As the day passed, her mystification grew. It was clear her husband was loved and greatly missed here; she could see it in the face of every person she met, in the warm inquiries after his health and well-being, in their clear delight at the news of his marriage and their occasionally embarrassingly specific hopes for children to follow.
So many people had said words to the effect of Time the young master came home, where he belongs.
She didn’t understand it. When Edward had told her he was never going back to Shields, that he wouldn’t take any income from the estate and that when his grandfather passed on he would hire a manager to run the place, she’d imagined that something dreadful had happened here, that his childhood had been ghastly, that he’d been brutally treated, or that he was resented or hated for some reason. Even that he’d fallen in love with some village maiden and had his heart broken.
Instead he was loved, and not only by his grandfather.
“Why is Edward so reluctant to come here?” she asked Lord Galbraith as they rode slowly home. The sun was setting over the western hills, a glorious display of red and gold and pink, gilding the rooftops of the gracious old house and giving the ancient gray stonework a rosy glow. How could Edward reject such a beautiful home?
“Oh, my dear, if only I knew,” he said sorrowfully. “I’ve asked myself that question a hundred—a thousand—times over the years. I’ve tried and tried to get him to talk about it.” He darted her a hopeful glance. “I don’t suppose he’s said anything to you?”
She shook her head. “No, only that he doesn’t come here. Never why, though of course I’ve asked.”
The old man sighed heavily.
“Did anything happen—anything bad, I mean—before he went away to join the army?”
“Nothing that I can discover. As far as I know he was—the whole pack of them—were excited as boys—well, they were boys. Silly, heedless, careless, joyful boys, off to follow the drum.”
“He didn’t have a broken heart perhaps? Some girl who decided she preferred someone else?” Though she couldn’t imagine any girl rejecting Edward.
“No, he wasn’t much interested in girls at that age. That all came later.”
“He didn’t leave any enemies behind?”
The old man snorted. “You saw them today, girl—did it look as though any one of them had a bad word to say about my lad?”
“I thought they all loved him.” There was a lump in her throat as she said it.
“They did. They do. We all do.” There was a world of pain in the choked old voice.
The horses walked slowly on. In the sky, gold and scarlet faded to pink and gray. The trees filled with birds, all chattering madly as they prepared for the night. Lily pretended not to notice the tears in the old man’s eyes.
• • •
Over dinner she prompted the old man to tell her more tales of Edward’s boyhood, and he happily regaled her with tales of his wild, merry, loving boy. It was not the Edward she knew.
“But you must have heard that story before,” he said after finishing one tale.
She shook her head. “He never mentions the past at all. And if I bring it up—”
“You mean about the war?”
“No, not just the war. If I ask him anything about his past, he just gets this look in his eyes . . .”
“Like ice over a window, so you can’t see in or out. And then he changes the subject and starts talking about some wholly inconsequential thing,” Lord Galbraith finished for her.
“Exactly.” At least she wasn’t the only one that Edward shut out. “Every time he does it, I feel . . .” She swallowed, unable to go on.
“Like a little piece of your heart has been cut away?” he suggested gently.
Unable to speak for the surge of emotion that had swamped her at his words, Lily nodded.
There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of the wind outside and the coals of the fire settling gently in the grate.
“You love that boy of mine, don’t you?”
Her face crumpled as she whispered, “With all my heart.”
“Does he know how you feel?”
She shook her head. “He doesn’t want my love. He made it very clear before we were married.”
“And since then?”
“He made it even clearer.”
“Young idiot.” After a moment the old man tapped his fingers decisively on the table. “I’m not so sure. I think he’s fonder of you than you realize. Let me show you some of those letters I mentioned before.”
It was the last thing she wanted. Lily thought briefly about claiming to be tired after the long day, but it would only put off the moment. The old man was determined to show them to her. She might as well get it over with.
Again they retreated to the library; it was clearly Lord Galbraith’s favorite room in the house. Something of an irony in that, Lily thought. A room filled from floor to ceiling with books.
He seated her close to the fire, poured her a glass of some pinky-gold liquid and set it on a table at her elbow. Then he brought out a large wooden inlaid box. “Now”—he shuffled through the stack of letters inside—“ah, here it is. The first letter he wrote from your honeymoon—or would you rather read some of his wartime ones first? I promise you, they’re very sparse and uninformative.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” And that was the truth. Feeling in need of a little liquid courage, she took a large sip from the glass he’d given her and choked. “Wh—what is that?”
“Eh? Oh, peach brandy. Gift
