“I’m not certain how they are related,” Scott said. “From all I’ve heard, though, Mrs. Brownlow is the only family she has.”
“As much as I sometimes wish my family to hades, I’d be devastated if I lost all of them.”
Sorrow rolled over Scott like a cold wave. “I don’t recommend it.”
Toss looked away from the window and directly at him. “You have your sister still.”
“I don’t see her as often as I’d like.”
Toss seemed unimpressed. “And what do you intend to do about that?”
“Me?”
His new friend—Scott was still a bit shocked that after two years of meeting no one, he now claimed several new friends—slapped a hand on his shoulder and gave him a theatrically sage look. “I realize having her living within walking distance of your home at the vicarage of the chapel you attend nearly every Sunday is an enormous obstacle for you to overcome, but I have faith in your ability to find a solution to your lack of interaction with your sister. Somehow, you’ll stumble on the elusive answer.”
Scott shook his head and walked back to his bed. “Sarah has created a new life for herself. I’m not going to impose on her and Harold.”Nothing but a burden.He would not prove yet another of his uncle’s declarations true at Sarah’s expense.
Toss leaned against the window frame, looking at Scott. “Does Sarah love you?”
“She’s my sister. Of course she does.”
“Firstly, not all people love their siblings.” Toss spoke as one who knew. “Secondly, if she does love you, which I suspect she actually does, having you in her life wouldn’t be an imposition.”
“Shedoesn’t come seemeeither. Not often.” Scott sat, exhausted to his core. “My sister doesn’t visit. My mother doesn’t write. My father doesn’t send me any of the heavenly advice I plead for.” He rubbed at his forehead. “So, no, I don’t recommend losing your entire family.”
“I won’t argue that losing your father isn’t a painful thing. Mine died almost five years ago, and I still miss him every day. And your mother not writing to you is a blow no one would reasonably expect to not pierce you. But, Scott, maybe you’re not finding family because you’re not looking in the right places.”
Toss walked from the room, not in a huff or upset but with a slow step that spoke of grief and regret. Scott felt a fair bit of both himself. But he also felt the tiniest sparkle of something he hadn’t in a long time.
He felt the first stirrings of hope.
Chapter Ten
The journey from Brier Hillwas passing in a blur. Gillian remembered little of her departure beyond hugs from the Huntresses and expressions of sincere condolence from the gentlemen. Both were welcome, but what she really longed for was her father—the father he’d been before Houghton Manor.
Scott had been as good as his word. When it had been decided that there was no point in leaving until the morning, thus avoiding the need to spend a night on the road, he had seen to every necessary preparation. He had consulted with his coachman and the butler regarding the preparation of the traveling coach. He had discussed the time of their departure with Artemis so an early breakfast could be arranged. All had been in readiness, allowing them to begin their journey without delay.
Miles and miles passed without either of them speaking. She had been lost in her thoughts. He had occupied the hours with writing letters, not something most people could do in a moving carriage. His portable writing desk seemed especially well equipped for the endeavor, a sign he’d often passed journeys in just such a way.
“I fear I have not adequately thanked you for all you’ve done since this journey was proposed yesterday,” she said. “I do appreciate it. Were I not so overwhelmed, I might be better at expressing my gratitude.” To her horror, tears trickled once more. She dabbed at them with the handkerchief she hadn’t bothered putting away all day. “The only thing I seem to do is cry.”
He looked up from his letter. To her relief, he didn’t seem annoyed at the interruption. “I assure you, there’s no need to apologize. When my father died, I don’t think I stopped crying for weeks. I still sometimes grow teary thinking of him.”
“I lost my mother ten years ago.”
She often received looks of pity when she shared that. From Scott, she received absolute soul-deep empathy. They belonged to the same unwanted fraternity of children who had lost a parent far too young.
“That is a very painful variety of grief,” he said.
It was indeed.
“From the way you speak of Mrs. Brownlow, I have begun to suspect she has held something of a motherly role in your life.”
Gillian nodded. “She has.”
“The dowager countess and I have that same connection. She, in fact, is the one to whom I am currently penning a letter.”
“That is not the only letter you’ve written during this journey. I cannot fathom how you manage to do it without the jostling of the carriage rendering your penmanship a disaster.”