“Oh? Oh yes, just the thing.” The box lid clicked shut. “And, Son?”
In the doorway, Felton waited.
“Lord Gillingham was here just after breakfast this morning. I thought it best to tell you he was asking to see his daughter.”
Felton’s blood went cold. “You told him nothing, of course?”
“Only that she was not home. That she had gone visiting with Miss Haverfield to the cottages outside of the village—”
Felton darted away before he could hear any more. He ground his teeth as he brushed past Dodie, ran through the house, busted out the front door, and raced for the path.
So help him, he’d kill Lord Gillingham. He’d tear him into a thousand pieces and stomp on the remains if he was the one who hurt Eliza.
If he was the one who hurt them all.
“Where is he?”
The butler must have noted something amiss because the wonted smile and cordial greeting never touched his lips. Instead, they frowned. “I fear, Mr. Northwood, that perhaps another time would be best—”
“There is no other time. Which room is he in?”
“But Mr. Northwood, he is unprepared for visitors at the moment. He is…well, Mr. Northwood, he is rather—”
“What Mr. Kelby is so clumsily trying to say,” said Mrs. Eustace, as she swept forward, “is that Mr. Gillingham is in the garden.” A rare glimpse of emotion softened her eyes. “At the rosebushes, if you must know.”
Felton turned back for the door and descended the steps. His palms were wet. His mind frayed. His heartbeat reckless.God, I do not want to face him.
The garden path suffocated him, tinier than he remembered, shorter than he wanted it to be. Well-trimmed bushes, cast-iron garden urns, rows of colors so bright his eyes ached.
Then Lord Gillingham. He sat on a bench near the rosebushes, with something pink and familiar draped across his knees. The dress. The one Eliza had worn at the ball.
The one her mother had worn.
At his approach, Lord Gillingham glanced up. He smiled. Strange, that he would do that. That even with tears on his cheeks, his expression would gladden at the presence of his friend.
His friend.
The words burned, hurt, mocked. Because he no longer could believe in them. He wanted to. He’d always wanted to.
But he couldn’t.
“Do not display such astonishment, Northwood, at the sight of my tears.” The smile faltered. “I am made of flesh and blood as the rest of you.”
“What is your soul of?”
“What?”
“I said your soul, my lord. What is it made of?”
“Once? Happiness, contentment, the strife and joy of manhood, marriage, and wealth.” His face turned back to the rosebushes. “Now it is made of whatever heaven has taken from me. It is made of her.”
“Your wife.”
“Yes, my wife. The one thing I can never have again—along with my daughter.”
“Why did you come?”
Again, Lord Gillingham met his gaze. His features tightened, body stiffened, as if the hardness of the words finally came through to him.
