warn my brother of this suggestion I made to our Nick.” He insinuated a hand beneath his wife’s skirts, where lovely memories abounded. “Mrs. Belmont, promise me you will never take up the Continental fashion of wearing drawers.”
“Drawers would be a waste of time,” she said, fingers going to Matthew’s cravat. “One would end up taking them right back off again. You will write to Axel today Matthew, and alert him to Nicholas’s impending visit.”
Matthew closed his eyes and for the hundredth grateful time, memorized the contour of Theresa’s bare knee against his palm.
“Of course, my dear.
Later
.” Much, much later.
* * *
Axel returned from his morning with the Stoneleigh ledgers bearing a sack from Mrs. Jensen and a brown glass bottle with an inch or so of liquid in the bottom. He also brought a list of questions for his guest.
“If you are up to further interrogation over the noon meal,” he said when he found Mrs. Stoneleigh in the library, “I’d like to ask you about Stoneleigh’s finances.”
“I’ll manage.” She rose from the sofa, her movements a little stiff, a little careful. When they were seated in the breakfast parlor, steaming bowls of chicken soup before them, Axel considered a bit of small talk might be in order.
Though not witty repartee—never that. “What did you find to do this morning?”
“I finished putting away my clothing, acquainted myself with the layout of your house, investigated your stillroom, replied to the notes of condolence I’ve received so far, copied Gregory’s obituary for Sir Dewey, and stared at the same page of some book or other for several years.”
How well Axel knew that last activity. “What preoccupies you?”
He asked the question out of curiosity, but also because Mrs. Stoneleigh had started on her soup.
“With your staff off to market, this morning is the first time I’ve had real solitude since Gregory died, and I find myself… He was here, on this earth for nearly sixty years. He got up one morning, rode out as he always did, spent the morning in the kennels, stopped in at the Weasel for his customary pint, perhaps chatted up the vicar, Sir Dewey, who knows who else… A typical day, and then he’s gone forever. No more Gregory Stoneleigh.”
She put her spoon down, took a measured breath, and rose. “Excuse me.”
Well, hell
. Axel caught up to her at the door, foiling her escape with a hand on her wrist. She’d spent the morning brooding, and he’d forgotten this was market day. Not well done of him, to leave her without any company at all.
“Go ahead and cry. It won’t be the last time.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, staring at Axel’s cravat even as he drew her into his arms.
“You will,”—unless the murderer went after her too, or Axel had to arrest her—“but your husband’s life was ended too soon and wrongly, and that is sad enough to make any wife cry, or it should be.”
Her weight settled against him, too slight, too angular, for all her endowments. “Our soup is getting cold. You’ll chide me if I don’t eat.” Then, more softly, “I hate to cry.”
Gregory Stoneleigh’s widow went down to defeat silently, shuddering against Axel in slow, drawing sobs that cut him like a winter wind. He held her and stroked her hair, smoothed his hands in circles on her back and nape, hoping simple proximity and touch comforted her.
Holding her, he had time to notice exactly how her bones were too prominent under his hands, though she fit him; her body lined up with his such that he could rest his chin at her temple and take all of her weight against him.
He snatched a linen serviette off the table for her to use as a handkerchief. “Do not apologize for crying, or letting the soup get cold, or anything else.”
“Then shall I apologize for seeking my room?” She drew back, but didn’t entirely leave Axel’s embrace. “After such a performance, you can’t expect me to sit at table, can
“Drawers would be a waste of time,” she said, fingers going to Matthew’s cravat. “One would end up taking them right back off again. You will write to Axel today Matthew, and alert him to Nicholas’s impending visit.”
Matthew closed his eyes and for the hundredth grateful time, memorized the contour of Theresa’s bare knee against his palm.
“Of course, my dear.
Later
.” Much, much later.
* * *
Axel returned from his morning with the Stoneleigh ledgers bearing a sack from Mrs. Jensen and a brown glass bottle with an inch or so of liquid in the bottom. He also brought a list of questions for his guest.
“If you are up to further interrogation over the noon meal,” he said when he found Mrs. Stoneleigh in the library, “I’d like to ask you about Stoneleigh’s finances.”
“I’ll manage.” She rose from the sofa, her movements a little stiff, a little careful. When they were seated in the breakfast parlor, steaming bowls of chicken soup before them, Axel considered a bit of small talk might be in order.
Though not witty repartee—never that. “What did you find to do this morning?”
“I finished putting away my clothing, acquainted myself with the layout of your house, investigated your stillroom, replied to the notes of condolence I’ve received so far, copied Gregory’s obituary for Sir Dewey, and stared at the same page of some book or other for several years.”
How well Axel knew that last activity. “What preoccupies you?”
He asked the question out of curiosity, but also because Mrs. Stoneleigh had started on her soup.
“With your staff off to market, this morning is the first time I’ve had real solitude since Gregory died, and I find myself… He was here, on this earth for nearly sixty years. He got up one morning, rode out as he always did, spent the morning in the kennels, stopped in at the Weasel for his customary pint, perhaps chatted up the vicar, Sir Dewey, who knows who else… A typical day, and then he’s gone forever. No more Gregory Stoneleigh.”
She put her spoon down, took a measured breath, and rose. “Excuse me.”
Well, hell
. Axel caught up to her at the door, foiling her escape with a hand on her wrist. She’d spent the morning brooding, and he’d forgotten this was market day. Not well done of him, to leave her without any company at all.
“Go ahead and cry. It won’t be the last time.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, staring at Axel’s cravat even as he drew her into his arms.
“You will,”—unless the murderer went after her too, or Axel had to arrest her—“but your husband’s life was ended too soon and wrongly, and that is sad enough to make any wife cry, or it should be.”
Her weight settled against him, too slight, too angular, for all her endowments. “Our soup is getting cold. You’ll chide me if I don’t eat.” Then, more softly, “I hate to cry.”
Gregory Stoneleigh’s widow went down to defeat silently, shuddering against Axel in slow, drawing sobs that cut him like a winter wind. He held her and stroked her hair, smoothed his hands in circles on her back and nape, hoping simple proximity and touch comforted her.
Holding her, he had time to notice exactly how her bones were too prominent under his hands, though she fit him; her body lined up with his such that he could rest his chin at her temple and take all of her weight against him.
He snatched a linen serviette off the table for her to use as a handkerchief. “Do not apologize for crying, or letting the soup get cold, or anything else.”
“Then shall I apologize for seeking my room?” She drew back, but didn’t entirely leave Axel’s embrace. “After such a performance, you can’t expect me to sit at table, can
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