Mr. Nancarrow smiled, a little sadly, Effie thought. “Can’t you?”
“I can think why anyone else would do it. Charity. Fellow-feeling.” The possession of a functioning heart in one’s chest. “But my father? No.” There was no reason Effie could conjure to explain why his father would take such an interest in a by-blow, to the extent that he would send him to univ—
Oh, dear God. He looked closely at Mr. Nancarrow, and with a gasp, he understood. The lopsided smile that had soothed him: It was as if he were looking at a close relation of Sarah’s. No. It wasn’tas ifhe were looking at a close relation of Sarah’s, hewaslooking at a close relation of Sarah’s. Father had that sort of smile, too, where one side curled up farther than the other, though Father rarely smiled.
Effie, by contrast, took after his mother, had her dark hair and aquiline nose. Sarah—and Mr. Nancarrow—had ashy-blond hair. As had Father before his had gone white.
Effie examined his heart. His first response to this astonishing news was happiness. Mr. Nancarrow was a fine fellow. What would it be like to have a brother? A true brother?
Though of course he would not be a true brother in the legal sense of the word, but Effie didn’t give a fig about that.
“I am sorry,” Mr. Nancarrow said solemnly. He must have realized that Effie had got his meaning.
“Why are you sorry? None of it’s your fault.”
“I want to assure you that I have no designs on anything that isn’t my right.”
That was curiously phrased. Did Mr. Nancarrow have designs on something he believedwashis right?
The idea pierced Effie like a bullet. If he’d been a bird borne up by a current before, now he’d been shot out of the sky by a hunter with deadly mark.
“Mr. Nancarrow,” he said, speaking slowly despite the fact that his mind was reeling, “might I ask how old you are?”
“I am eight-and-twenty, my lord.” He paused. “Like you.”
“When were you born?”
“The eighth of January.”
Mr. Nancarrow was six months older than Effie.
“Was my father married to your mother?”
If Mr. Nancarrow was legitimate, he was the next earl. Hope flared in Effie’s chest, though he quickly extinguished it.
“They never married.” He paused. “As far as I know.”
Effie didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
“Your father came round rather a lot when I was a child,” Mr. Nancarrow continued, “and it wasn’t to see me, if you get my meaning.”
“I do indeed.”
“I am sorry.”
“I do wish you would stop apologizing!”
“I am sor—” Mr. Nancarrow clamped his mouth shut.
“My good man, were you about to apologize for apologizing?”
Mr. Nancarrow’s sheepish smile became genuine, and they shared a chuckle, which went a significant way toward breaking the tension.
“I was happy when your father asked me to become steward of Highworth,” Mr. Nancarrow, now clearly more at ease, said. “The work suits me, it pays well, and it confers a respectability that should allow me to marry someday, to have children, to . . . have a normal life.”
To have a normal life.How lovely that sounded.
“He told me you were disinterested and disinclined to take the reins,” Mr. Nancarrow said.
