The Art of Inheriting Secrets(95)

“Do you still ride?”

“When I can. The past five years, he’s needed my attention.”

“Sounds like you’re both very lucky.”

“He’s been so alive since you arrived, Olivia.”

Tears stung the back of my eyes, but I didn’t feel I had the right to let them show, and I lowered my lashes to hide the emotion. “He’s very dear.”

We waited in more silence for another hour until the doctor came out looking grim. I’d already known he would likely not survive, but that expression sealed it. I felt I was again back in that hospital in San Francisco, where my mother had not survived the pneumonia that she’d known, given her cancer, would kill her. “He’s conscious,” the doctor said. “But he hasn’t much time. You can see him, one at a time.”

“What bloody difference does it make if he’s dying?” Alex blustered, standing to his full six-foot-three.

“Hospital rules,” the doctor replied mildly. He gripped Alex’s arm just above the elbow, as if bracing him.

“You go,” Alex said to Claudia. She hurried away.

We sat down. My phone buzzed, and I glanced at it. Samir had texted. Is he all right?

I texted back: No. I will call in a bit.

I’ll fetch you when you’re ready, any time. Just ring.

Thank you.

“Boyfriend?” Alex said.

I never liked the word “boyfriend” for grown men, but it was too much trouble to come up with any other description. I nodded.

“The thatcher, is it?”

I raised my eyebrow, suddenly feeling like my grandmother. “None of your business.”

He half grinned. “You’re right. My uncle’s been on about it. ‘I like the lad well enough,’” he growled in a fair imitation of the earl, “‘but the girl has no idea what she needs in a marriage.’”

I laughed. “I’ve heard the same.”

“The match he wanted is between the two of us.” Alex scraped a thumbnail along the seam of his hiking pants. I could see the grizzled shine of unshaved beard along his jaw. “But I’m sure you’ve already realized that’s impossible.”

“I had never given it any thought. Are you married already?”

“No, no. Just quite thoroughly gay.”

“Ah!” I laughed. “That would be problematic.”

Claudia joined us. “He wants you, Olivia.”

“Go,” Alex said.

“Sure?” I stood, but uncertainly.

He nodded, gestured with one giant hand.

George was connected to nothing, and I realized that he would want it that way. His breath was shallow and uneven, his color quite gray. I took his hand. “Leaving so soon?”

A twitch of his lips, and he squeezed my fingers. “Thank . . . you . . . Olivia,” he managed. “Save . . . Rosemere.”

“I’ll try. I swear.”

His grip tightened infinitesimally. “No . . . try. Do.”

I grinned. “Okay, Yoda.”

“Kiss,” he whispered, pointing to his cheek.

With a deep breath against showing my sadness, I gladly kissed him. “Thank you. I’m so grateful you’ve looked out for me.”

His eyes closed. “Alex.”

I let go and went to find him.





Chapter Twenty-Two

I left Claudia and Alex and headed out into the street to walk. I didn’t call Samir or anyone else. I only walked, up one street and down another, not caring when a light drizzle began to fall, soaking my hair. The rain hid my tears.

As I walked, my mother walked with me. She was in the sensible shoes of the women with their net bags, and in the window of the bookshop where I saw another of our book club selections, I spied her tan raincoat, a thousand years old and still in perfect condition, because she took care of things. The earl was gone, and I would miss him, grieve him, but it was my mother’s loss I felt in the cold rain of that English afternoon. I wanted to talk to her just one more time.

When the rain began to fall with more intent, I ducked into a Costa and ordered a latte for the first time since I’d arrived in England. The frothy milk and strong coffee braced me, and when I had finished, I found I could call Samir for a ride. “I don’t exactly know where I am,” I said apologetically. “Let me ask the barista.”

“Are you all right?”

“No,” I said and blinked back a new rush of tears. “I’m heartbroken.”

“As you should be. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Traffic will be heavy.”

From my purse, I took my sketchbook and flipped through it. Here was a small record of my time in England. The lemon chicken soup at the earl’s, the strawberries I had bought after tasting them at Helen’s, a page full of spices tumbling down in a diagonal line, star anise and cardamom pods, cumin seed and coriander.

When I got to a clean page, I started sketching from memory my mother’s kitchen. The windows overlooking her garden, the backsplash she’d always hated and never replaced, the curtains. I’d taught myself to cook in that kitchen because my mother was hopeless and had never learned to like it.

On the opposite page, I sketched her face. The pointed chin, the smooth swing of her hair, the big eyes, so full of secrets. Until a new tear splashed on the page, I didn’t realize I was weeping again, but I had no way to stop it, so I only turned my back to the room and faced the rainy day through the window and drew, feeling as if I might actually die myself from the weight of my sorrow.