“Oh.”
Birds chirped. The carriage wheels creaked.
She folded her hands and stared down at them, a smile twitching her lips. “You presume much, Mr. Fancourt.”
One brow rose in surprise. “I have offended you.”
“No.”
“I did not mean that—”
“Pray, why were you laughing?” She breathed in hay-scented air. “In the turret room. The three of you.”
“It was nothing.”
It was wonderful.The words clung to her tongue.The sound of it.Had she ever seen him happy before? Would he ever be happy? Would she?
“What did you wish to speak of?”
She explained her remembrance of Patrick Brownlow at Hollyvale, then drew the magazine column from her velvet reticule. “I thought perhaps it was of some significance.”
“You did right.”
“You may keep the column.”
“Thank you.” Stuffing it into his coat, he turned the matching bays down a smaller road, where hemlocks and oaks bowed over their heads. “Do you still acquaint with Mr. Oswald?”
“On occasion.”
“How much do you know of him?”
“As much as I know of any other gentleman, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“He seems of questionable morals.”
“To what do you base such a charge?”
“You defend him?”
“No.” She looked away, brushed away a leafy branch as they passed. “I only wondered.”
The carriage passed on down a road they had never been before. The breeze bathed them with warm, sweet-smelling, murmuring sounds as it rustled leaves and grasses.
With sudden force, the carriage pulled to a halt. “You have wondered much and I have told you nothing.”
“You need not tell me anything.”
For the first time since they left Sowerby House in the curricle, his eyes lifted to hers. “There are many things that need to be explained. I wish to tell you everything, if you will listen.”
She nodded, but the answer she wanted to speak simmered in her heart.Simon, I have always listened.
He did not mean to tell her so much. He had intended to keep the account as short as he had with Sir Walter—the facts, nothing more, plain and brief.
But he told her about the tattered blue dress. He should have stopped there, for emotion wobbled his voice, yet he told her about his children in the barn loft too. He told her where he placed Ruth, the things she said before he lost her.
All the time, Miss Whitmore listened. She did not attempt to pacify him, not with well-versed consolations he had heard a hundred times. But her eyes, every now and again, moistened during his story.
Her sympathy soothed him.
