She would not cry, not when crying would make everything feel decided, and nothing was decided. She was still angry, still hurt, still convinced that trust could not be built upon locked doors and noble silences.
But she missed the baby. She missed Andrew. And beneath all the anger, quiet and stubborn as a heartbeat, there remained the terrible fear that Emma was right. Perhaps she had not left because she had stopped loving them.
Perhaps she had left because she had begun.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Andrew had not expected his countryside estate to look unchanged. It was foolish, perhaps. Houses did not alter their windows, their chimneys, or the curve of their avenues merely because a man returned with his life in disorder. Yet as the carriage passed beneath the bare branches and drew up before the familiar stone steps, he felt a strange resentment that the estate should appear so calm.
The child slept in the crook of his arm.
She had protested much of the journey, then exhausted herself into that heavy infant sleep which made her seem at once impossibly fragile and impossibly trusting. Her little cheek was warm against his coat. One fist had closed around the edge of his cravat with the air of a general claiming territory.
Andrew looked down at her.
“You have strong opinions about travel,” he murmured.
The baby made no answer. The front door opened before the footman could reach it. Mrs. Turner appeared first, her cap slightly crooked from haste, with Mr. Turner close behind her. Both stopped upon the threshold at the sight of him. Their eyes moved from Andrew’s face to the child in his arms, then to the carriage behind him, as though expecting Frances to descend next.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Turner said, recovering herself first. “We did not look for you so soon.”
“No,” Andrew replied. “I imagine not.”
Mr. Turner stepped down at once to take Andrew’s hat and gloves, though his gaze remained troubled. “Is Her Grace not with you?”
The question was simply asked. It struck too hard.
“She remains in London.”
Mrs. Turner’s expression changed. There wasn’t only surprise in there, but also understanding, and something very much like sorrow.
“I see,” she replied.
Andrew doubted that she did. He doubted anyone could see the shape of what had happened unless they had stood in his study and watched Frances’ face close against him.
He shifted the baby carefully. “The nursery must be prepared.”
“It is ready enough,” Mrs. Turner said at once, moving toward him. “Give her here, Your Grace. Poor lamb, she’ll want feeding after the journey.”
Andrew hesitated. It was only a moment, but Mrs. Turner noticed. She always noticed more than was comfortable.
Her face softened. “I will not take her far, Your Grace.”
He surrendered the child with reluctance he did not bother to conceal. The baby stirred, whimpered once, then settled against Mrs. Turner’s experienced shoulder as though she had never belonged anywhere else.
“There now,” Mrs. Turner murmured. “You are home, little one.”
Home.
Andrew looked away. They entered the hall, where the air smelled faintly of wood smoke, beeswax, and the damp earth carried in from the grounds. Everything was familiar, from the worn runner upon the stairs and the portraits along the wall, to the carved table where his father had once thrown letters he did not wish to read.
It should have steadied him. Yet, it did not.
Mr. Turner closed the door against the cold and followed him into the small morning room, where a fire had already been lit. Mrs. Turner took the baby upstairs with one of the maids, but Andrew knew she would return. There were questions in her, and neither she nor her husband had ever been skilled at pretending ignorance when duty was involved.
He was standing by the window when they came in a quarter hour later. Mrs. Turner shut the door. That, more than anything, told him they meant to speak plainly.
“You have had trouble,” she told him wisely.
