Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(44)

Humphrey had neglected his children. He had not loved them. She had always thought he was scarcely aware of their existence. Sometimes, when she and they were at Hinsford and he was elsewhere—London, Brighton, or wherever he went during his frequent absences—he would not return home or even write for weeks on end. He missed first steps and first teeth and birthdays. She wondered if Marcel’s neglect of his children was of that nature, but suspected it was not. Perhaps that was because she did not want to believe that his neglect stemmed from indifference. She wanted to believe that there was a person hidden behind the handsome, harsh, often cynical exterior that had so captivated her.

Perhaps it was just that she needed to believe there was. For her own sake. Perhaps she needed to believe that he was not without all heart, as she had always thought. She had flung aside everything she had believed of herself in order to come here with him for a few intense weeks of . . . love.

Nothing to do but love.

“There are always things to do,” she said. “Reading, painting, sketching, making music, conversing, writing, taking the air, sewing, embroidering.”

“And making love,” he said.

“And making love.” She smiled. Ah, how was she going to do without when this was over? How had she done without for most of her adult life?

“Taking the air?” He shuddered. “Is it not enough that you insist upon sleeping with an open window? Or is that what you meant by taking the air?”

“No,” she said. “I meant walking or riding or driving out. Yes, even in winter. Perhaps visiting neighbors and friends.”

“And yet,” he said, “you say the thought of winter’s approach makes you sad.”

It would be many times worse this year. She would be without him. Was she just needy? Or was she in love with him? Well, of course she was in love with him. But did she love him? There was a world of difference. How could she, though? He had given her precious little reason to love him. She really did not know him, and he was making good and sure that she never would.

She wondered if he was lonely.

“It is raining again,” he said, and she turned her head to look out through the window. “Even you cannot wish to go out in this.”

No. She had no boots. Besides, it was cold and windy and wet. Miserable. Yet cozy to look out upon.

“Your silence is ominous,” he said. “Please do not tell me the ferns are calling to you again, Viola. My instinct for gallantry would be put severely to the test. I suspect I would feel compelled to follow you out there.” He removed his hand from hers in order to finish his breakfast.

“I do not wish to go out,” she said.

They spent two full days indoors, enjoying the warmth of log and coal fires. They read—his great-aunt had been a reader and had left behind a whole wall of bookshelves in the writing room, all of them filled with books. They played cards with a faded deck they discovered in the writing desk. They even tried playing charades and kept it going for all of an hour before she collapsed in laughter and he told her she had lost the famed dignity he had always so admired and she threw a cushion at him. They talked. She told him about her childhood in Bath, incidents she had not thought of in years. He told her about various hair-raising exploits in which he had been a key player while at Oxford. She suspected the stories were much embellished, though perhaps not. And they were certainly amusing. They kissed, warmly and languidly, but never went beyond kisses, as either Mr. or Mrs. Prewitt was forever popping into the room after the most perfunctory of knocks, he to bring fresh coals for the fire, she to bring a constant supply of tea or coffee with biscuits or cakes or scones. She inevitably stayed to chat—or, rather, to deliver one of her monologues—while pouring their beverages and pressing food upon them.

Sometimes Viola dozed, his arm about her shoulders as they sat side by side on the sofa. He had told her he could never sleep unless he was horizontal on a bed, but once when she awoke his breathing was suspiciously deep, almost on the verge of a snore. She kept still and smiled into the fire while she indulged herself with one of those moments of total happiness.

They looked out at the valley and the weather. Or she did, at least, nestled on the window seat, her knees drawn up before her, her arms clasped about them—the sort of casual pose she had never before allowed herself. The valley was endlessly beautiful, even when clouds hung over it and wind and rain lashed it.

What if she . . . What if they lived here all the time, though? Would she continue to be enthralled by it all? Or would it become tedious and confining? But never that, surely. She could be happy here forever. But—cut off from all she knew? From everyone she knew?

And she was assailed by a stabbing of fear bordering upon terror for Harry. And by a dull ache of love for her daughters. Was Camille still going outdoors barefoot? Was Abigail still enjoying being in Bath? And her grandchildren. Was Jacob sleeping for longer stretches at night yet? Had Winifred finished reading A Pilgrim’s Progress? And did she still feel the need to summarize each chapter for anyone willing to listen? Oh, Viola was always, always willing to listen. Did Sarah still like to be cuddled? Was there a letter from Harry?

A hand closed warmly about her shoulder, and she covered it with one of her own and turned her head to smile up at him.

“What a marvelous invention glass is,” he said. “One can observe the inclemency of the outdoors while enjoying all the comforts of the indoors.”