devon entered the room.
His intent gaze swept over her, coming to rest on her bleached white face. “What is it, love?” he asked gently.
“My father’s gone.” She tried very hard to sound prosaic. “It’s not a surprise, of course. We knew that he was in ill health.”
“Yes.” Devon came forward and took her rigid form against his, wrapping her in his arms.
“I’m perfectly calm,” she said against his shoulder.
“Yes.” Devon kissed her temple. His face was taut with concern, the blue eyes hazed with tenderness.
“I’m not going to cry.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “He certainly wouldn’t have wanted my tears.”
Devon smoothed her hair, his hand covering half her small head. “Give them to me, then,” he said softly.
Kathleen hid her face in his shirtfront, her slight form seeming to wilt. In a few seconds, a low, broken keening sound began to emerge without stopping. Her husband laid his cheek on her head and cradled her closer against the solid reassurance of his body.
Realizing that they were all de trop in what had become a deeply private moment, Helen gestured for the twins to leave the room with her.
After closing the door, Helen suggested, “Let’s go to the library and send for tea.”
“I wish we’d brought the sweets with us,” Pandora fretted.
“Helen, what’s going to happen?” Cassandra asked as they walked through the entrance hall. “Will Kathleen really go to Ireland for the funeral?”
“I think she should, if possible,” Helen said reflectively. “It’s important to say good-bye.”
“But her father won’t know,” Pandora pointed out.
“Not for his sake,” Helen murmured, linking an arm with her younger sister’s and patting her hand affectionately. “For hers.”
Chapter 14
POST OFFICE TELEGRAM
MR. RHYS WINTERBORNE
CORK STREET LONDON
HAVE JUST LEARNED THAT MY WIFE’S FATHER LORD CARBERY IS DECEASED. ALTHOUGH CIRCUMSTANCES LESS THAN IDEAL YOUR PRESENCE WOULD BE GREATLY WELCOME IN HAMPSHIRE.
OBLIGED IF YOU WOULD SEND SALTED ALMONDS FOR LADY TRENEAR.
—TRENEAR
“FERNSBY,” RHYS SAID CURTLY, looking up from the telegram, “clear my schedule for the week and arrange for two tickets on the next train from London to Hampshire. Have someone run to Quincy and tell him to pack for me and himself. And tell a clerk at the food hall to pack all the salted almonds we have, in a bag to be hand-carried.”
“All?”
“Every last jar.”
As the secretary rushed out of the office with lunatic speed, Rhys lowered his forehead to the surface of his desk. “Diolch i Dduw,” he muttered. Thank God.
If an invitation hadn’t come soon, he would have had no choice but to storm Eversby Priory like an invading army. He was sorry for the death of Kathleen’s father, but more than anything he was desperate to see Helen again. It had seemed impossible that Helen was beyond his reach when he wanted her so badly. All he’d been able to do was wait, which was the thing in life he had always been worst at.
Helen had sent three or four letters a week, telling him the latest news about the family and recent events in the village, the restoration work being done on the house, and the progress of the hematite ore quarry. She had sprinkled in descriptions of things like candle making, or harvesting the forced rhubarb they had grown in one of the glasshouses. Prim, cheerful, chatty letters.
He was mad with longing, sick with it.
His work, his store, had always absorbed his unlimited energy, but now it wasn’t enough. He burned with desire, a constant fever beneath his skin. He wasn’t sure if Helen was the illness or the cure.