"I’ll miss him. He was the wisest man I ever met. In that, I’ll never surpass him."
"I’ll miss him, too. I’m missing him now." Tears glazed her eyes, and her voice thickened. She fisted her hands in her lap and set her elegant jaw against losing control.
It hurt to watch her. "Why don’t you cry, Emily? You’ve been so brave."
At the funeral, she hadn’t shed a tear. He’d wished to God that she would. Her constrained sorrow seemed almost unnatural, and he feared the toll her proud suffering would exact on her.
"I’ve cried enough."
"You’ve cried enough when you no longer need to cry."
"Your soup is getting cold," she said.
He cast the bowl a dismissive glance. "I don’t want it. Have you eaten?"
"I’ll have a tray sent up to my room later."
Food she wouldn’t eat, he knew, even if she brought herself to request a meal. "I could ring for something now."
Irritation shadowed her expression. "I’m not hungry. Don’t fuss."
Their fleeting rapport evaporated. "I wish I could do something to help, Emily," he said, surveying her heavy eyes and pallid complexion.
He had a sudden poignant memory of how she’d looked that night at Greenwich in her blue dress. She’d been so alive and vibrant. It wasn’t just her father’s illness and death that oppressed her bright spirit. Her marriage provided no joy.
She watched him with an unreadable stare. "Yes, there is something you can do."
That was a surprise. He stood up, desperate to be of use.
"Anything." He meant it.
Emily twined her hands together in her lap. "You can leave me alone."
A silence crashed down like an avalanche. Hamish told himself he shouldn’t feel hurt. After all, he already knew his presence grated on her.
"I…see."
"I want…I want a bit of privacy. I want to feel that nobody is watching me and judging me. I want quiet and space to grieve for my father."
It was the longest speech she’d directed at Hamish since her father’s death.
Having promised to abide by her wishes, he had no choice but to obey. He bowed to her. "Then it shall be as you wish, Emily."
His voice was gentle, but his heart was heavy as he left the library to silence, a bowl of cold soup, and a lonely mourner.
***
The next morning, Emily slept late. Since her father’s death, she slept more than half of every day away and woke wondering when she could seek oblivion again. She’d spent so long with one ear open for her father’s call, that now he was gone, long-term exhaustion caught up with her. But all this sleep never left her refreshed.
A soft knock at the bedroom door. Upon her greeting, Polly entered bearing a tray. "Good morning, my lady. Do you feel like some breakfast today?"
Emily didn’t, but she was sick to death of drifting around the house like a wraith. She sat up against the pillows. Everybody had been very tolerant – including Hamish to whom tolerance didn’t come easily – but it was time she stiffened her backbone and took charge of her life. She’d never cease to miss her father, but he’d be horrified to think his passing had left her a complete wreck.
"Yes, I do," she said with an attempt at brightness. The unmasked relief in Polly’s smile was indication enough that Emily needed to stop worrying everyone.
"That’s grand," the maid said, carefully placing the tray over Emily’s knees.
While Polly crossed to open the curtains, Emily began to butter a roll. There was a plate of eggs and bacon as well, but the sight of cooked food made her empty stomach heave.