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That was what she could not bear now. That she’d been a fool again, thinking Aidan broken and lonely without her. He hadn’t curled up into a ball and wished himself dead. He’d built a fortune and filled his life with beautiful women.
He’d touched them, filled them, kissed them, just as he had with Kate.
She touched one gloved finger to her lips, remembering their last kiss. She could hardly fathom that she’d tasted his mouth only hours before. That mouth—beautiful, sensual. How many women had it kissed, licked, sucked, worshipped? How many women had craved that mouth, dreamt of it endlessly, awake or asleep, just as she had?
And Aidan had craved them right back, far more powerfully than he’d ever wanted her. Insatiable, that beautiful woman had called him. Relentless. But not with Kate. With Kate, a few simple moments had been enough, as if he were touching a comforting memory before falling asleep. But Kate wanted to be more than a memory to him. She wanted him to need the woman she’d become. She’d already spent half a lifetime married to a man who didn’t want her. She wouldn’t be that again.
A train hissed and chugged from somewhere out of sight. Metal screamed against metal as it drew nearer. It wasn’t the train to Hull, but Kate watched intently as it slid toward the platform in a crazed cloud of steam. It would pull away again in thirty minutes and chug toward someplace very different from Hull. A place so far removed that Kate could hardly imagine it, and yet it had once been her whole world. This train would stop in Derby, at a station only two bare miles from her family’s home.
It was a coincidence, surely, but Kate couldn’t stop staring at the black beast flaunting itself in front of her. It would take her to the place where it had all begun. To the family that had sent her to Ceylon. To the people who’d rather she be dead than bothersome.
Kate was filled with the overwhelming urge to tell them that she’d survived.
What could they do to her, anyway? If they exposed her, they’d have to explain to the world how she’d managed to return from her watery grave. And it no longer mattered, regardless. Gerard had found her.
As soon as she’d left Aidan’s home, she’d hailed a hack and driven straight for that solicitor’s office. He’d refused to see her. What kind of planter’s agent would refuse to see a coffee seller? She’d waited for hours, standing on the street outside, willing the solicitor to come out. He had never emerged, but someone else had, and all her suspicions had been confirmed. The white-haired dray driver who’d worked for Mr. Fost. He hadn’t seen her as he’d shut the door behind him and descended the stairs. He’d looked like a man without a care in the world. As if spying on her had meant nothing. As if ruining her life was just another coin in his pocket.
And so it was. He’d taken a job with Mr. Fost, solely for the purpose of reporting back to this solicitor, and Kate had no doubt now, none at all. This life she’d built was about to end. Gerard had found her. She had to leave. So what did it matter if she made one small detour? Another day, a few hours. It could make no difference when the whole world was running through her fingers like sand.
Kate rose, purchased a ticket, and she boarded the train for home.
Everything was so familiar. Even the coming and going of the light as she walked down the drive. The even spacing of the chestnut trees broke the road into sun and shade, sun and shade. She must have walked up this drive a thousand times. Five thousand times. On Sunday mornings, after church. On Tuesday evenings after their weekly dinner with her widowed aunt. On every bright, sunny afternoon after visiting friends or exploring the woods. And always the light was sorted by these trees.
For a moment, Kate forgot the past and felt so free she nearly floated. She was home, at last. And it felt so right that she almost didn’t care what they’d done to her.
Kate had missed her mother. She was a soft woman, and
that quality had made her both comforting and weak. The weakness hadn’t mattered to Kate until those last months. Before that, her mother had been a warm and pleasant presence in Kate’s life.
Her brother had been less accessible. He’d always been away at school or off in London. Then he’d developed a passion for Italy. As a matter of fact, he was likely there now. He’d loved to spend his winters in Italy, and their father had only admonished him not to bring home one of those “dark-blooded women” as a wife.
The thought that she might find her mother alone sped Kate’s footsteps until she reached the expanse of green lawn that stretched to the front steps. She flew across the lawn, racing all the way up the stairs. But then her eagerness deserted her.
Something about standing at the front door cut through her fantasy of a happy return. After all, when had she ever stood here, begging entry? She’d tripped in and out the side doors or been ushered up these stairs by footmen, but she’d never stood on the lonely stone as if she were a stranger.
Kate turned the handle of the door and slipped inside.
The entry hall was dark and quiet. The curtains were open, but the windows caught no sun at this time of day. Somewhere deep within the house, Kate could hear the murmur of servants talking, lending a comfortable hint of life to the otherwise silent building.
Kate turned in a circle, but it was a restless spin. She was done with introspection now. Instead of looking over her old home and marking the changes, Kate moved quietly to the staircase and headed for her mother’s upstairs parlor. Even before she reached the door, she could picture her mother, small and plump and curled up on her chaise with her needlepoint or tatting.
And there she was. Smaller now, and older. So much older than Kate had expected. Her hair had been the same dark brown as Kate’s, but now it was liberally streaked with dull gray, and she squinted down at her needlework through tiny glasses.
Emotion swelled in Kate’s chest, expanding until she couldn’t breathe. Her mother stitched on, unaware.
Kate watched until she couldn’t bear it anymore. “Mother,” she croaked.
Her mother’s frown intensified, then her gaze rose. For a moment, she didn’t recognize her own daughter, and Kate could only hope her eyesight was to blame. Finally, shock overcame her, and the creases in her face relaxed as her eyes widened. “Katie?” she breathed, her work falling to her lap.
“Yes.”
“Katie?” she repeated. “Is it really you?”
Kate nodded. “It’s me.” Her throat tightened, cutting off a chance to say more. When her mother smiled and opened her arms, Kate rushed forward to hug her.
She smelled the same. Of roses and starch, and it seemed so impossible that so much could be the same after ten long years.
“Oh, I’ve missed you, my sweet Katie. I thought I’d never see you again!” Her mother pulled back and frowned. “But whatever are you doing here in England?”
