Protected.
“I daresay, sir, these are most spritely children.” The butler grinned at Simon, a little out of breath, and admitted with a blush of shame that he had permitted the children to slide down the banister. “Most unseemly, of course, sir, but I do admit rather amusing.”
The children laughed their agreement, and Mercy hurried to Mr. Wilkins, tugged his coat, and begged to do so again.
“You go along and I shall join you presently.” The butler shooed them away, his cheeks radiant with fondness—but the second the children were gone, his cheeriness faded. “Sir, if I might be so bold as to speak with you a moment concerning a very, ahem, private matter.”
“What is it?”
“I have heard it whispered about this morning that Mrs. Fancourt plans to sell Sowerby House.” Mr. Wilkins glanced away, as if the embarrassment was too strong to look Simon in the eye. “I do not mean to be presumptuous, sir, nor insulting in any way…but I…well, I thought that perhaps if you—”
“Say it out, Mr. Wilkins.” Simon grinned. “Whatever it is, I’ll not hold it against you.”
“Thank you, Master Fancourt. Very kind of you, sir. I only wished to say that, as you shall need lodgings and as I shall likely no longer be employed here, you may come with me to my brother’s house on Pockley Street. It is a humble abode and my brother has five young ones of his own, but they have already promised me a position in the family warehouse. I am certain my brother could secure you a job too, and in time, perhaps you may earn enough to return to America on another ship—”
“Thank you.” The words burned coming out. Images overtook him—crowding his children into unused corners, feeding them off the kindness of others, hustling them back onto another ship where the sickness and the cold and the hunger could tear at them.
Mother was wrong in many points, but she was right in this.
He had a duty.
He had brought his children to England, and he would not allow them to suffer for the rivalry between Simon and his dead father. If it took marrying a woman he did not love to protect his children, so be it.
His heart belonged to Ruth anyway. Nothing would ever change that.
“Master Fancourt, where are you—”
“I will be back, Mr. Wilkins.” Simon turned back down the corridor, found the drawing-room doors, burst them open.
Mother startled and Mr. Oswald leaned off the mantel and Sir Walter paused from bending over the writing desk with a quill.
“I have changed my mind.” Simon’s voice deepened. His throat stung. “I will do as Father wished.”
“I was certain I would find you here.”
Georgina stood from bending over the grave, but she did not turn to the quiet voice. “I usually come to be alone.”
Agnes slipped next to her, hesitating, the silence of the graveyard infecting them both. In a movement slow and cautious, she weaved her arm with Georgina’s. “Will you be angry with me forever?”
Georgina stared down at the grave, the new yellow flowers identical to the one left on her pillow. Hurt pulsed through her. “I am not angry.”
“How you must hate me for the things I said to you.”
“No, I could never—”
“And you would be right to despise me. I have been terrible to you.” Agnes leaned her head upon Georgina’s shoulder. “Let us forget such things were ever said and be happy again.”
“I cannot forget because I fear you were right.” Georgina slipped from her cousin’s hold and hunkered next to the marker again. She swiped her hand down the rough stone. “The things you accused me of concerning Simon Fancourt…perhaps they were all true.”
“Dear, let us not—”
“Please, allow me to speak. I have been running your words over in my mind, and I see more clearly than I want to.” Georgina glanced up at her cousin, a sad smile upturning her lips. “I am my mother, am I not?”
“What do you mean?”
“The one thing I always despised in her—how she flaunted and laughed and teased every gentleman about her. Even when Papa was alive, she was whispered of for her exaggerated affability with the other sex.”
“You cannot accuse your mother of being unfaithful.”
