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She unclasped her hands and ran them down her thighs, an unconscious gesture of discomfort that relaxed him. It was ridiculous to take her so seriously and unkind to challenge what few weapons she had in this hostile world.
‘I apologise, Mrs Langdale. I have no right to berate you. In truth, I am very grateful you are here with Jamie. As you can see I am very busy and likely to remain so for the upcoming weeks and the fact that we have passed several days without Jamie throwing one of his tantrums, or at least without my knowing of any tantrums, is reason for celebration. It also leads me to realise that his difficult behaviour is indeed the result, at least in part, of loneliness. A child his age should not be alone... I mean, without steady companionship. I am not enough for him any longer.’
The truth of that struck him. For two years—no, longer—practically since Jamie’s birth he had become utterly involved in his son’s life, setting them up as a unit apart. In the year since his father’s death something was beginning to shift and it was as unsettling to him as it probably was to Jamie.
He went to the window. The study was one of the few rooms on this level he had an unobstructed view of the water. It was raining again and the horizon was blurred into the sky. They might as well have been underwater, or in the clouds. Somewhere closed in, sealed off. He moved away, towards the fire, aware she was watching him, a slight frown between her delicate brows.
Her ease struck him again as peculiar. She might be a widow, but she was still young and he was not accustomed to young women watching him with such blatant ease unless they were intent on attaching his interest.
‘Jamie is a lovely boy,’ she said. ‘But it is natural he needs more companions. There is nothing wrong with that, Your Gr—’
She flushed, clearly uncomfortable with his title after his previous comment, making him feel even more like a churlish fool. Why the devil did he keep flying off the handle with her?
‘I apologise. I should not have said what I did earlier, but I would still prefer you call me Lochmore rather than “Your Grace”. No, I would prefer Benneit, but I dare say that is too informal for your proper English soul. In any case, it is rather pointless to insist on formality. As you can see the castle is rather sparsely inhabited.’
‘Yes, I noticed that.’ She smiled. ‘It is rather nice.’
‘Nice?’
‘Yes. There were always at least two or three dozen servants at Uxmore and even I could not keep track of some of the under-footmen’s names, they changed so often. I find this skeleton crew quite relaxing. Everyone is so...comfortable with each other.’
He laughed.
‘I am impressed you found a virtue in it. Or is this another Mrs Minerva fabrication?’
‘I am quite serious. It reminds me a little of the parsonage where I grew up. It was a tiny little hamlet, but everyone was very much part of our little world.’
He sat down, curious.
‘How did you come to live with the Uxmores?’
‘My father died when I was eleven and the living at the parsonage went to another man. My mother and I went to live with Lady Theale. When my mother died Lady Theale sent me to Lord Uxmore’s household to help with the children.’
‘How old were you when you went to the Uxmores?’
‘Sixteen.’
Her eyes no longer met his. It was almost schoolgirl’s recitation, without inflection. She might not be an actual servant, but it was servitude none the less. No wonder she had adored her Alfred—he must truly have appeared like a knight in shining armour out of any young girl’s dream. And but for a trick of fate and her husband’s pointless accident she would be still a contented wife and probably a mother of her own children. The gap between that possibility and her reality must rankle all the more now that it had been snatched from her.
‘Is that all, Your—Lochmore?’ She stumbled over the name, drawing out the last syllable as if unsure how to pronounce it, and it ended in a near purr. The hair on his nape rose and he shifted in his armchair.
‘I suggest we abandon formality while we are at the castle. It is not as if there is anyone here to insist on proprieties. Call me Benneit and I shall follow Jamie’s lead and call you Jo. Joane does not suit you.’
