Elias reached for the petals but recoiled. How could he starve his heart of Josephine if he filled his pockets with keepsakes? No, no, he would not take even a fragment of her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Capers,” Elias said when he entered the kitchen.
A woman with grey hair stood near the stove. She looked at him, and her expression melted like butter on a skillet. “My, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“I brushed my hair for you. And look at my boots. No mud,” Elias said as she hastened to embrace him. He hadn’t realized his lostness until now, as if he’d misplaced pieces of himself and one gaze from a friend drew him back together.
“Dear boy, I’ve missed you.” Mrs. Capers hugged Elias’s waist, her small form scented with cinnamon and herbs, aromas that swept him back to Windermere Hall. She pinched his arm. “You’re too slender. The other cook didn’t feed you enough.”
“Oh, Mr. Welby, hello.” Anne emerged from the servants’ hall and shooed a hen off the kitchen counter. “Please excuse the mess. Somebody left the back door open.”
“Anne, I didn’t know you planned to come.” Elias beamed. The past few weeks had messed with his mind, caused him to go too deep into himself. He’d started to feel cold. Not on his skin. Beneath. Like the main floors of Windermere Hall. But Anne and Mrs. Capers brought warmth. They knew him, and to be known in a world of unknowns seemed the greatest gift.
“The Darlings offered her a scullery maid position. Good thing too. She wouldn’t last a day alone with Lady Welby.” Mrs. Capers squeezed Elias’s hand. “Stay here, and I’ll prepare a spread of sandwiches. Want some tea? I’ll make tea.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Elias said. He rested on a wooden stool and tossed crumbs to the hen, who pecked the mud-smeared floorboards.
“Do the Darlings treat you well?” Anne fetched a tin of biscuits from the cupboard. She arranged shortbreads on a tray decorated with painted flowers, then offered them to Elias.
“They’re kind to me,” he said. “How’s my father?”
“Unchanged,” Mrs. Capers said as she flitted about the space. “Miss De Clare greeted us outside an hour ago. Quite a pleasant young lady. She invited us to afternoon tea.”
“Yes.” Elias cleared his throat. “She’s betrothed to Sebastian.”
“Poor girl.” Anne snorted.
“They don’t care for each other.” Elias took a bite of shortbread and let it dissolve on his tongue. “Sebastian ignores her, which doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Blazes, Mr. Welby.” Anne gasped and leaned against the counter, her eyes widening. “You love her. You’re in love with Miss De Clare.”
“What? No.” Elias shook his head. He rose from the stool and inched toward the butler’s pantry, his pulse racing. If Anne recognized his feelings, did other people notice his attachment?
“Retreating like a coward, are you?” Mrs. Capers followed Elias across the kitchen. She grabbed his chin and examined his face. “Tell me the truth. Do you fancy Miss De Clare?”
“How am I supposed to answer that?”
“See! He loves her. I knew it.” Anne waved her finger at Elias. “Do be careful, Mr. Welby. My friend told me about a man who stole his brother’s fiancée—”
“I do not love Miss De Clare.” Elias pecked Mrs. Caper’s cheek, then strode to the service stairs, trying to convince himself he spoke truth. “I’d better go. I’ll visit again before dinner.” His chest ached, for his heart had set off an avalanche, and there was no stopping it.
Elias went to the manor’s west wing, a maze of forgotten chambers tucked behind Fitz’s nursery. A previous owner had constructed the accommodations, perhaps to entice guests to stay for long periods. Now the rooms belonged to dust and disuse, furniture draped with sheets, and mice who frightened the maid. No one ventured down the narrow corridors, a fact which relieved Elias. He couldn’t focus on his studies when Sebastian pestered or when Mrs. Darling’s lapdog barked. And he needed to focus before he lost all sense.
He walked toward his study at full speed. The sooner he locked himself away, the better. In solitude his feelings wouldn’t threaten his reputation.
His eyes couldn’t reveal secrets from behind a closed door.
The same thoughts led Elias to this annex time and time again, for his mind reeled in a dreadful cycle—Josephine, self-loathing, and an emotion he categorized as bitter acceptance. At least his uncle cared enough to offer him a hideaway. The small library suited his moods with its dark wood panelling, the smell of browned pages and leather. He’d spent many afternoons lingering near the bookcases, tracing his fingertips across faded covers and worn spines.
Literature provided the purest form of companionship. It drew him into a safe place, where his worries floated like dandelion fluff. It preserved his sanity and let him dream. Of course he craved the library, for when he sat in his armchair and lifted a novel to his face, its pages acted like blinders. They masked him. Perhaps his dilemma could be solved with a thick book. He needed only to hide until Lord Welby allowed him to leave Cadwallader Park.
Elias reached the study and turned its brass doorknob. He entered the chamber but froze when he noticed legs draped over a velvet sofa, their shoeless feet swaddled by silk stockings. His breaths rasped as he absorbed the scene—a girl reading upside down on his settee. No, this room belonged to him, not her. She couldn’t invade his one safe place.
“What are you doing in here?” he growled.
Josephine scrambled into an upright position. She gawked at him, her dress still bunched around her knees, her tangled hair a mess. “I saw the books and . . .” She wiped tears from her cheeks. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize this study belonged to you.”
Elias flexed his fingers, trembling with anger or embarrassment. He should apologize for snapping at Josephine. He should push her into the hallway. He should
