Margaret rose slowly, one hand braced on the crate to steady herself. “Are you sure, darling?”
“It’s him,Maman! The black carriage with the shiny sides and the tan horses!” Agnes bounced from foot to foot.
“Go fetch your sisters,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “We’ll greet your uncle properly.” Agnes nodded and dashed off.
A fortnight ago, Margaret had written to Robert with trembling fingers—her husband cold upstairs, the doctor already gone, her daughters stunned into silence. She had asked forhelp, or at least for guidance. No reply had come. She had assumed the worst.
But now, as she stepped out into the sunlight with her children gathered close and saw her brother’s familiar form climbing down from the carriage—broad-shouldered, road-worn, but unmistakably kind—a rush of relief swept through her so sudden it caught at her throat.
“Robert.”
“There you are,” he said, voice hoarse but warm. “I came as soon as I could.”
“You got my letter.”
“Yesterday evening. I’d just returned from Oporto—spent a month wrestling with wine merchants who think themselves kings. I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”
“You missed the funeral,” she said gently, without reproach. “It was modest. Just the parish, and a few friends from Oxford.”
He sighed, regret softening his face. “I should have been there. Sebastian was a good man. A difficult one, but good.”
He looked to the girls. Agnes rushed to wrap her arms around his waist before he could say more, and Beatrice offered a shy smile, twisting the hem of her sleeve. Jane stood a little apart, composed but pale, her eyes shadowed.
Robert’s expression mellowed. “My girls,” he murmured, brushing Agnes’s curls aside. “You’ve all grown. Jane—you’re a woman now. Your father would have been proud of you.”
Then, to Margaret: “Shall we go in for a word?”
She nodded, throat tight. “Of course. I’ll have tea sent up.”
“Agnes, Beatrice—go ask Cook for a tray,” she added. “Jane, go with them, please.”
She hesitated, eyes flicking to her mother, but Margaret gave her a gentle nod. “Go on. Just for a little while.” With a slight curtsy, she turned and followed her sisters.
Margaret led her brother inside, grateful for the familiar weight of him behind her.
In the drawing room, silence clung like dust on old furniture—settled, undisturbed, and thick with memory. Robert sank into the chair opposite hers and pulled off his gloves with a weary tug.
Margaret studied him. “You’ve aged.”
“And you haven’t?” he replied with a tired smile.
She let out a dry laugh. “There’s been little rest of late.”
Robert leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Margaret, I came because I want to help. I mean that. But the war’s made a ruin of trade—tariffs are up, ships are scarce, and even the honest merchants lie through their teeth. I’ve four daughters of my own. I'm not what I once was. But I've thought it through.”
Her spine straightened. She said nothing, only nodded once.
“There’s a house near Chichester seeking a housekeeper. A large estate. Reputable. I can arrange the introduction. You’d have shelter, perhaps even comfort. And I can cover schooling for Agnes and Beatrice—at least for a few years. They’ll be well cared for.”
A knock interrupted them. Margaret stood quickly, grateful for the pause. The maid entered with the tea tray, eyes shifting between them. Margaret gave her a brief nod; the girl curtsied and left in haste.
She busied herself with the service, hands controlled but pale against the porcelain. As she poured, Robert’s offer echoed in her mind—cover the schooling. It was more than she had dared to hope.
“Milk still?” she asked.
“Yes, please.” He accepted the cup with a quiet thank you.
He waited a moment, then went on, gently. “As for Jane… she’s twenty now. A fine girl—clever as ever. A little too clever, perhaps.”
