"I know you are." Anastasia blinked away her tears. "Now let's go inside. We have a decade to catch up on."
As if on cue, Wells stepped outside—an older, grayer Wells, perhaps, but Wells nonetheless, his sharp features softening as he gazed at Anastasia.
"Miss Stacie … forgive me, Lady Anastasia—welcome."
Anastasia abandoned the formalities and hurried up the steps to hug the elderly butler. "Thank you, Wells," she whispered, a tremor catching in her voice. "And I'm still Stacie. Everything else might have changed, but that's the same."
He chuckled, looking a bit misty-eyed. "I'm glad to hear that." He shook his head in wonder. "There's one other thing that hasn't changed. You and Miss Breanna still look too much alike to distinguish one of you from the other. It's startling. I remember your father saying he couldn't tell…" Wells's mouth snapped shut.
"It's all right," Anastasia told him gently. "Mentioning Papa doesn't make it hurt any more than it already does. Besides—" Her chin came up a notch as she sought the internal strength she'd come to count upon. "He's with Mama now. Which is precisely what he wanted."
"And you're with us." Breanna ascended the stairs, squeezed Anastasia's shoulders, and led her inside the house. "Let's get you settled. You must be exhausted. Mrs. Charles has made sure your room is all ready. We gave you the one right next to mine—so we can talk all night, just like we used to."
Anastasia stepped into the house, feeling a surge of warmth encompass her. It was like greeting a long-lost friend, or being enfolded in safe, loving arms. Medford Manor was precisely as she remembered it, its tasteful Oriental carpet running the full length of what had seemed to a child's eyes to be an endless hallway filled with paintings and flanked on either side by two elegant, winding staircases.
All that was missing was Grandfather.
Again, grief coiled in her stomach.
"It's just the same as it was then," Breanna told Anastasia, touching her arm gently. "Just as Grandfather would have wanted it."
"Yes. It is." Anastasia drank in every tiny beloved detail, a twinge of surprise accompanying the realization of just how true Breanna's statement was. "Actually, I thought Uncle George would have made a few changes, given that this is his home now and that he and Grandfather didn't exactly have similar taste. Or similar views, for that matter."
"The same honest Stacie," Breanna noted with fond amusement and perhaps a touch of awe. "You're right. They didn't. I suspect Father scarcely notices what the house looks like. Decorating doesn't interest him—business does."
"Breanna, you didn't tell me your cousin had arrived." George Colby interrupted their conversation, emerging from the sitting room and making his way slowly toward them. "Anastasia—welcome to Medford Manor."
Anastasia tensed a bit at the well-remembered patronizing tone, and her gaze darted over to study the man who was her father's twin.
She'd been almost afraid to see him again; afraid he'd remind her so much of her father that her loss would become impossible to bear. But that wasn't the case. Uncle George hadn't aged well. He was far grayer than her father had been, his face more lined, his shoulders stooped. And his eyes, though the same striking jade green hue as that of all the Colbys, were lackluster, devoid of the intelligent spark that had lit her father's eyes or the laughter and insight that had glistened in her grandfather's.
The years had not been kind to her uncle. Then again, kindness was not a trait he valued—nor one he deserved.
"Thank you, Uncle George," she greeted him cautiously. "It's good to see you. And I'm very grateful to you for inviting me to stay here."
He nodded, surveying her with a cool, assessing look. "I wouldn't have it any other way. After all, you shouldn't be alone—not at a time like this, and certainly not in a strange country. Not when you have family right here in England to help ease your loss." He cleared his throat. "I trust your journey was uneventful?"
"It was tiring, but fine." She realized he was making an attempt at polite conversation. Still, she couldn't help feeling as if he were delivering a rehearsed speech, and she were responding in kind.
"Stacie's exhausted, Fath
er." Breanna spoke in that same measured, respectful tone she'd used as a child. "I'd like to show her to her room, perhaps let her rest awhile."
"Yes, of course." The viscount gestured toward the second level. "Go ahead. Wells will see that your bags are brought up. Luncheon will be served promptly at two."
"Thank you," Anastasia murmured, already heading toward the stairs. She was tired, yes, but she was also eager to see her new room, to spend time with Breanna.
To find a place for herself again.
Waiting for Breanna to catch up, Anastasia ascended the steps, rounding the second-floor landing and following her cousin down the corridor to the fourth room on the right.
"I hope you like it," Breanna said, waving her into her new chambers. "Gold and green used to be your favorite colors. I hope they still are."
"They are," Anastasia assured her, smiling at the sight of the drapes and bedcovers, both a deep green brocade, and the floral needlepoint hanging over the canopied bed—a path of goldenrods amid a tree-lined grove. "Oh, Breanna, it's lovely."
"I wanted to do more. I also wanted to meet you at the ship. But there's only so much Father will allow…" Breanna's voice trailed off, and she shut the door behind them. "Anyway, feel free to decorate any way you choose," she continued. "From this moment on, it's your room."
Anastasia dropped onto the edge of the bed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she assessed the chambers. "My room. At Medford Manor. It's hard to believe." She studied her cousin with compassionate awareness. "Don't give another thought to not having met me at the ship. I know Uncle George too well to have contemplated the notion. Oh, he's being very solicitous. Still—" Her voice dropped to a mock baritone. "—'Breanna, you didn't tell me your cousin had arrived' and 'luncheon will be served promptly at two.'" She rolled her eyes. "Something tells me he hasn't changed a bit."