“Did he say anything else in his letter?” Gillian asked.
Pure devilment filled Mrs. Brownlow’s expression. Gillian hadn’t seen that in a long time. “He did, indeed.”
That was intriguing. “What did he write to you?”
“Personal correspondence is precisely that, Gillian: personal.” Mrs. Brownlow laughed. “I will tell you, though, I like him even more now than I did before I received his letter, and that is saying something.”
“Well, when he writes tome, I won’t share my letters with you.” Gillian pretended to be quite put out with Mrs. Brownlow.
“Did he say he would write to you?” she asked.
“He did,” she said. “We won’t see each other for quite some time, but he promised to write. And I know he won’t forget.”
Mrs. Brownlow’s gaze softened further. “You trust him.”
“I do.” And she meant it.
“I’m glad. You’ve struggled with that since—” Mrs. Brownlow’s eyes darted to the doorway.
Gillian looked back in that direction. Her father stood just inside the doorway, pulling the door closed behind him.
“Were you in need of something, Mr. Walker?”
He stepped farther in. Something was different in his demeanor. His air was more open, more personal. “Do you not trust me, Gillian?”
That was not at all what she’d expected him to say or ask. “A butler is generally trusted.”
“I do not mean as a butler,” he said.
Every inch of her spine stiffened. Years of hurt returned in an instant. “‘I am Mr. Walker, Miss Phelps. Do not forget that.’ You’ve been telling me that since I was fourteen years old. And I assure you I haven’t forgotten.”
“I could not risk discovery.”
She shook her head. “Even in this very room, with the door closed and only the two of us present, you still were Mr. Walker and I was Miss Phelps.”
“It is a potentially devastating secret,” Mrs. Brownlow said. “Caution was called for.”
Did even her beloved Mrs. Brownlow not understand the weight of this on Gillian’s mind and heart these past years? Did everyone but her think this had been perfectly acceptable?
“I carried this ‘potentially devastating secret’ alone, without my father to buoy me and comfort me when it was too much.” She looked from one of them to the other. “I have already lost my mother. I nearly lost you, Mrs. Brownlow. This secret has cost me my father, and it may very well cost me everything I’ve let myself dream of.” It might cost her a future with Scott. That was too much to bear. She crossed to the door and took hold of the handle. “At least I had a diligent butler,” she said dryly before stepping into the corridor and closing the door.
For seven years, she’d thought eventually telling her father that he’d caused her pain would ease the ever-present ache. It hadn’t.
She didn’t feel relieved or vindicated or understood.
More than anything, she felt sad.
Chapter Twenty-five
The after-dinner gathering that nightwas not a quiet affair, despite only four people being present. Artemis was always very social, and Mrs. Brownlow had regained her strength enough to be so as well. Charlie proved more than happy and more than able to keep pace with his wife. Gillian might have been more vocal if she didn’t feel as though the very ground beneath her was crumbling.
“I have a complaint to lodge.” Mrs. Brownlow spoke to Gillian quite without warning.
A complaint? Gillian had waited in worry for the repercussions of her unasked-for lecture that afternoon. “What is your complaint?”
“You have once again returned to Houghton Manor without a puppy.” She was teasing Gillian, not reprimanding her.
Relieved, at least temporarily, Gillian took up the jest. “I’ve brought Charlie. Does he not count?”