Page 22 of The Swindler’s Daughter

I took a shallow breath, pushing aside my embarrassment. He deserved to know. “You said, ‘Come back to bed.’”

He grimaced.

I lifted one shoulder. “It’s the sort of thing I could only imagine saying to a spouse.”

He stared at the ground as his head nodded slowly. Then a wistful smile pulled at his mouth. “She was always remembering one more thing she had to do. We’d be settled, ready to sleep, and she’d hop up, determined to find something or put something away.” One short chuckle escaped him, though it might have been a remnant of a sob. I couldn’t tell. “I was always telling her to come back to bed.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. After blinking up at the sky several times, he turned back to me. “So, now you know.”

I did, and I felt awful about it. It was the sort of thing he should have had the chance to share on his own terms. Ambushing him with it didn’t feel right, but acting like I didn’t know felt decidedly wrong. “You must have been married very young.”

Another little chuckle. It was fascinating seeing these memories bombarding him. They were clearly happy memories but wrapped in so much sadness and grief that the full joy of the remembrance couldn’t come through. “We were both seventeen. We’d been sweethearts for years and such good friends that my parents didn’t see the point in trying to keep us apart once we’d decided marriage was inevitable.”

I didn’t want to pry, but I was curious, and somehow he didn’t seem to mind talking about it. “How long were you married?”

“Twenty months and six days.” There was no pause to count, no hesitation. He knew exactly how many days of marriage he’d been given before it was all snatched away from him.

“I’m so sorry.” It was all I could say, because the next logical question would have been to ask how she died, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It wasn’t my business.

He sniffed. “It was a long time ago. Nearly three years.”

I hesitated but felt the need to speak. “I don’t think three years is a very long time when it comes to such things.”

He looked up at me, his chin pulled up, his mouth tense and his eyes bright with unshed tears. Finally he gave a little nod, swallowing hard before saying, “No, it isn’t long at all.”

I had more questions. Had Isabel been from here? Where had they lived when they’d been married? Did the servants here remember her? But I bit back any further inquiries, choosing to explain instead. “I’m sorry to bring it up,” I said as his hurt reached into my own heart, making it squeeze. “It’s just…it felt wrong to know without you knowing. Otherwise, I would never have said anything…”

He nodded but kept his eyes fixed on the trees. I remained silent, wishing to give him time to gather himself together again, to get used to the idea that his most painful secret was known by me, someone he likely didn’t even consider a friend.

Eventually he cleared his throat, looking lost as he cast his eyes about. “I’m sorry, but might we postpone your lesson just this once. I—”

“Of course,” I agreed. “That’s a good idea.” I picked up my bow. “I’ll leave you be.” I turned to go but then turned back. “I’m sorry,” I said again, knowing the words weren’t enough. Words were never enough when it came to loss.

He accepted my condolences with a nod, and I hurried away, anxious to give him the space he clearly needed.

***

Emeline and I had just finished cleaning up from dinner. All the other servants had eaten, and we were waiting for Hunter to come in and join us for a meal. Emeline had long ago gotten tired of eating separately from her husband, and we’d decided that it was easiest for the three of us to simply eat together after we’d fed everyone else.

I took three bowls over to the pot that sat by the fire and was in the midst of filling them with stew when the back door opened and Hunter came in.

He let out a deep and dramatic sigh.

“Oh dear,” Emeline lamented. “What’s happened now?”

Hunter slumped in a chair at the table and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Someone is poaching again.”

Emeline’s shoulders sank. “At Bridgefield?”

Hunter nodded. “Mr. Kenton found multiple traps set. They were good traps, well set, but they weren’t his.”

Worry wound in my gut. “Has Mr. Lockley seen anything similar here?” I asked.

“I just spoke with him and he says he hasn’t seen anything on Sutton property. He assumes those poaching on Bridgefield land are doing so because there is no master in residence.”

“But,” I said, “there is no master in residence here either.”

“Yes, but that’s temporary,” Emeline pointed out.

“We know it’s temporary, but the poachers might not,” Hunter said. “It bears watching.” He scrubbed a hand over his face as I set his bowl in front of him. “I just hope Mr. Kenton can catch them soon.”