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“Perhaps Sir Alistair has to use the necessary,” Jamie said.
That made her eye her son suspiciously. Jamie was five years old, but apparently a five-year-old boy’s bladder wasn’t very large because—
A single knock came at the carriage door. Helen frowned. Surely Alistair wouldn’t knock at his own carriage? Then the door swung open, and she entirely lost her thought.
“Papa,” she whispered, her heart in her throat.
She hadn’t seen him for fourteen years, but she’d never forget his face. There were a few more lines about his eyes and forehead, his bobbed gray doctor’s wig looked new, and his mouth was more pinched than she remembered it, but it was her papa.
He stared at her but didn’t smile. “May I come in?”
“Of course.”
He climbed in the carriage and sat across from them. His coat, waistcoat, and breeches were black, making him very somber. He didn’t seem to know what to do now that he was in the carriage.
Helen put her arms around her children. She cleared her throat so that she might speak clearly. “These are my children. Abigail, who is nine, and Jamie, who is five. Children, this is my father. Your grandpapa.”
Abigail said, “How do you do, sir?”
Jamie merely stared at his grandfather.
“Jamie.” Papa cleared his throat. “Ah. Well.”
Papa’s Christian name was James. Helen waited to see if he’d say anything more, but he seemed a little stunned.
“How are my sisters and brother?” she asked, her tone formal.
“All married, Timothy just last year to Anne Harris. You remember her, don’t you? Lived two houses down, had a terrible fever when she was but two years old.”
“Oh, yes. Little Annie Harris.” Helen smiled, but it was bittersweet. Annie Harris had been only five— Jamie’s age—when she’d left home to live with Lister. She’d missed an entire lifetime out of her family’s daily life.
Her father nodded, on firmer ground now that he had something familiar to discuss. “Rachel is married to a young doctor, a former student of mine, and expecting her second child. Ruth married a sailor and lives in Dover now. She writes often and comes to visit every year. She has but one child, a girl. Your sister, Margaret, has four children, two boys, two girls. She had a babe stillborn two years ago, another boy.”
She felt tears closing her throat. “I am sorry to hear it.”
Her father nodded. “Your mother fears that Margaret still grieves.”
Helen took a fortifying breath. “And how is my mother?”
“Well enough.” Papa looked at his hands. “She does not know I’ve come to see you today.”
“Ah.” What more could she say to that? Helen glanced out the window. A dog was napping in the sun on the inn doorstep.
“I should not have let her send you away,” Papa said.
Helen turned to stare at him. She’d never guessed that he hadn’t been completely in agreement with Mother.
“Your sisters were not yet married, and your mother worried for their futures,” he said, and the lines on his face seemed to deepen as she watched. “Also, the Duke of Lister is a powerful man, and he made it plain that he expected you to go to him. In the end, it was simply easier to let you go and wash our hands of you. It was easier, but it wasn’t right. I’ve regretted my decision for many years now. I hope you can forgive me someday.”
“Oh, Papa.” Helen went to the other side of the carriage to hug her father.
His arms were strong when they wrapped around her. “I’m sorry, Helen.”
She pulled back and saw that there were tears in his eyes.
“You can’t come home, I’m afraid. Your mother will not budge on that point. But I believe she’ll look the other way if you write me. And I hope that I can see you again someday?”
“Of course.”
