Chapter Twenty-seven
Gillian had spent much ofthe time since Artemis and Charlie’s departure in her garden. Autumn had descended, rendering it a tapestry of warm and inviting colors. She spent hours there, alternately tending the garden and simply enjoying the peaceful atmosphere.
On one particularly sunny afternoon, she sat on a bench and carefully unfolded a letter that had arrived for her from Nottinghamshire.
My darling Gillian,
We have begun the dispiriting task of closing up Sarvol House. By the time this letter reaches you, I imagine fewer than five rooms will still be in use, most of the windows on the back will have been boarded over, and my faithful team of horses and the traveling coach that brought me to you will have been sold. I’m grateful Mr. Layton suggested leaving a couple of guest chambers open. Passing them and seeing them more or less ready to receive guests feels like a promise, a whisper of hope in the midst of difficulties.
Sarah and Harold took supper here last evening, along with the dowager countess. Toss gave me a thorough dressing down for not having appreciated the family I have nearby, something I have vowed to rectify. The meal was both a pleasant and a difficult one. I confessed to them the full state of everything, the enormity of what I’m facing, and the years of struggle that lie ahead. And they have sworn to be with me through it all.
I wish I had answers and solutions to your difficulties with your father. More than anything, I wish I were there with you. I wish I could hold you when you felt alone, reassure you when you felt discouraged. I’ve struggled so long with wondering why my mother doesn’t write to me,why she doesn’t seem to want to be part of my life. With one simple declaration, Sarah offered me peace on that score. She has come to the conclusion that our mother doesn’t care to write letters. I had always assumed she didn’t care about me. I don’t honestly know which is true, but I am choosing to embrace the possibility that the heartache I have felt wasn’t my fault. That has helped.
I wish I could say that the retrenchment I am undertaking has magically put my finances in such a position that I am flying to County Durham even as we speak. Barring something I have not anticipated, it will be as Mr. Layton predicted: years. I feel less alone facing that difficult future than I did before though. The one thing that would make this entirely endurable would be for you to be here with me.
I miss you, my Gillian. I miss talking with you, holding your hand. I miss the mischief I sometimes saw in your eyes as well as the compassion. Please know that I think of you every day. The promise of one day being reunited is the greatest motivator I can think of to endure the privations that lie ahead.
Somehow, we will weather this storm. Somehow, the estate will be set to rights and our scheme for short-term tenancy at Thimbleby will be realized. Somehow, an answer to the difficulties surrounding your father will prove a surmountable obstacle. All of this will come to be, somehow, and we will be together.
Think of me, as I will be thinking of you.
With all my love,
Yours, etc.,
Scott
Somehow. It was the word she felt woven into every thought of him and every thought of their future. She didn’t know howthey could possibly find an answer to all their difficulties, but she chose to believe there was hope, just as Mr. Layton’s late wife had said. But that hope seemed forever out of reach.
Before she left, Artemis had suggested that Gillian talk with her father, tell him how she felt and what she was worried about, that perhaps he had answers that she didn’t. She couldn’t imagine he did.
But maybe it wasn’t about answers. Scott had felt as alone as she did and, in sharing his worries, had discovered he had more family and more support than he’d realized. There was healing in that. And heaven knew, Gillian needed healing.
She rose from her bench, intending to return to the house and begin penning a letter to Scott. But she’d not gone more than a few steps when she caught sight of her father. He appeared to have been speaking with the gardener, who was now leaving the garden and making his way toward his house on the grounds.
Here was an unlooked-for opportunity. There was no one about other than her father. He did not appear rushed. It was a chance to talk with him, to ask him some of the things that had been on her mind for seven years. It was a chance to be heard.
With her heart pounding a nervous rhythm, she hurried her steps and met him on the garden path.
“Miss Phelps.” He did not speak quite as indifferently as he once had, but neither did he sound enthusiastic to see her.
If Scott had the fortitude to close up his entire home and face hardship for years, she could summon the courage for a conversation, one that likely would pain her but was desperately needed.
“Have you a moment?” she asked. “There’s no one else in the garden, no one to overhear, and I need to talk. With my father,” she added. She could see the familiar hesitancy in his expression, the look that always came right before he closed himself off entirely. She spoke again, quickly. “I will follow youaround for days on end, if need be. I’ve needed to talk to my father for seven years. Please.”
A touch of sadness entered his eyes. “The last time we attempted a conversation, it angered you.”
“I was more hurt than angry,” she said.
“I’ve seen that hurt expression before,” he said. “I shouldn’t have been surprised to see it spill over.”
It wasn’t an admission of havingcausedthat hurt, but it was a step closer to the conversation she’d needed to have with him for so long.
“Do you know that most of Society thinks I’m an orphan? I haven’t bothered to correct them. I’ve tried to think of a better description of my situation, but I don’t know that there is one. Except that only one of my parents left me against her will. The other I lost because he chose to go.”
He clasped his hands behind his back, still the perfect picture of a butler. “I lived most of my life as part of Society. I know who and what they are. I knew what it would mean for you and your future if it was known that I was earning my living. It is a ridiculous thing they require: that we have money and means and an income, but working to earn that which either hasn’t been handed to us or which life snatched away is unforgivable. It’s a paradox I couldn’t avoid, nor did I wish to punish you with it.”
“Do you not think losing my father without warning felt like punishment?”