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“I… I always…” She bit a lip to prevent a tremble. “Why do the days you most want to remember – full of joy and fun – evaporate in one’s memory like a summer’s cloud, and yet days you wish never to recall – ones of grief and tragedy – cling like a bitter and befogged winter’s night?”
He released a long leaden breath. “Perchance, to remind us that life is short? So as not to take it for granted?”
“Yes, that might be true.” Matilda rubbed the heel of a hand to her chest. “I lost my whole world in but a moment. Everything. My parents, home, future. I tell myself that such is fate, yet…why must fate be so cruel?”
Mr Hawkins shook his head. “I wish I knew.”
And she was aware that sadness was not confined to her alone, that her employer had also lost a beloved wife.
“My parents went to Kingston to attend a lecture. I merrily waved them off and hurried back inside, dare I say, gl-glad they were gone so I could return to my atlas of the South Sea Islands, but…”
The handkerchief returned to her cheek, caressed in silence.
“There was a collision with a racing phaeton and they…my parents perished at the roadside. I was told Mother died swiftly, but Father… He was gravely injured by shar…shards of wood.” Whenever possible, she suppressed the visions that such recollections caused, but tonight she let them sorely flood over her – her delicate mother crying out, her gentle father in so much pain, tended to by strangers as their life ebbed from them in a dank Kingston lane, and she prayed once more that God had taken them with all speed.
“Miss Griffin… Forgive this forwardness,” he whispered as his broad palm lifted to cup her jaw. “And I know words can never be enough but… I am so deeply sorry.”
She tipped her head, gazed into his eyes and nodded her gratitude, drawing comfort from his sincerity. “I believe I’ve never fully…felt their loss, never been given time to feel their loss. Astwood took over with undue haste, clearing my parents’ bedchamber before it was cold. I removed all their personal diaries to the attic, and one day I hope…I hope to retrieve them.”
“You need only ask and I would help you with that.”
Through blurred eyes, Matilda surveyed his firm lips but gentle regard. “I do not know why I feel like this tonight. I apologise, for I had a joyous dinner and your friends are all so charming.”
“Memories,” he murmured, “can seize one at the strangest of times – a scent, a picture, your father’s book or seeing old friends. You have both my utmost sympathy and…understanding, Miss Griffin.” A soft sigh escaped his lips.
His hand still lingered and although the impropriety of their closeness was beginning to intrude, she found she didn’t much care for once.
Miss Pikesworth’s Guide to Etiquettehad been wrong about everything else, after all.
Instead she faintly rubbed her cheek back and forth in his rough palm, not knowing whence her boldness had come from.
For a brief moment, Matilda thought she saw a flash of intense…fire flare within Mr Hawkins’ eyes, but then it extinguished and he drew away.
He ran that same hand across his own jaw, the rasp noticeable over the soft patter of rain outside, before he turned to survey his books. “I asked you here as I wished to express my thanks for all your hard work tonight. It was not an easy task that I requested of you.” His fingers brutally tugged at his hair. “And you were…perfect.”
A shroud of pleasure wrapped her inner sadness. “Oh, thank you, Mr Hawkins. If truth be told, I was a little nervous.”
“You’d no need. Also…” Spine rigid, he fiddled with a bookend upon the shelf. “Rufus… Not knowing your situation with family and suchlike, Rufus asked me as your employer if he may call upon you, but I replied you were your own woman for asking, and that what you did on your free days was your own business.”
Rather stunned, Matilda spluttered. “Well, he’s awfully nice but…” Indeed, no curious sensation of any kind had overcome her in his attractive company, no desire to rub her cheek upon his palm or share her deepest sorrows. “I’m not drawn to him in that way.”
“Because he is an ex-prizefighter?”
“Not at all.” She frowned at the back of his gold waistcoat, the lacing accentuating his slender hips. “I like him of course, but…” How best to explain it? “I do not feel the same attraction which you evidently have for Miss Figsto–” She bit her tongue. “Not that it is any of my business.”
Mr Hawkins twisted to her and tilted his head. “You believe myself and Miss Figstone to be entangled?”
“Well, I noticed you did disappear together.” Matilda’s gaze slunk to her feet, spectacles sliding down her nose. “She’s a beautiful lady.”
“She is indeed, but I took the chance tonight to tell her that although I enjoy her company, I do not feel we would suit.”
Matilda’s eyes flicked up.
“Miss Figstone…” Tugging at his cravat, he sighed. “To be truthful, she reminds me too much of my wife.”
“I see.” Except Matilda didn’t, and she nudged her spectacles back up.
Seemingly aware of her confusion, Mr Hawkins ambled to the decanters and poured two glasses.
