To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(35)

“How wonderful! And you must travel as well to visit these friends and explore yourself.”

He stared at her. Was she mocking him? “I never leave the castle.”

She stilled. “Truly? I know you like the castle, but surely you must travel sometimes. What of your work?”

“I haven’t traveled since returning from the Colonies.” He could no longer meet those wide blue eyes, and he glanced away, watching the children play with the puppy by the door. “You know what I look like. You know why I stay here.”

“But…” Her brows knit before she took a step toward him, forcing him to meet her solemn gaze once more. “I know it must be hard to go out. I know people must stare. It must be awful. But to shut yourself up here forever… you don’t deserve such a punishment.”

“Deserve?” He felt his mouth twist. “The men who died in the Colonies didn’t deserve their deaths. My fate has nothing to do with whether or not I deserve it. It’s simply fact: I am scarred. I frighten little children and the sensitive. Therefore, I stay in this castle.”

“How can you bear to live the rest of your life thus?”

He shrugged. “I don’t think of the rest of my life. This is simply my fate.”

“The past can’t be changed. I understand that,” she said. “But can’t one accept the past and still continue to hope?”

“Hope?” He stared at her. She argued her case too intensely for it not to be personal in some way—but in what way he wasn’t certain. “I don’t understand your meaning.”

She leaned toward him, her blue eyes serious. “Don’t you think about the future? Plan for happy times? Strive to better your life?”

He shook his head. Her philosophy was entirely foreign to his way of thinking. “What point in planning for a future when my past will never change? I am not unhappy.”

“But are you happy?”

He turned to the door. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.” He felt her small hand at his arm. He swiveled to look at her again, so bright, so pretty. “How can you live your life without happiness, or even the hope of happiness?”

“Now I know you mock me,” he growled, and wrest his arm free.

He strode from the kitchen, deaf to her protest. He knew she didn’t have it in her to be so cruel, but her very honesty was in some ways more harsh than mocking laughter. How could he think of a future when he had none, when he’d given up all faith of one nearly seven years ago? Even the thought of resurrecting that optimism filled him with a kind of horror. No, better to flee the kitchen and his too-perceptive housekeeper than to face his own weakness.

HELEN WAS OUT front sweeping the step that afternoon when a rumbling made her look up. A great carriage and four was coming down the drive, and the sight was so strange—as she’d already become used to the castle’s isolation—that all she could do was stand there and gape for a moment. Then fear slammed her heart into her ribs. Dear God, had Lister found them?

By rights, Meg or Nellie should be sweeping the step, but the maids were busy turning over the first-floor sitting room. So she’d gone after the step herself following luncheon, maddened by the sight of the weeds growing between the cracks. Which left her standing in a rumpled apron armed only with a broom. She didn’t even have time to try and hide the children.

The carriage rolled majestically to a stop and a bewigged footman jumped down to set the step and open the door. A very tall lady emerged, bowing her head to clear the carriage roof. Helen nearly dropped to the ground in relief. The lady wore an elegant cream dress with a striped underskirt and a lace cap topped by a straw hat. Behind her was a shorter, plump lady, all in lavender and yellow with a great frilly cap and bonnet framing her jolly red face. The tall lady straightened and frowned at Helen through a pair of formidable and rather odd spectacles. They were large, entirely round, and had thick black frames with an X between the eye pieces.

“Who,” the woman said, “are you?”

Helen curtsied, rather well she thought, considering she was holding a broom. “I’m Mrs. Halifax, Sir Alistair’s new housekeeper.”

The tall lady raised her eyebrows skeptically and turned to her companion. “Did you hear that, Phoebe? Chit says she’s Alistair’s housekeeper. Does it seem likely to you that he’s hired a housekeeper?”

The shorter, plump lady shook out her skirts and smiled at Helen. “Since she said she’s the housekeeper, Sophie, and since she was sweeping the step as we arrived, I think we must assume that Alistair has indeed obtained a housekeeper.”

“Hmm,” was all the tall lady said to that. “You might as well show us in, girl. I doubt Alistair has a decent room, but we’re staying nonetheless.”

Helen felt her face warm. It’d been quite a while since she’d last been called a girl, but the lady didn’t seem to mean anything by it.

“I’m sure I can find something,” she said, not sure at all. If she set the maids to cleaning two of the spare rooms right away, they might be ready by nightfall. Might.

“Perhaps we ought to introduce ourselves,” the shorter lady murmured.

“Should we?” wondered her companion.

“Yes.” Was the firm reply.

“Very well,” the taller lady said. “I am Miss Sophia Munroe, Sir Alistair’s sister, and this is Miss Phoebe McDonald.”