“Lucy said it was,” Nell put in. “She told us that your father picked it up for a song after the war.”
“He did pick it up.” For the first time in the entire evening, Gerald’s dimple peeped out from among his bruises. “From the rubble of churches and the ruined homes of private collectors. When I started going through old auction catalogues to get an idea of what the pieces were worth, there they were—reliquaries, chalices, crucifixes—with the names of their original owners. I’ve been returning them, anonymously.”
Bill leaned his chin in his hand and sighed disconsolately. “I’m beginning to hate you very deeply, Gerald. Please. Cheer me up. Tell me that you had to rob a few widows in order to buy all those nice gifts for your uncle.”
Gerald’s crooked smile widened. “Sorry, Bill, but the widows of England are safe from me. Even after I left the firm, Lucy insisted on sending me my share of the profits. It didn’t seem right, somehow, to spend it on myself, so I used it to help my father buy his house in Old Warden, and to bring Uncle Williston a few things to cheer him up.”
Bill pursed his lips, disgusted. “That’s what I thought.”
From far down the hall came the sound of a ringing telephone. A moment later, Mrs. Burweed appeared, saying that the call was for Willis, Sr. He thanked her, then asked if he might have a word with Bill in private.
Bill answered my questioning look with a perplexed shrug as he followed his father out into the hallway. I looked over at Nell, but she’d wrapped her arms around her knees and turned to stare intently at the bars of the electric fire. I knew by her preternatural stillness that she’d drifted into a deep reverie.
For all intents and purposes, Gerald and I were alone.
31.
My heart began to hammer dangerously. I opened my mouth once or twice before finally managing a lame “Sorry about your eye.”
Gerald gave me an impish, sidelong look and murmured quietly, “A small price to pay.”
Toying nervously with a fold of my cotton dress, I gulped and looked down at my lap. “And I’m very sorry for the stupid trick Nell and I played on you.”
“Ah, yes. Miss Shepherd and little Nicolette.” Gerald tilted his head to one side. “Why the charade?”
“We’d heard the same rumors William had heard,” I explained, keeping my voice low so as not to break Nell’s concentration. “We weren’t sure that we could trust you.”
“But you’re sure now?” Gerald asked.
“Yes. And so is the rest of your family.” I felt Gerald stiffen, glanced up, and saw that his face had turned to stone.
“Apart from Father,” he said coldly, “I have no family.”
“No family?” The red-gold haze that had risen before my eyes changed abruptly to solid red, and I turned toward Gerald so I wouldn’t have to raise my voice to get my point across. “What could you possibly know about having no family? I never got the chance to meet my grandparents, and my father died when I was still in diapers. The only family I ever had was my mother. But you ...” I stabbed a finger at Gerald’s startled face, almost too angry to speak. “You have a father and an uncle and an aunt and more cousins than you know what to do with. And each and every one of them worships the ground you walk on. And you dare to tell me that you have no family?”
“But... but...”
I held my hands up, refusing to let him speak. “Okay, so Uncle Williston lied to you about some stupid little male-bonding ritual. Big deal. Does that cancel out a lifetime of love? And for your information,” I sputtered, leaning forward until my nose was nearly touching his, “it’s the women who decide who’s part of a family, not the men.”
“Is that right?” Gerald said meekly.
I thought of Bill’s aunts and nodded emphatically. “Yes. And as far as Anthea and Lucy are concerned, you’re one hundred percent Willis. So just stop all of this ... this whining.” I paused to catch my breath, and as Gerald lifted his arm to lay it along the back of the couch, I became keenly aware of the fact that I was practically sitting in his lap.
“Self-pity, eh?” he asked. “Is that my problem?”
“Y-yes,” I replied, trying very hard not to be distracted by the knowledge that my knee was nestled snugly against his thigh. “It’s made you lump Lucy in with the idiot males in your family, and she doesn’t deserve it. She never betrayed you. She didn’t know a thing about Sir Williston’s nasty old diary.”
“Exactly,” Gerald said dejectedly.
“She’ll get over it,” I declared. “She’ll toss Julia Louise’s portrait onto a bonfire and dig up a more worthy role model. Not that she needs one. She’s pretty incredible already:”
“I suppose she’ll find out about the diary eventually,” Gerald acknowledged. “Arthur’s bound to slip up one day.”