Did Edward really think that of her? She couldn’t help but smile.
“And here, where he says this: ‘Every day in some small way, my wife surprises and delights me.’”
Lily felt herself blushing with pleasure. Or perhaps it was the peach brandy.
He pulled out another letter and read, “‘We ride out together most mornings. Lily is a first-rate horsewoman, as you observed—’ Ah yes, this is the one about when you fell off your horse.”
“When it refused a jump,” Lily corrected him.
He chuckled. “Indeed, and that’s just what he said. But this is the bit that’ll interest you—he wrote it later that evening, after you were asleep. ‘I thought I’d lost her, Grandfather, she was so still and pale. My heart simply stopped. Then when she finally moved—words cannot express what I felt then. In such a short time, my wife has become so dear to me.’”
Lord Galbraith refolded the letter and put it aside saying, “There you are, my dear. If that boy isn’t in l— Oh, good grief, you’re not crying again, are you? If ever I’ve seen such a girl for waterworks.”
But the old man was smiling as he passed her his handkerchief again. “Take no notice of me, dear girl, you just have a good cry, let it all out and you’ll feel better for it.” He cleared his throat. “Learned that from my dear wife. Cried for all kinds of incomprehensible reasons. Wonderful woman.” After a long pause he added softly, “You’d have loved her, Lily. More to the point, she’d have loved you. As do I.”
Lily managed a misty smile.
Chapter Twenty
Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
—ALEXANDER POPE, “ODE ON SOLITUDE”
Over the next week, Lord Galbraith took Lily all over the estate and the surrounding area. She met everyone, from tenants to the leading members of local society. She was entertained by stories of the Galbraith family, the tales of Ralf de Corbeau who built the original manor in the thirteenth century and how Nicholas Galbraith came south from Scotland in the sixteenth century to marry a de Corbeau lass, the last of her line.
The portrait gallery was full of their pictures, these men and women whose blood had slowly distilled down the ages to the old man beside her and the young one whom her heart craved.
Lord Galbraith, who turned out to have something of a mischievous nature—or perhaps it was just kindness—took pleasure in pointing out the many ancestors who couldn’t, in fact refused to learn to read, deeming it a rubbishy skill needed only by clerks and clergy, unimportant people like that.
His scurrilous tales made her laugh and laugh, but entertaining and charming as the old man was, Lily was missing her husband. She wanted to hear these old family stories from him—she was sure he would know them. She wanted to learn about the estate from him, to have him introduce her to former playmates and show her his secret boyhood places.
Everywhere she went there were reminders of the boy he had been, and people were eager to tell her about the boy they remembered—and missed.
The more she learned about him, the harder it was to reconcile the mischievous, merry, adventurous boy everyone talked about with the reserved man who was kind and careful and kept himself to himself. Except in bed.
How could a man who wrote so regularly to his grandfather—warm and entertaining letters too—how could he stay away for so long, when he must know, surely, that his grandfather desperately missed him? How could he refuse to come home? It would break his grandfather’s heart if he ever learned of Edward’s plan to hire a manager. In the short time she’d known him, Lily had grown to love the old gentleman. And she ached for the loneliness he so gallantly tried to hide. She understood it only too well.
• • •
“It’s a letter from Ned.” Lord Galbraith came to breakfast, waving it. “Eat while I read it to you.” He broke open the seal and glanced at the letter, then frowned. “It’s very short.” He scanned quickly. “He’s very worried about you, Lily. Frantic, in fact.”
“Me? Why?”
“He says he’s lost you—suspects you might have been kidnapped again.”
“But I told him—” She broke off, her hand going to her mouth. “I told him I was going to Aunt Dottie’s.”
Lord Galbraith nodded. “He said he’d been to Bath—”
“Bath? But he was going to Southampton.”
“Well, I don’t know why he changed his plans, but he went to Bath. He says your aunt told him she’d sent you back to London. But when he returned to London, you weren’t there, and nobody knew where you were.”
Lily pushed her eggs away, her appetite gone. “Oh, dear, I hadn’t planned to stay so long. I thought I’d come for just a few days and be back in London before him.” She put her napkin aside and rose. “I’ll go and pack at once. Can you send a message to my coachman that we leave for London immediately?”
“No.”
Lily paused, and turned. There was a strange, almost arrested look on his face. “What do you mean, ‘no’? You said Edward was worried. I must—”
“I wrote to him a couple of days ago, told him you were with me, said how much I was enjoying your visit. He’ll have that letter by now. Sit down and finish your eggs.”
She sat reluctantly, as much for good manners as anything else. “Very well, but I must leave as soon as possible.”
“No. I want you to stay here. Please.” There was a peculiar intensity in the old man’s expression.
“But I can’t. This was only meant to be a short vis—”
“I’ve been trying for more than ten years to get that boy to come here.” He picked up the letter and showed it to her. “Look at that writing, all loops and scrawls—an absolute disgrace of a hand.”
“I don’t understand.”
He looked up,
