Forcing his fingers to resist the instinct to curl around the paper, he nodded again.
She tapped the doorframe once and then disappeared into the hall. He heard her voice, laughing its way back to Hughes. “I declare, Dev, I about got lost in the mountain of dust in there. I’m telling Jess to clean it tomorrow, and I’ll not hear a word of argument.”
She’d left the door open, which meant some light for him, if a greater risk of being seen. He settled on the floor, held that first sheet in front of him. And glanced into the hall instead of at the paper.
Was that all this had been? A thanks for being nice the other day?
Favor for a favor. Tip for tap.
He had no better explanation. Even if she disapproved of what her husband and brother-in-law did, she’d made no move to separate herself. From all he’d seen, Marietta Arnaud Hughes answered first and last to her own desires. And for whatever reason, those desires now focused on Devereaux Hughes.
Maybe that wasn’t a generous view of her, but it explained everything. All but his own slip Saturday, when he’d seen a hurting girl and forgotten to be the Slade that Ross had made him. When he’d just wanted to help and couldn’t resist that tug inside that said Go. Be My hands.
He gave himself a moment to shut his eyes and refocus. He could be that softer Slade when this was all over, when his brother’s betrayal had been redeemed. For now, he had work to do. And it didn’t involve wondering about what had sent Marietta into the library sobbing.
Twelve
Marietta looked from Walker’s back to the dismal clapboard house in front of which he had stopped. She twisted her necklace around her finger once and then tucked it beneath her collar lest playing with it turn into a habit. It wouldn’t do to pull out the key when Dev was around.
She had thought Slade would keep it and was happy to let him—she needed it no longer. But last night he had taken her hand upon leaving as he had in the library. And pressed the key back into her fingers instead of the handkerchief with S.O. embroidered in the corner.
Tapping her foot against the floor of her barouche, she willed the vision before her to change. Maybe Walker had the wrong address. Or maybe she’d misread that look in his eyes when she’d cornered him in the stable that morning and demanded to know how her brother could have struggled in certain unmentionable ways with Barbara Gregory when their relationship had not lasted a fortnight.
Walker turned on his seat to send her a look. “End of the line.”
Had it been old Pat driving her as usual, she would have told him she’d changed her mind. But she had asked Walker to come. “I don’t think I want to.”
“Then it must be the right thing to do. Out. Now.” He jumped down and held up a hand to assist her.
“Tyrant.”
“Princess.”
She put her hand in his and climbed down. Then took a moment to straighten her skirts. “I’m glad we’re back to being friends, Walker. It makes me feel…level again.”
“Me too. Now level something else that’s been sorely out of plane for years.” He nodded toward the house.
A shack, really, no doubt held up more by the buildings that shared its walls than its own integrity. Not that its neighbors looked any sturdier.
“Yetta.”
“I’m going.” She took a step to prove it, and then another. Up the sagging stair to the sagging stoop, she invited a litany of prayers to run through her mind. Yet the only one that appeared was a snippet from her grandparents’ book of them: Holy Lord, I have sinned times without number, and been guilty of pride and unbelief…
She knocked before Walker could follow and do it for her. The door creaked open too soon.
Barbara. She had changed a great deal since the last Marietta had seen her, but dull hair and a loss of weight couldn’t disguise the woman’s beautiful brown eyes. Nor, apparently, could it dim her broad, guileless smile. “Marietta! What a pleasant surprise. Come in, please.”
She did, but the warmth of the greeting made her feel all the more chilled. “Hello, Barbara. I…I’m sorry to drop in unannounced.”
Again she smiled, bright and full, as if Marietta had been her dearest friend and not her enemy. It made a marked contrast to the dull, unrelieved black of her dress. “You’re welcome anytime, Mari. Anytime. Can I get you tea?”
A refusal was on the tip of her tongue. From the looks of the threadbare rug and the peeling walls, this woman had nothing to spare. But she couldn’t be rude. Not now. “I would like that. Thank you. But perhaps not yet.”