Page 20 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

He took a bite of his fish, pointedly waiting for her reply.

“I like to read. I’ve always wanted a dog, but my mother would never allow it. I’m not fond of swimming in bodies of water where I cannot see the bottom. Brown washes out my skin tone, makes me look sallow. I have two brothers and five nieces and nephews.” She tapped her chin, looking toward the ceiling. “What else?”

“How about why you’re really here?” he whispered. “Though you don’t want to tell me, I will discover the truth.”

She exhaled an incredulous gust, shaking her head. “Why on earth would I waste my breath repeating myself when you won’t believe the truth when it’s told to you?”

They were silent the rest of the dinner.

CHAPTER 5- STEPHEN

The next morning, Stephen rose before the sunlight had chased away the mist. It clung close to the ground and hovered near the hedgerows visible from his window. Fall would soon be underway, and the weather would require all denizens to wear a coat—not just those recently returned from India.

He took the back stairs at a trot, grateful to see that not everything had changed in his absence—the servants’ stairwell was the same crisp whitewash it had always been, the edges of the stairs bent into smirks from the wear of a thousand feet.

The smell of roasted coffee and crisp bacon sent a wave of nostalgia rolling through him. His father had always preferred the bitter brew to the more traditional English tea. His mother had adopted the taste over time, though she still required a liberal dollop of heavy cream and a spoonful of sugar to drink the stuff. One wondered why she bothered with it at all now. Habit, he supposed. One couldn’t be wed to another for twenty-odd years without rubbing off on one another.

“Good morning, your lordship,” the cook said, drying her large hands on a soft bit of muslin she kept tied at her waist. “Come for a bit of breakfast?”

“Hello, Mrs. Portence.” He crossed the room to grin up at her. When he was younger, he would have thrown his arms around her thick middle in greeting, but time sorted everyone into their roles, and such a display was no longer appropriate. “Just eggs and bacon, if it’s not too early.”

“’Course. I’m getting your mother’s breakfast ready to send to the conservatory.”

His eyebrow arched. His mother had traditionally been the last one up. It was just another thing that had changed while he’d been taking temperatures in Calcutta.

“Send mine along with it, if you don’t mind.”

The woman nodded. Stephen poured himself a cup of tea from the pot in the cozy on the wooden bench, added cream and sugar as a treat, and went in search of his mother.

The conservatory had once held flowers, but now the narrow rectangular planters ringing the round, windowed room were bare, save for a tuft of red fur that uncurled itself upon his approach. His mother sat at a table, head bent over the ledger open before her. A mug curled steam at her elbow.

“Good morning, Mother.” He dusted a kiss across her offered cheek and tried to ignore the keen eyes of the fox in the planter.

“Morning, Stephen.” She smiled, then blinked. “When did the tailor say your clothes would be ready? I didn’t even like those trousers on your father.”

He smiled and took the chair next to her at the round table, the one facing the fox. He wouldn’t put it past the thing to nip him if his back was turned.

“Should only be a couple of days. Said he had several that could be altered; he’ll send those along directly.”

His mother hummed and turned back to her numbers. “Did you have a nice time at dinner?”

“The food was excellent, but I was confused by some of the company.”

She gave him her eyes, waiting for an explanation.

“That man, Hamish. I don’t like how he looks at you.”

“I don’t rightly care.” She finished her entry and flipped the heavy book shut with a thud. “It’s none of your concern.”

“Of course it is. I’m your son, for one. The rightful owner of these properties, for another.”

“Are you?” She leaned back in the chair and arched her eyebrow.

He glowered at her, letting his silence speak for him. His mother had always been different, but she’d never been difficult—at least, not toward him.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” she finally said.

“Six years isn’t such an absence.”