“Mother.” He moved forward, debating whether a kiss to her cheek would be unsavory or welcomed. He shoved his hands into his worn pockets instead. “I received Father’s letter.”
“If he had known that one letter could summon you back, I daresay he would have written many years ago.” She smiled, but sadness quivered at the corner of her lips. “Are you well, my son?”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “I have come with my children.”
“I have grandchildren? You never wrote to us of a wife.”
“I did not think Father would appreciate the news.”
With a slight nod, Mother shuffled forward another step, using a cane Simon had not noticed. “Would you mind seeing me to the table? I fear I need assistance for most everything these days.”
He drew close to her, touched her arm, the scent of sandalwood pleasant and choking—
“Son.” She turned to him. Her hand found his cheek, her breathing quickened, and tears overwhelmed the eyes that would not look at him.
Understanding struck him, as her fingers crept along his stubbled jaw, swept across his nose, eased around his hairline. “Mother, you are blind.”
“You have changed.”
“Mother—”
“Yes. I am.”
“But Father said nothing in his letter.”
“He did not write the letter.”
“What do you mean? Where is he?” Simon took a step back, heart drubbing faster. “How long have you been this way?”
“Simon, I am sorry to have deceived you. It was the only way. The only way I could think of to get you back…” She sagged against her cane, face draining white.
He helped her into one of the breakfast chairs, but his thoughts raced out of control. Nothing made sense. The letter from Father had been a lie? What had she done—urged a servant to replicate the handwriting?
Simon should have known Father would not reach out to him. Nor ask him home.
“There was a carriage accident…our last trip to Tunbridge Wells.” Mother buried her face in her hands, elbows on the table. “A runaway mail coach collided with our phaeton, and your father and I were both flung from the carriage.”
“And Father?” The words burned. “Where is he?”
“There was an iron fence…along the road and…”
“And what?”
The words escaped in a sob. “He was impaled by the spikes.”
A torrent of disbelief and numbness rushed through his body. He backed away from her racking frame. He shook his head, gritted his teeth, plunged his hands back into his pockets, and fisted the fabric.
Then he barged from the room.
This could not be true. He was far too gnashed from his last grief to bear a new one.
Georgina should not have come. She knew that.
But despite everything, she strode up the Sowerby House steps, palms dampening beneath her gloves. Was there any chance she had imagined the figure in the brown coat? Or at the very least fathomed his likeness to Simon Fancourt? Was it possible she would stride inside today, sit with Mrs. Fancourt in the drawing room, and smile over tea without the slightest mention of a returned son?
Georgina startled when the door came open, more from frayed nerves than true fright. Truly, she must get a hold of herself.
“Good afternoon, Miss Whitmore.” The butler ushered her inside, though he lacked his usual smile, and took her red cloak. “I fear Mrs. Fancourt is not well today, but I shall inform her you have arrived. If you will be so good as to follow me into the drawing room—”
