“Take your time and get to know a bit more about him. If he’s been your uncle these past years, he’ll keep being your uncle moving forward. Rushing won’t change that.”
Mrs. Simms was wise. He’d long ago realized as much.
Just as he was making his way to where Mr. Snelling stood, another knock sounded at the door. Barnabus was seldom this busy late into the evening. Mrs. Simms gave a quick nod, indicating she would see to it. She was gone only long enough forBarnabus to invite Snelling to have a seat. She returned with a note in hand.
“This arrived for you, Doc. The one delivering it seemed to think it was urgent.” She held it out to him.
He unfolded the note, then read silently.
We need to talk about Gemma. Come by as soon as you’re able.
—Brogan
It was too vague for his peace of mind. Brogan wasn’t one for brevity. There had to be a reason he wasn’t saying anything specific. Was Gemma in trouble? Ill? Maybe she was ready to come home. Or maybe she was leaving London early. The idea clutched at his heart.
But here, in his house, was a man who might be family to him, who might embrace that role long after Gemma decided to move on.
Two people. Two shaky futures. Two uncertain paths.
“I told you all there was no point writing to Barnabus.” Gemma pushed back her frustration and clung instead to the fact that she’d predicted his absence.
“Give the lad some time,” Brogan said, sitting on the floor in front of the chair Vera sat in, wrapping her right foot in cold, wet cloths. Vera’s injuries from the explosive fire at her shop included a regular swelling in her foot. “He has a bit of a journey to get here, after all.”
She had made that journey. On foot, even. He could easily have arrived by now if he’d wanted to.
“He’ll be here,” Brogan said. “Reliable as the sun, he is.”
“But for half the day, the sun’s gone, i’n’it?”
Móirín pointed at her brother. “She has you there.”
“The sun always returns just when it’s meant to,” Vera answered.
Brogan pointed at Móirín. “She has you there.”
The room laughed. Gemma liked that there was always laughter about the Donnellys’ home.
Vera’s laugh turned into a cough, and it broke Gemma’s heart knowing that her friend was always in some degree of pain. Her injuries were not simple, nor were they few.
Brogan was attentive but never suffocating, tender but never condescending. He and Vera treated each other as treasured equals, as sources of strength, as each other’s beloved. What would that be like? Baz had never been unkind to her; she simply didn’t have claim on his heart, and that stung.
He doesn’t know how to bridge the gap.Could she?
“I think he’ll be here,” Móirín said.
“He is very busy.” If she lowered all their expectations, she’d not be humiliated when she was proven correct.
“If you can’t trust that he’ll be concerned enough as your husband to come here,” Brogan said, “trust him as Barnabus Milligan, the man who has almost single-handedly rescued, at last count, over two hundred women and girls from a horrible fate at the hands of London’s macks and madams.”
“I trust him as both,” Gemma said. “But it ain’t that simple.”
A knock sounded.
Every eye in the room turned to her. Gemma’s heart pounded a rhythm of anticipation even as her mind raked her over the coals for letting herself hope.
Móirín stood. “Place your bets,fir agus mná. We’ll know soon enough who’s knocking on our door.”
“Fir agus mná?” Gemma did her best to recreate the unfamiliar words.