The Keeper of Happy Endings(63)

I smile, charmed by her innocence. “Yes, he does. And he’s very good at it.”

“Did he drive you around? Is that how he met you?”

“No. We met at the hospital where we both worked. I was sick on my first day, and he helped me.”

She grins, wrinkling her nose. “Anson’s always helping people. He’s nice.”

“I think he’s nice too.”

“Please don’t tell my father I spied on you. He wouldn’t like it. I was only supposed to knock and then bring you down to lunch, but I was hoping we could be friends.”

I can feel my heart melting as I look at her face, shy yet hopeful. “Of course we can be friends. And you can come see me anytime. Is your room next to mine?”

“No.” She stretches out an arm, pointing to the opposite end of the hall. “The family rooms are at the other end of the gallery. Mine’s the first one on the right side, and Anson’s is across the hall. Mummy and Daddy’s room is way down at the end, but it’s only Daddy’s room now.”

“Who lives at this end?”

“Oh, no one lives here. It’s just where we put guests. Auntie Diane stayed in here when she came for Mummy’s funeral. She’s Mummy’s sister, but Daddy says she’s not really our family.”

I nod, understanding. To Owen Purcell, family means blood. Sisters-in-law don’t count. Neither do French fiancées.

“We’d better go down,” Thia says. “Daddy doesn’t like it when people are late.”

Thia waits while I wash my face and attempt to pat my hair into place. My reflection startles me. I’m so very pale, the bones in my face sharp after weeks of meager meals and little sleep. I run a hand over my clothes. My skirt and blouse are shabby and horribly wrinkled after too many wearings, but I have nothing better to put on and no money to buy new.

I step out of the bathroom to find Thia at the bureau, running a tentative hand over the lid of my box. For a moment, I feel a frisson of panic, a territorial instinct.

Thia snatches her hand away, but an instant later her gaze returns to the bureau. She points shyly. “What’s in there?”

I grin at her with a conspiratorial wink. “All my secrets. Let’s go down, shall we?”

Downstairs, in the dining room, Owen is already seated at a long linen-clad table laid for three. He glances up as Thia and I enter, his lips thinning as he takes me in. “I thought you might have changed,” he says coolly. “Were you able to rest?”

“Yes. Thank you. I’m feeling much better. Thia tapped on my door to let me know it was time to come down.”

Thia beams her gratitude as we take our seats, but Mr. Purcell continues to scowl. “Her name is Cynthia,” he says stiffly. “After my mother. We prefer not to encourage diminutives.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . . It’s how Anson always referred to her.”

“Yes, well, my son has always indulged her. I suspect it’s to do with the difference in their ages. Cynthia, your napkin.”

Thia suppresses a scowl as she drags her napkin into her lap. I follow her example, wondering if his reproach was actually meant for me.

Seconds tick by without conversation. I run my eyes around the dining room, avoiding Owen’s gaze. It’s a beautiful room, everything white and gold and sparkling clean, and suddenly I feel conspicuous, like a dusty smudge amid all the loveliness.

A woman in a pale-gray uniform enters through a swinging door, bearing a soup tureen and a large silver ladle. Owen nods coolly as she sets the soup in the center of the table. “Thank you, Belinda,” he says dismissively as he lifts the tureen lid. “Cynthia. Your bowl, please.”

Thia holds out her bowl obediently, watching as her father ladles out a rich red bisque. She stares at it, nose wrinkled. “This is tomato, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he replies, filling his own bowl, then passing the ladle to me. “And you’ll eat it. Everyone must do their part for the war, Cynthia, and you’re no exception. That means making do with what we grow locally. Or would you prefer your brother go hungry halfway around the world?”

Thia’s eyes go shiny with a sudden rush of tears, and I feel my anger flash, stunned that a father could be so unfeeling. “Actually,” I say casually as I fill my bowl, “the Red Cross sends regular food shipments to the hospital where Anson works, and they’ve turned all the flower beds into vegetable gardens so they can grow their own tomatoes.”

Owen gives me a hard look. “My son wrote that he met you at this hospital, but not much more. Were you a nurse there?”

“No, not a nurse. I was a volunteer.”

“A volunteer. What does that mean?”

“We looked after the men’s needs.”

He regards me frostily over his soup spoon. “Indeed.”

I ignore his tone and the unspoken suggestion that there was something inappropriate in the work I did. He was wounded himself in the first war. He knows very well what volunteers do. “We fed the men who couldn’t feed themselves, bathed them, read to them, helped them write letters home.”

“Very admirable, I’m sure. And so lucky for our boys. Tell me, how did you and my son become . . . friends?”

Friends.

I bristle at the word, clearly chosen to diminish my relationship with Anson. But before I can open my mouth to respond, Thia jumps in. “Oh, I know this! She got sick on her first day at the hospital, and Anson helped her.”