She responded with a nod of thanks and an attempt at a smile to hide her disappointment. Was she to be Miss Summoner again?
He laid a hand on her shoulder, shepherding her to the door. ‘Thank you.’ His voice was warm, friendly. But there was no trace of the passion she had heard in it when last they’d parted.
‘I didn’t do it to help you,’ she reminded him.
‘I know. But the reason does not matter. It is the good that that has come from your actions. I, of all people, must believe that. All that has happened has happened for the best.’
‘But your son,’ she whispered. ‘Without knowing, my father might have announced the truth to the world.’
‘I have no son,’ Ben said, the regret returning to his eyes. ‘Cottsmoor did. When he claimed him, I lost all right.’
‘But to live a lie...’ she said, shaking her head.
‘As you did for your sister,’ he reminded her. ‘It was shared guilt that drew us together.’
‘I have no regret,’ she insisted.
‘But perhaps you should,’ he whispered. ‘You know now who I really am.’ He shook his head in amazement. ‘I am sorry for the burden of secrecy I have placed on you, even if it is to one other person. I cannot explain what a gift that it is to have told the truth.’
Words of gratitude were sweet. But they were not what she was seeking from him. Where was the love he’d whispered about in the dark?
Perhaps, as she had always thought, the word meant something different to a man. Perhaps she had misunderstood. Or perhaps she had given him something today that he wanted more than he could ever want her: confession, forgiveness and absolution.
‘If it has made you happy, then I am happy,’ she said. She loved him. And she had learned from loving Belle that sometimes love meant you wanted the best for your beloved, even if it destroyed your own dreams.
They were at the door now. Only a few more steps until he allowed her to walk away. He paused and she held her breath, waiting for the word that would make her stay.
Instead, he said nothing, and looked both ways to make sure they were not seen before he leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead in a way that was more brotherly than passionate. ‘We will see each other soon. Until then, thank you.’ He pressed her hand with his to emphasise the depths of his emotion. And then he waited for her to pass through the door so he could close it behind her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was another painfully ordinary afternoon in the Summoner home, but with a few major changes. Belle Templeton was visiting her sister and had settled in her usual seat beside the window to make a hash of a lace-trimmed pillow slip. Amy was in her usual seat on the opposite side of the window, ready to rip out the stitches again when it all went horribly wrong.
‘I like sewing now,’ Belle said with a ladylike nod.
‘You do?’ Amy looked up in surprise.
‘It is a thing that married ladies should like to do,’ Belle said. ‘So I like it now.’ She handed the project to Amy for inspection.
Marriage had not improved her technique in the least. But at least she enjoyed the attempt more than she had in the past. Amy gave her a nod of approval. ‘You are trying very hard to be a good wife, aren’t you?’
‘Guy says I am doing a wonderful job.’ Belle leaned forward and whispered, ‘There are things that married ladies do that are much easier than sewing and much more fun.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Amy, faintly. ‘But I am sure your husband would not want you talking about them.’
‘He said I was not to tell you about that time in Vauxhall Gardens,’ she said. ‘But I am sure, now that I am married it is all right.’
Amy blinked in shock and focused on the needlework in her lap like the proper spinster she’d always claimed she wanted to be. At the back of her mind, she must have known that one day, Belle would outstrip her in knowledge of some subject. Since Belle was to be the one to marry, it was only logical that it would be this one.
There was something deeply consoling about needlework. If one did not care about the results, one did not even have to think while doing the task. At some point, she would look back on today’s stitching and notice the unevenness of it. Then she could pull it out and do it again.
But it was no longer necessary to care so much about her work, or Belle’s. From the besotted look on Mr Templeton’s face when he came to collect her after her visits with Amy, the last thing in the world he cared about was whether his wife could stitch a straight seam.