“He is sleeping.” Gillian bent over the bed. “It is very late.”
“I’d like . . . to see him . . . again.”
Scotthadsaid to send for him if he was needed. But Gillian hated to ask more of him.
“Please,” Mrs. Brownlow rasped out. “It is . . . important.”
Gillian looked to her father. For just a moment, she let herself believe she would see some lingering remorse over the chasm that existed between them. All she saw was a very stolid and loyalbutler.
Always.
“Please have Mr. Sarvol roused and asked to come here,” she said, feeling herself giving up on her father all over again. “Quickly, if you will.”
He answered with the same bow he always did, whether accepting a task from her or Mrs. Brownlow or the rare visitor to the estate. And then he slipped out.
She hadn’t the strength to let herself hope that things would change between them someday. Now and then, she would convince herself he was about to let his butler’s mien slip. But he never did. He was and always would be Mr. Walker. And there was no room for her in Mr. Walker’s life.
And that broke her heart over and over again.
To herself as much as to Mrs. Brownlow, she said, “I’ll watch for Mr. Sarvol, but I’ll only go as far as your sitting room.” She stepped from the bedchamber, hoping to regain her composure before returning to Mrs. Brownlow’s bedside.
Scott was there mere moments later. He wore a robe de chambre over his shirtsleeves and trousers, so he’d not entirely retired for the night and must not have been asleep.
Her father did not return with him.
“I am sorry to disrupt your rest,” Gillian said.
“You don’t need to apologize, I assure you.” His brows pulled sharply as he looked at her. “You’ve been crying.”
She intended to dismiss that, to insist he needn’t be concerned. But instead, a sob rose from the broken bits of her heart. “Oh, Scott. What am I going to do?”
He set his arms around her. “I’m sorry, Gillian. I should have stayed here with you. This isn’t something you should be facing alone.”
She leaned against him. “I face most things alone.”
“What can I do?” he asked kindly, gently.
Her own father had been distant and indifferent. But this gentleman, whom she’d forced into a situation she knew he didn’t like, was being thoughtful and kind and caring. She wanted to stay here, comforted by his embrace, and let some of her burdens ease for a moment. The heavens knew she needed it. But Mrs. Brownlow had sent for him. Gillian couldn’t let herself be selfish.
“Mrs. Brownlow sent for you.” She took a step back, instantly missing his embrace.
Scott nodded and stepped past her and through the door to Mrs. Brownlow’s bedchamber. Gillian followed a few steps behind.
He crossed to the bedside and sat on the edge, as he’d done earlier in the evening. Gillian stopped a pace away. Mrs. Brownlow was pale. Her eyes were open but only just.
Scott took the frail lady’s hand. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Brownlow?”
“Gillian . . . has a . . . good heart.”
“Yes, she does.”
“And she is . . . stubborn.”
His amused eyes shifted to Gillian for the briefest of moments. “Is she?”
“She will . . . inherit . . . some—” Mrs. Brownlow breathed with some difficulty.
“Take your time,” Scott said. “I can sit here as long as you need.”