“I can speak with Cook. I am certain she can attain whatever you need.”
He nodded, went to work brushing his mess from the table. Then he turned to leave.
“Uncle?”
He glanced at her, one wiry brow jerking up.
“I did call you that. Did I not?”
A brusque nod.
“Good.”Good?She gripped the edge of the table until her fingers cramped. Why was it so difficult for her to speak with him? “We have talked so little. I have so many questions.”
He blinked. Nodded again.
“You see, I did not … well, I did not lose all of my memories. I have this faint image of a cottage. A man and a woman and ducks. I was hoping you might tell me more.”
He shrugged.
“They are my parents, are they not?”
“Likely.”
“What were they like?”
“Don’t know much. Didn’t talk to my brother for years. Never met your mother.”
“Why?”
“We fought. I was finishing up my apprenticeship in Juleshead while he was writing for a magazine near Eastbourne. Lived in a little cottage outside town, he did, near the sea.”
She could almost catch the whiff of salt on the air as it rustled through the bluebells and cornflowers. Homesickness struck her. “How did they die?”
“Measles.”
“How did you find out about me?”
“Got a letter from a neighbor. By the time I got to Eastbourne, you were over the sickness and living with a widow. Brought you home. You screamed at me to take you back.”
“I did not understand.”
“No.”
“You must have been very patient.”
He turned his face away, but not before she noticed the rising red on his cheeks. The endearment such memories obviously stirred in him. “Took a week before you’d talk. Then one evening you just came and crawled onto my lap.” His laugh was a little shaken. “My girl.” With an awkward grumble, he went into the kitchen, leaving an aura of nostalgia in his wake.
Meg wiped her eyes. So many doubts swarmed her, like bees stinging her peace. The letters, the threats, the questions.
One thing she knew now.
She had loved her uncle. He had loved her back. If he was the monster the letters accused him of being, was that even possible?
Nerves taut, Tom rapped on the flimsy kitchen door of the coaching inn. He rubbed his hand over his jaw. His skin was smooth. Too smooth. Why had he ever allowed Joanie and Mrs. Musgrave to talk him into this?
Over supper yesterday, he’d made the mistake of telling them both about the dinner party he would attend at Penrose Abbey. Mrs. Musgrave had bustled away in search of her husband’s Sunday tailcoat and pantaloons.“With a little snipping and trimming, it shall be perfect,”she assured him, pressing the coat to his chest for inspection.
Joanie had found the razor.“Please, Tom. Just so we can see what you look like.”
