She waited for him to come again.
Like some sort of childish girl, Eliza peeked through windows, looking out to the front gate of Monbury Manor instead of the courtyard wall. What was wrong with her anyway?
Over the last three nights, there’d been no nightmares.
Only dreams.
Strange, warm, comforting dreams—of playing in the ocean and holding a strong hand and talking with a handsome prince in a quiet place. Had she been so deprived, all these years, that a few hours of attention should render her so senseless?
“There you are.”
Eliza jerked from the drawing-room window at the housekeeper’s tight words. She smoothed both hands down her dress. “Is something wrong?”
“Aside from the fact that you roam about this house and do nothing all day, no.” Keys jangling at her side, Mrs. Eustace moved to a vase and rearranged the purple scabious flowers. “Minney tells me you have been asking about the graves.”
She’d been asking Minney many things. Questions about the warning, what it meant, who Eliza shouldn’t trust—and why. But the girl only shook her head and found reason to excuse herself. Why would she not say more? Too afraid?
“Well?”
Eliza refocused on Mrs. Eustace’s face. “Yes, I asked about my mother’s grave. I wish to see it.”
“Why?”
She hardly knew herself. Only it seemed sheshould, that somehow standing by her mother’s resting place would make the death more real. Not just something in her nightmares.
Mrs. Eustace snapped a stem and shoved it back into the vase. “From now on, if you have questions about something, you shall do well to ask me, not that mindless little chit. Anyway, come along. I have already related your wish to his lordship, and he wishes a word with you before you do so.”
Eliza followed the housekeeper to the door of her father’s study, waited until Mrs. Eustace announced her, then stepped into the room alone.
Lord Gillingham straightened behind his desk. “Eliza, do sit.”
Why did every time she encountered him feel like the first? Would she ever get used to the deep voice, though always kind? Or the eyes, never harsh but always unnerving? Why did it always seem he saw her mother instead of the daughter long estranged to him?
When she didn’t sit, he rose. “Mrs. Eustace tells me you wish to visit your mother’s graveside.”
She nodded.
“Are you certain that is something you wish to do?”
“Yes.”
His gaze stayed on her as he moved around the desk. “Take a maid with you, and I shall have the carriage prepared. There were signs of rain this morning, but mayhap if you hurry, you shall be back before a decline of weather. I would go with you myself if I were not so indisposed with correspondences.” He waved a hand to the letters scattered across his desk. “They are unceasing, I daresay.”
Silence. The same silence that lingered over them through every breakfast meal, as they both ate and fidgeted and tried in vain to find topics to share with one another.
She thanked him and started to leave, but he stopped her at the door. He moved next to her, hesitated, then, “Your mother…she was always fond of pink roses. After she died, I had the gardener destroy them because I could not bear to look at them.” He grasped her hand. “But when you returned, I had them planted again. Perhaps you might take a few with you…for her grave.”
“Yes, I will.” Then, tugging her hand free, she hurried from the study and sighed away the tension. How greatly he must have loved her mother.
Only why had he never laid roses on her grave himself?
By the time the carriage arrived at the churchyard, a slight rumble was already echoing from the pewter-colored clouds.
The footman helped both Eliza and Minney alight. “Shall I accompany you, Miss Gillingham?”
“No, we shall only be a moment.” Eliza took the roses from the carriage seat. “But if the rain comes before we do, you must wait in the carriage. I would not have you rained upon.”
The footman smiled, as if the consideration brightened his otherwise dull day. “Thank you, Miss Gillingham. That I’ll do.”
