“Very well.”
Anderson acknowledged Cassandra with a nod. Then, moving as if he suffered stiffness in his joints, he left the room.
Cassandra watched the door close, then she swiveled back, a query in her eye.
Harbury imagined she wanted to know why he’d been hunched over his desk staring into nothing. How could he explain that the memory of his father’s death had been so visceral, so real, he’d been seized by a sense of failure, of helplessness?
Yesterday she’d asked if he, like others, had held his father in awe.Yes, he had. His father had always seemed so large, so invincible. His death had been a shock.
That his last words had been a condemnation, less so. He knew too well he never managed to earn the man’s respect.
But his father wasn’t here. His lovely wife, on the other hand, was very present.
“Did you have need of me?” he asked.
“Yes. Er, rather, no.” She glanced to the door and back. “It doesn’t matt—” She stopped herself. “Well, yes, it does matter. I came here to say I had hoped you would include me in your meeting. And…” Her lids swept down over her eyes. “I had also hoped you would join me for breakfast.”
Was he imagining things, or did she sound as if she’d missed him? When he was growing up, only Adrian wished for his company. Having someone seek him out was a strange and novel thing.
“I had intended to join you this morning, but I awoke in the middle of the night.” Last night, after a perfectly polite, careful dinner they’d parted at the top of the stairs. Once in his bed chamber, he’d bolted her door on his end to keep himself from going back on his promise. There’d been a brief interlude when he’d indulged in a, ah,pastimehe did not want to think about right now. He’d slept briefly and awoken exhausted but unable to return to sleep. So, he’d retrieved the letter, uncrumpled the paper and studied, thinking.
“When I couldn’t get back to sleep, I came down here.”
Something about the letter had been nagging at him. The writing was vaguely familiar, and the unplaced familiarity left him uncomfortable. He’d brought down the letter so he could compare the handwriting to letters in his father’s files. He hadn’t found a match.
“And when did you send for Anderson?” She asked.
“Yesterday. I’d left word at Rose Cottage that I wanted to see the account books. When Anderson arrived with the books this morning, I was still in the study.”
“You could have invited me to join you. You said we were allies.”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
He understood he’d hurt his wife. Oddly enough, as he looked into her eyes, her hurt became his pain, a weight against his chest.
“Allies,” he repeated. He came around his desk. “You are absolutely right. In the future, I will include you.”
“Of course,” she hedged, “you don’t need to consult meeverytime you wish to speak with your—”
“Our,” he interrupted. “I did say I wanted,” he paused, “no, I believe I said Ineededyour advice.”
“You did.” She sighed.
The room brightened. Somewhere outside, a cloud must have passed on through. With the increased light, his spirits lifted.
Cassandra looked so fresh, so young, so pretty—such a direct contrast to the vague musty scent of the old books and papers he’d been shuffling through.
A line from a book he’d once attempted to translate in school came to mind. Goethe’sFaust, perhaps? He’d be damned if he could recall, but in the passage the protagonist declared his intention to cast aside dusty knowledge and be restored by bathing in dew.
He glanced back at the monstrously sized ledger strewn across his desk.
To the devil with numbers.
If his baffling wife wanted his company, she would have his company. Allhewanted right now was to make her eyes soften again, this time not with concern, but with something quite different.
Something more exciting.
He flashed her his most compelling smile. “But, since I missed the pleasure of your company at breakfast, might I make up for my mistake with a ride?”
