you…’
‘Charlie, that’s enough.’
Kate’s voice was sharp, enough to silence the boy instantly. Virgil blinked. She cast him a look, equally sharp, but it was one of concern, not reprimand. And though she couldn’t possibly understand, he knew that she’d sensed enough. He wasn’t sure whether to be angry or relieved. She was chastising the boy gently for his questions, and at the same time slipping him an apple. Charlie was looking sullen as he made for the path back to the main house. It wasn’t the boy’s fault, those memories, but how could he explain? He could not.
Charlie ran off down the carriageway. Virgil picked up the hamper. ‘This looks good. I’m hungry. Where shall we go? I noticed a little arbour with some benches in the garden.’ Without waiting on a reply, he set off with the basket, pushing his way through the overgrown bushes.
‘Virgil!’ Kate called.
‘The sun isn’t exactly warm, but it will be nicer than sitting in that dusty dining room.’
‘Virgil!’
He whirled round on her so suddenly that she stumbled. His face was set, his jaw clenched. ‘I don’t discuss that part of my life. Ever. It’s over.’
It was not the threat in his voice, nor even the frightening stillness of him, but the coiled-up pain, the bleakness which dulled his almond-shaped eyes, that made her back down. His expression had closed over completely earlier, at the mention of the prizefighter’s name. He had retreated, to somewhere dark, frightening. Though she desperately wanted to know because she desperately wanted to help, Kate suspected that whatever part of his past Virgil was remembering, it was something quite beyond her ken. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ She reached for him, meaning only to touch his arm in a gesture of—what?—pity, sorrow, understanding, empathy?
She wanted only to comfort him, but he flinched, and then so, too, did she. He made to speak, but seemed to be at a loss for words. Instead he took her hand, and led her silently through the wilderness of the garden to the arbour. She sat down abruptly. Her hands were shaking. Her legs too. She couldn’t understand it. Such a strong reaction, but she wasn’t quite sure what it was she was reacting to. She clasped her hands together, watching her knuckles tighten.
‘Kate.’
He was sitting beside her. He seemed to have the ability to move silently. She smiled wanly.
‘I hope you’re hungry,’ Virgil said. ‘Polly’s packed enough to feed an army.’
* * *
They spent the rest of the day examining the house in more detail, from attics to cellar, taking pains to stick to the task in hand, taking even more pains not to touch as they did so. As they made their way back to the main house, the sun was already sinking.
‘A cook, a butler, two footmen, say three maidservants, a scullery maid,’ Kate muttered, biting the end of her pencil, frowning in concentration as she looked at the close-written pages of her notebook. ‘The nursery maid and her own lady’s maid I’m sure she will wish to manage herself, but I think we’ll need two—or do you think three other menservants besides whatever occasional help she needs if she chooses to entertain, of course?’
She looked enquiringly at him. Virgil’s own house, while not the grandest in Boston, was by no means one of the smallest, and was run by one housekeeper, one maid and one manservant. Wealth was power, power was what he needed to pay for his sins, but he had never felt the need to flaunt success with the trappings of wealth. He preferred to speak for himself. ‘It’s just one woman and a child,’ he said.
‘She is the Dowager Marchioness of Hatherton—or at least she will be, if her claim is validated.’
‘Does a dowager marchioness, then, take more looking after than a mere miss?’
‘That’s not the point. It’s not about her needs but her consequence.’
In the short space of time he had known her, Virgil had come to think of Kate’s
‘Charlie, that’s enough.’
Kate’s voice was sharp, enough to silence the boy instantly. Virgil blinked. She cast him a look, equally sharp, but it was one of concern, not reprimand. And though she couldn’t possibly understand, he knew that she’d sensed enough. He wasn’t sure whether to be angry or relieved. She was chastising the boy gently for his questions, and at the same time slipping him an apple. Charlie was looking sullen as he made for the path back to the main house. It wasn’t the boy’s fault, those memories, but how could he explain? He could not.
Charlie ran off down the carriageway. Virgil picked up the hamper. ‘This looks good. I’m hungry. Where shall we go? I noticed a little arbour with some benches in the garden.’ Without waiting on a reply, he set off with the basket, pushing his way through the overgrown bushes.
‘Virgil!’ Kate called.
‘The sun isn’t exactly warm, but it will be nicer than sitting in that dusty dining room.’
‘Virgil!’
He whirled round on her so suddenly that she stumbled. His face was set, his jaw clenched. ‘I don’t discuss that part of my life. Ever. It’s over.’
It was not the threat in his voice, nor even the frightening stillness of him, but the coiled-up pain, the bleakness which dulled his almond-shaped eyes, that made her back down. His expression had closed over completely earlier, at the mention of the prizefighter’s name. He had retreated, to somewhere dark, frightening. Though she desperately wanted to know because she desperately wanted to help, Kate suspected that whatever part of his past Virgil was remembering, it was something quite beyond her ken. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ She reached for him, meaning only to touch his arm in a gesture of—what?—pity, sorrow, understanding, empathy?
She wanted only to comfort him, but he flinched, and then so, too, did she. He made to speak, but seemed to be at a loss for words. Instead he took her hand, and led her silently through the wilderness of the garden to the arbour. She sat down abruptly. Her hands were shaking. Her legs too. She couldn’t understand it. Such a strong reaction, but she wasn’t quite sure what it was she was reacting to. She clasped her hands together, watching her knuckles tighten.
‘Kate.’
He was sitting beside her. He seemed to have the ability to move silently. She smiled wanly.
‘I hope you’re hungry,’ Virgil said. ‘Polly’s packed enough to feed an army.’
* * *
They spent the rest of the day examining the house in more detail, from attics to cellar, taking pains to stick to the task in hand, taking even more pains not to touch as they did so. As they made their way back to the main house, the sun was already sinking.
‘A cook, a butler, two footmen, say three maidservants, a scullery maid,’ Kate muttered, biting the end of her pencil, frowning in concentration as she looked at the close-written pages of her notebook. ‘The nursery maid and her own lady’s maid I’m sure she will wish to manage herself, but I think we’ll need two—or do you think three other menservants besides whatever occasional help she needs if she chooses to entertain, of course?’
She looked enquiringly at him. Virgil’s own house, while not the grandest in Boston, was by no means one of the smallest, and was run by one housekeeper, one maid and one manservant. Wealth was power, power was what he needed to pay for his sins, but he had never felt the need to flaunt success with the trappings of wealth. He preferred to speak for himself. ‘It’s just one woman and a child,’ he said.
‘She is the Dowager Marchioness of Hatherton—or at least she will be, if her claim is validated.’
‘Does a dowager marchioness, then, take more looking after than a mere miss?’
‘That’s not the point. It’s not about her needs but her consequence.’
In the short space of time he had known her, Virgil had come to think of Kate’s
Similar Books
