Simply Love

head to them all as if they were strangers.

But Mrs. Jewell had returned her attention to David.

“David.” She ate him up with her eyes again, though she did not move from where she stood.

“Are you my grandmama?” David asked, his voice and eyes still eager. He seemed unaware of the awkward, tense atmosphere that was affecting all the adults. His eyes moved to Mr. Jewell, a tall, lean gentleman with gray hair and stern demeanor. “Are you my grandpapa?”

Mr. Jewell clasped his hands behind him.

“I am,” he said.

“My real grandmama and grandpapa,” David said, stepping away from Anne and looking from one to the other of them. “I have new grandparents at Alvesley, and I like them very well indeed. But they are my stepfather’s mama and papa and so they are really my step-grandmama and my step-grandpapa. But you are real.”

“David.” Mrs. Jewell had set one hand over her mouth and seemed to be half laughing and half crying. “Oh, yes, we are real. Indeed we are. And these are your uncles and aunts, and those children, who were told that on no condition were they to step outside, are your cousins. Come inside and meet them. And you must be hungry.”

“Cousins?” David looked eagerly to the doorway.

Mrs. Jewell reached out her hand to him and he took it.

“What a big boy you are already,” she said. “And nine years old.”

“Going on ten,” David said.

Anne stood where she was as if she were made of marble. Her hand was stiff and motionless in Sydnam’s.

“Well, Anne, Butler,” Mr. Jewell said abruptly, “you must come inside and warm yourselves by the fire.”

“It is teatime, Anne,” her brother, Matthew, said. “We have been waiting, hoping you would arrive soon.”

“I am very pleased to meet you at last, Anne,” his wife said.

“And your husband.”

“Anne,” her sister, Sarah, said quietly before taking her husband’s arm to return to the house, but it was doubtful Anne even heard, as she was not looking their way.

It was not a joyful homecoming, Sydnam thought as he led Anne in the direction of the open door. But neither was it an unwelcoming one. All her family members had taken on the challenge of meeting her again too- presumably they did not all live here. They had come, however unwillingly, because Anne was expected.

Surely there was hope in that fact.

He held Anne’s hand in a firm grip.

The house was disorientingly familiar-it was where Anne had grown up and been happy. And yet she sat with rigidly straight back on her chair in the front parlor, like a stranger.

Her father looked older. His hair was now entirely gray, and the lines running from his nose to the outer corners of his mouth were more pronounced and made him look more austere than ever.

He looked achingly familiar, yet he was a stranger.

Her mother had put on weight. Her hair had grayed too. She looked anxious and bright-eyed. She was the woman who had been a rock of security through Anne’s growing years. Now she was a stranger.

Matthew had lost his boyish look, though he was still lean and still had all his hair. Five years ago he had been appointed vicar of a church five miles away-he had just said so. His wife, Susan, was pretty and fair-haired and was doing her very best to converse as if this were any ordinary social occasion. They had two children-Amanda, aged seven, and Michael, aged five.

Strangers.

Sarah had grown plump, and Henry had grown bald. They had four children-Charles, aged nine, Jeremy, aged seven, Louisa, aged four, and Penelope, aged two.

Charles, aged nine.

David was with the children, his cousins, somewhere else in the house. He was probably reveling in their company and in their relationship to him. He never seemed to be able to get enough of other children, particularly cousins. Yet his life until a very short while ago had been quite devoid of the latter.

Anne sipped her tea without tasting it and was content to leave all the talking to her mother, Sydnam, Matthew, and Susan.

She had not expected this sort of reception. She had expected her mother and father to be alone. She had imagined that Matthew, as a clergyman, might disdain to receive her. She had expected Sarah and Henry to stay well out of her sight until she was long gone. She had not decided if she would try to force them to confront her.

But they had come here, knowing she was expected.

Neither of them had spoken a word.

But then neither had she since coming inside the house except to murmur thanks every time someone offered her food or tea.

The last time she had been in this house was when she had come from Cornwall to spend a short vacation. They had celebrated Henry’s twentieth birthday and planned that the next year they would celebrate his coming of age by announcing their betrothal. But by his twenty-first birthday she was with child and Henry was married to Sarah.

Sydnam was telling them all about Alvesley and his family. He was telling them about Glandwr, where he was the Duke of Bewcastle’s steward, and about Ty Gwyn, which he had recently purchased and to which he was eager to take his bride and stepson. He told them that he had been a military officer in the Peninsula, where he had sustained his injuries.

“But I survived.” He smiled at all of them. “Many thousands did not.”

It struck Anne suddenly that at Glandwr Sydnam had always been quiet, that he had always taken up a position in a quiet corner of the drawing room, that while he was never morose or unsociable, he never put himself forward either. Yet here he was, taking upon himself the brunt of the conversation, knowing himself to be the very center of attention.

She felt a wave of gratitude and love.

Her mother got to her feet.

“Matthew and Susan live five miles away,” she said, “and Sarah and Henry scarcely less. It is quite a distance with young children. They are all to stay here tonight since no one wanted to rush away before dinner. You must be tired after your journey, Anne. And Mr. Butler too. Come upstairs to your room and have a rest. We can all talk again later.”

Yes, she had come here to talk, Anne thought. She had come here to face them, to confront them, to make some sort of peace with them if it was possible. But perhaps it was best left until later. Her mother was right-she was tired.

But she did not get up. She stared at her hands spread in her lap instead.

“Why?” she asked. “It is what I want to know from all of you, what I came to ask. Why?”

She was appalled at her own words. It was why she had come. But there was surely a better time. When, though? When would be a better time? She had already waited ten years.

Everyone else was appalled too. She could tell that by the quality of the silence that filled the room. But they must have known she would ask the question. Or hadn’t they? Had they thought she would come now that she was married and respectable again to be taken back to the bosom of the family, content that nothing be said about the past?

Her mother sat down again. Anne looked up at her.

“What did you mean,” she asked, “when you said that you forgave me. We was the word you used. Who was we? And what had I done to need forgiveness?”

Matthew cleared his throat, but it was their father who replied.

“He was a wealthy man, Anne,” he said, “and heir to a marquess’s title. I daresay you thought he would marry you, and so he ought to have done. But you should have known that such as he would not marry such as you- especially after you had already given him what he wanted.”

Anne’s mother made an inarticulate sound of distress, Sydnam got to his feet and crossed to the window, where he stood looking out, and Anne clasped her hands very tightly in her lap.