Yet, Gillian wished Mr. Walker would be even the tiniest bit less staid and unreachable. Even give a small smile that only she would see. Perhaps drably offer assurance that he would miss her, but with a bit of feeling in his eyes. Something. Anything.
“Safe travels, Miss Phelps.” He offered a very proper bow, slipped past her, and returned to the house.
Gillian summoned seven years’ worth of pretending that her heart wasn’t in a constant state of breaking, wasn’t lonely almost beyond words. Pretending that she didn’t long deeply, almost desperately for family. Pretending that she didn’t care whether her father wanted to be part of her life.
Pretending that her father wasn’t, in actuality, the rigid, apathetic butler.
Chapter Two
Nottinghamshire
Scott Sarvol had been amore consistent churchgoer in the last two years than he had ever been before. His sister had married the vicar of the parish where he now lived, making attendance at Sunday services a family affair. He’d also fallen on a tremendous amount of bad luck since coming to England from America. Placing himself firmly in a favorable position with heaven seemed a good idea, all things considered.
His sister, Sarah, and her husband were at the back door of the chapel, as always, offering farewells and well-wishes to the departing congregants. Scott’s turn arrived, and he pasted a smile on his face.
Harold, the vicar, greeted him warmly. Sarah, the ever-nosey sister, eyed him with all the pointedness of a Bow Street Runner sniffing out a great mystery. She was remarkably good at that.
“You look weighed down, Scott. Is anything amiss?”
Were he to answer honestly, he would have to say that nearly everything was amiss. But this was his weekly Sarah time. He seldom saw her now that she had her own home and family. He didn’t want his few moments with her to be anything but enjoyable. He wanted to be able to laugh with her like they used to do daily. “I fear the clotted cream I ate with my scone this morning might have been a bit spoiled.” He shook his head in a mock show of regret. “My days are likely now numbered.”
“They certainly will be if you continue lying to the wife of a vicar.” Sarah delivered the declaration sternly, but there was laughter in her eyes. This pattern of teasing was well established between them. He’d missed it terribly.
He looked to Harold. “I noticeyouhaven’t been struck down by divine retribution yet.”
“That is because I have never lied to my wife,” Harold replied without missing a beat.
Scott took a step back, eyeing the sky with theatrical misgiving. “Watching for lightning,” he whispered to his sister, as if letting her in on a great secret.
“Off with you,” Sarah said, shooing him away. Family time was to be exceptionally short this week, it seemed. He could hardly blame Sarah. She’d once been as lonely as he was now, but she had her own family to fill that void.
He dipped them a quick farewell and made his way up the path leading away from the chapel, letting his jovial expression slide back into the weary one he wore when no one else was around.
In the two years since inheriting the Sarvol estate, Scott had dug ever deeper into the state of things, only to discover the estate was insolvent. Without an influx of funds, he didn’t know what he would do. The house was entailed and, therefore, could not be sold. There was one other piece of property included in the inheritance, but he did not yet know the state of it. All he’d been able to learn was that it, too, could not be sold and that it had not been lived in for some time, which meant it likely was in disrepair and, therefore, could not be made a source of income by leasing it. He might also place Sarvol House into tenancy, but it needed work to be ready for such a thing, work for which he hadn’t sufficient funds.
His uncle had repeatedly predicted this. “I am wasting my dying breaths pretending I can make a success out of a born failure.”
A born failure.That had stung more than Scott had ever let on.
“Your father might not have been a disaster ifhehad inherited. It remains to be seen if heraiseda disaster.”
That had stung more. If the Sarvol estate fell to ruin under Scott’s watch, it would not merely reflect on himself. His father’s legacy would be tainted. He loved his father far too much toallow that to happen, no matter what it took. He would run himself ragged first, exhaust all his options.
But his efforts never proved enough. The disaster simply grew.
“You’ll sink this estate in only a few years,” Uncle had spat at him almost daily. “And no one will be the least surprised.”
How Scott wanted to prove him wrong, to surprise people in the best way. But, then, he wanted a great many impossible things: the easy closeness he’d once had with his sister, money enough to solve his estate woes, feeling as if he belonged in this country where he’d not grown up, a simple letter from his mother, his father alive and beside him to help him know what to do.
“Scott!”
He turned at the sound of his name and discovered, to his delight, the Dowager Countess of Lampton moving in his direction. The dowager had been his most faithful correspondent in the years he’d been away and his most dependable source of encouragement and acceptance now that he had made this area of the kingdom his home. She was known as “Mater” to all she had brought into her circle. He was deeply grateful to be included in that number.
“Have your boys abandoned you?” he asked, already knowing the answer. The Jonquil brothers wouldneverunder any circumstances neglect their mother. To even suggest as much to any of them would likely result in a broken nose. Mater, however, would know Scott was teasing.
“I remained behind, hoping to have a moment with you.”
That pleased him more than she knew. He’d expected to be as alone after Sunday services as he always was. “I fear I cannot offer to bring you to Lampton Park in my carriage,” he said. “I chose to walk this morning.”