Quincy. The sudden urge to lay her head on his broad chest nearly overwhelmed her. How wonderful it would be to stop fighting against those painful memories. She was so very tired of that never-ending battle.
But she couldn’t. Not ever. If she did allow it to escape, she might never rein it back in again.
She stepped away from him, gifting him with a bright smile that felt brittle on her lips even as her heart ached at the loss of his hands on her. “Of course I’m well. The dust affected me, that’s all. I was trying to escape before it caused me to sneeze.” She peered over his shoulder. “Where have the others gone?”
An expression much like frustration passed through his eyes before they cleared. “Phoebe dragged Margery off to the kitchens, and Peter and Lenora have taken to exploring the drawing room.”
“I’ll find them, then,” she said, trying to move past him.
His hand caught hers. “Clara—”
“I’m fine,” she said hastily.
“No, you’re not.”
She heaved a sigh, closing her eyes against the urge to confide in him. “I’m fine,” she repeated, rearranging her features into pleasant calm.
He peered down at her, that same frustration rearing again. “If you’re certain.”
“I am. Now,” she said, “I think I’ve had enough of this part of the house to know it’s all bedrooms and sitting rooms and such. I’ll leave the rest to you to explore. My favorite part was the greenhouse; I’ll go there.”
“I’ll go with you.”
She wanted to scream at him to leave her in peace. Instead she smiled, tilting her head in acquiescence, taking his arm when he offered it.
The back garden, when they finally reached it, was just as bad as she’d feared. The meandering paths had been swallowed up by vegetation, the beautiful rosebushes choked by weeds and vines. She paused at her first sight of it, swallowing back her gasp of dismay.
But it would be restored, she told herself bracingly. Quincy would sell it to someone who would bring it back from the purgatory it was in. It was her one solace in all this, that the house and gardens would find a new life.
“This will take some work,” Quincy muttered beside her. “But there’s a good base to it, I’m thinking.” He pointed off to the side. “There’s a sunken garden there, rosebushes with some life in them hidden in this bramble, a nice tree line ahead. I’m betting, with some care and love, this garden will find itself again.”
His words were calm and certain, helping to quiet her despair. And suddenly she saw it, too; that under the ruin was still a thing of beauty. That if only someone would take the time, it would blossom. She tightened her fingers in his wool sleeve, grateful now that he’d come with her. “Yes,” she replied quietly. “I do think you’re right.”
He smiled down at her, and it was like the sun emerging from behind a heavy cloud. “Let’s find that greenhouse, shall we?”
Chapter 13
He should be focusing on the outer condition of the house, he thought as he and Clara tramped through the overgrown garden. The price he managed to get from it would be determined in no small part by the state of the building, after all. And the more funds that were brought in from the sale, the more it would benefit him.
But all he could seem to think about was how relieved he was to be out of it. There was something unnerving about the house that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It wasn’t an unease so much as a…recognition?
It was ridiculous that there could be a familiarity about the place. He hadn’t even known about it, much less ever stepped foot in it. But there was the constant feeling in his belly that there was something missing, a kind of ache.
He breathed deep, hoping to clear his head. No doubt it was merely his disquiet over Miss Willa Brandon. What had she been to his father, that he had bought a house on the Isle and allowed her to live out her days? Had she truly been his mistress as Lady Tesh had implied? Why did that idea hurt so much?
And how would it change his memories of his father when he finally learned the truth?
To him his father had always been all that was good, never capable of hurting a soul. And the thought of him hiding a woman away to use at his pleasure, no matter how ill suited he’d been with the duchess, sat wrong on him. Surely it couldn’t be true.
“Quincy, are you well?”
Clara. He let the calming effect of her quiet voice wash over him. Time enough to think of Miss Brandon later. Or perhaps not at all. Mayhap it was best if he never learned who she had been to his father.
He smiled. “I’m well. Sorry, my mind must have wandered.”
She nodded, turning her attention back to the blanket of leaves under their feet. Yet he didn’t miss the tense lines at the corners of her eyes, proof that she was not as tranquil as she’d have him believe.
That faint air of sadness had hung about her all morning. He frowned. No, it had started last night, when he’d first mentioned Swallowhill. Was it the house then? What upset her about it? She’d mentioned coming here with her mother; could that be what pained her?