Edenbrooke by Julianne Donaldson Page A

Philip spoke again. I had almost forgotten he was there.
    “I’m curious about something,” he said. “What were you doing in Bath?”
    I walked to the chair across from his and sat down. “My father sent me to live with my grandmother after my mother died.”
    “And how did you feel about that arrangement?”
    It surprised me that he would ask such a personal question after our morning of impersonal conversation. I sighed. My feelings were too complex to delve into, so I picked the simplest one as an answer. “I missed my home.”
    “What did you miss about it?” His tone was quiet and the room was hushed, the sky outside growing overcast.
    I picked at a thread on my skirt. The maid was still dusting books in the far corner of the room; she would probably be at it all day and for many more days to come, considering the number of books on the shelves. She was too far away to hear us clearly, but that was not what made me hesitate to confide in Philip. Trust did not come easily to me, and I was not sure I was ready to confide in this man who was unlike anyone I had ever known before.
    I had worked so hard these past fourteen months to build up layers around my heart, to shield myself from the wounds it bore, that I wasn’t sure I knew how to open it anymore. I didn’t know if I even wanted to open it. The very thought frightened me, and I had to seriously consider whether this was worth the risk of making myself vulnerable.
    Philip waited patiently for my answer, as if he would give me all the time I needed. He could be a friend to me until Cecily arrived. I enjoyed his company, and, I admitted to myself, I needed a friend. Perhaps a friend would be worth the risk.
    Taking a deep breath, I finally said, “I missed everything. My family, of course, but also my home, my land, my neighbors and friends. Everything.” I gestured out the window. “I was thinking about how I even missed our orchard. I used to go there a lot, to paint, or to read, or just to be by myself.”
    “Why the orchard?” Philip asked. It was another question that required a personal and honest answer. He seemed intent on uncovering as much of my heart as he could.
    “I haven’t exactly thought about it before now—at least, not enough to put words to it.” I studied the orchard. The sky was gray, and the colors of the trees were muted. Under the vastness of the sky, the group of small trees was like an embrace, a protective space.
    “There’s something solid and constant about trees.” I said quietly. “They may change through the seasons, but they’re always there. They’re dependable. And the orchard is not so vast as the woods. It’s just big enough to hold me when I . . .” I stopped, unsure of how to complete the thought.
    “When you what?”
    “When I need to be held, I suppose.” I laughed self-consciously, embarrassed a little by what I had admitted. “That sounds odd. But sometimes I want to be away from other people, and I feel safe there.” I looked quickly at him, anxious for his reaction. For once, there was no hint of teasing in his expression as he studied me.
    “It’s your sanctuary,” he said simply. “That doesn’t sound odd at all.”
    I hadn’t realized I was tense until I felt my shoulders relax in relief. I nodded. It was a rare thing to be understood so quickly—and not merely understood, but accepted. I sensed that in his response. It made me want to tell him more.
    “Our orchard at home is not as big as the one here at Edenbrooke,” I continued. “But the trees are just as thick and old. I used to hide there when I was in trouble as a child. I would climb right up, as high as I could, and my governess would stand below and yell at me to come down.”
    Philip looked amused. “And did you?”
    “Come down? Not as long as she was standing there. One day she brought a chair from the house and sat down in it with a book as if she would spend all day there waiting for me if she had to. I was too