“I know the one you mean,” Evie admitted with a small laugh. “Lady Thurston has a similar expression.”
“Doesn’t she just? Though Kate seems to be less affected by it of late.” She dismissed that last thought with a shake of her head. “I am sorry for the hasty judgment, Evie.”
“No harm done.” She slipped an arm over Sophie’s shoulders for a brief hug. “Although, if you were to explain why a deathbed promise to Rockeforte required I make a trip to the altar, it would go a very long way to appeasing my indignation.”
Sophie laughed and scooted back on the bed to rest comfortably against the headboard. “It’s a simple enough, if ridiculous, matter. William Fletcher promised—or was tricked into promising, to hear him tell it—into seeing that each of you found love.”
“Each of—”
“Alex, Mirabelle, Whit, yourself, and Kate. The story goes, he considered all of you the children of his heart.”
“Did he?” With nothing else to occupy her hands, Evie found herself picking idly at the bedspread. “I barely knew the man.”
“Hardly follows that he shouldn’t have known you.”
“Yes, I suppose, but…it seems so odd, really. I…” She trailed off, uncertain what to say.
“You would have been a small girl when he died, correct? Only just come from your mother’s home?”
Evie nodded.
“I should think that a child’s perception is very different from an adult’s.” Sophie tilted her head. “Do you love Henry?”
“Your son? Of course, how can you ask—?”
“For the purpose of illustration. What if you were not to see him again for twenty years? Would you love him still?”
“With all my heart.”
“And yet he might have no idea who you are,” Sophie said softly.
“I…that’s true. Dreadfully maudlin but true.” She picked at the bedspread a moment longer. “He loved me.”
“Like a father.”
“A father.” It was a tremendous revelation that a man, a good man, had loved her as a daughter. Loved her well enough that he had thought of her, of her happiness, on his very deathbed. Suddenly, the matchmaking ruse seemed not at all silly. Rather, it seemed a priceless gift.
“Whit has told me he was the best of men,” she said quietly.
“Alex tells me he was the best of fathers.”
It would seem that he had been.
The return journey to Haldon might have been an enjoyable experience for Evie. The weather remained fine, she had a comfortable carriage from Charplins to ride in, and Kate, Sophie, and Mrs. Summers to keep her company. But despite these luxuries, Evie was hard-pressed to find any real pleasure in the journey.
She exchanged no more than a few words in passing with McAlistair for the entire trip. She asked after his wound. He assured her it didn’t trouble him. She offered a seat in the carriage should he tire, but he declined. He rode beside the carriage, was distantly polite during their stops, and took meals in his room at the inn.
It was maddening to have him so near but not be able to speak to him or touch him or shove him off his horse.
Bloody “keeping.”
She waited for him to apologize. Waited for him to admit he was wrong and make amends.
She waited for him to give her some sign that he respected her, that he trusted her, that he loved her.
But in the end, he simply left her on the front steps of Haldon, surrounded by her friends and family and staff.
He bowed just once. “If you need me, Whit knows where to find me.”
Then he remounted his horse and rode away.
Thirty
She would come today.
Hands clasped behind his back, jaw set, and a line of worry etched across his brow, McAlistair stared out the front window of what might loosely be called his front parlor and told himself what he had been telling himself for the last four days.
Evie would come today.
He was certain of it. Why else would he have cleaned the cabin from top to bottom? Why else would he have furnished it with an actual bed and settee and dishes? She would want those things. She would need them while they lived in the cabin and waited for their new house to be built.
Wouldn’t she?
“Bloody hell.”
He spun away from the window, tired of looking out at the narrow drive and seeing only trees and dirt. He couldn’t stand the wait anymore. He couldn’t stand the silence.
She had ruined that for him, he thought darkly. She had taken away the pleasure of solitude. It had been a refuge for him. It had been peaceful and restorative.
Now it seemed only empty.
He took up pacing the small room in a show of nerves that had recently become routine rather than exceptional.
He needed to hear her voice, damn it. He needed to see her smile, hear her laugh, taste her lips. He needed to touch her, to breathe her in…