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The thought made him frown as he said, “I came for my mail.”
The cook muttered something and bent over her pot. Mrs. Halifax glided to a nearby table, where a small bundle of letters lay. “I’m sorry. I should’ve had them sent up.” She held out the bundle.
He took it, his fingers brushing briefly against hers and then frowned down as he shuffled the letters. A reply from Etienne wasn’t there, of course—it was much too soon—but he’d hoped it would be nonetheless. Alistair had been brooding over the Spinner’s Falls traitor since Vale’s letter. Or perhaps it was Mrs. Halifax’s advent and the knowledge of all he’d lost along with his face in that terrible massacre.
“Were you expecting a letter?” Mrs. Halifax interrupted his dark thoughts.
He shrugged and tucked the letters in a pocket. “A missive from a colleague in another country. Nothing terribly important.”
“You correspond with gentlemen abroad?” She tilted her head as if intrigued.
He nodded. “I exchange findings and ideas with other naturalists in France, Norway, Italy, Russia, and the American Colonies. I have a friend exploring the wilds of China right now and another somewhere in deepest Africa.”
“How wonderful! And you must travel as well to visit these friends and explore yourself.”
He stared at her. Was she mocking him? “I never leave the castle.”
She stilled. “Truly? I know you like the castle, but surely you must travel sometimes. What of your work?”
“I haven’t traveled since returning from the Colonies.” He could no longer meet those wide blue eyes, and he glanced away, watching the children play with the puppy by the door. “You know what I look like. You know why I stay here.”
“But…” Her brows knit before she took a step toward him, forcing him to meet her solemn gaze once more. “I know it must be hard to go out. I know people must stare. It must be awful. But to shut yourself up here forever… you don’t deserve such a punishment.”
“Deserve?” He felt his mouth twist. “The men who died in the Colonies didn’t deserve their deaths. My fate has nothing to do with whether or not I deserve it. It’s simply fact: I am scarred. I frighten little children and the sensitive. Therefore, I stay in this castle.”
“How can you bear to live the rest of your life thus?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think of the rest of my life. This is simply my fate.”
“The past can’t be changed. I understand that,” she said. “But can’t one accept the past and still continue to hope?”
“Hope?” He stared at her. She argued her case too intensely for it not to be personal in some way—but in what way he wasn’t certain. “I don’t understand your meaning.”
She leaned toward him, her blue eyes serious. “Don’t you think about the future? Plan for happy times? Strive to better your life?”
He shook his head. Her philosophy was entirely foreign to his way of thinking. “What point in planning for a future when my past will never change? I am not unhappy.”
“But are you happy?”
He turned to the door. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters.” He felt her small hand at his arm. He swiveled to look at her again, so bright, so pretty. “How can you live your life without happiness, or even the hope of happiness?”
“Now I know you mock me,” he growled, and wrest his arm free.
He strode from the kitchen, deaf to her protest. He knew she didn’t have it in her to be so cruel, but her very honesty was in some ways more harsh than mocking laughter. How could he think of a future when he had none, when he’d given up all faith of one nearly seven years ago? Even the thought of resurrecting that optimism filled him with a kind of horror. No, better to flee the kitchen and his too-perceptive housekeeper than to face his own weakness.
HELEN WAS OUT front sweeping the step that afternoon when a rumbling made her look up. A great carriage and four was coming down the drive, and the sight was so strange—as she’d already become used to the castle’s isolation—that all she could do was stand there and gape for a moment. Then fear slammed her heart into her ribs. Dear God, had Lister found them?
By rights, Meg or Nellie should be sweeping the step, but the maids were busy turning over the first-floor sitting room. So she’d gone after the step herself following luncheon, maddened by the sight of the weeds growing between the cracks. Which left her standing in a rumpled apron armed only with a broom. She didn’t even have time to try and hide the children.
The carriage rolled majestically to a stop and a bewigged footman jumped down to set the step and open the door. A very tall lady emerged, bowing her head to clear the carriage roof. Helen nearly dropped to the ground in relief. The lady wore an elegant cream dress with a striped underskirt and a lace cap topped by a straw hat. Behind her was a shorter, plump lady, all in lavender and yellow with a great frilly cap and bonnet framing her jolly red face. The tall lady straightened and frowned at Helen through a pair of formidable and rather odd spectacles. They were large, entirely round, and had thick black frames with an X between the eye pieces.
“Who,” the woman said, “are you?”
Helen curtsied, rather well she thought, considering she was holding a broom. “I’m Mrs. Halifax, Sir Alistair’s new housekeeper.”
The tall lady raised her eyebrows skeptically and turned to her companion. “Did you hear that, Phoebe? Chit says she’s Alistair’s housekeeper. Does it seem likely to you that he’s hired a housekeeper?”
