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Suddenly he frowned. “But why didn’t you say something at the time? We never knew Nathaniel was intoxicated. We believed it was just a horrible accident.”
Pain flashed in the valet’s eyes. “I couldn’t bear to see anyone thinking badly of him. He was a good man, your brother. I couldn’t see his memory tarnished.”
Overcome at this man’s unswerving loyalty, Daniel leaned forward and held out his hand. Wilkins looked at it uncomprehendingly for a moment before, with tears in his eyes, he clasped it with his own.
“Thank you,” Daniel managed. “Thank you for protecting my brother, and for telling me the truth.”
Wilkins nodded, swallowing hard. Then, dragging in a deep breath, he stood.
“But we should prepare to leave. You’ll no doubt wish to tell your mother in person of the change in plans. I’ll have the rest of your things packed in a trice and we can leave for London straightaway.”
Daniel blinked. “You’re going with me?”
“Of course,” Wilkins said. “As if I would allow you to travel to London alone.” He gave Daniel a bracing smile and, spinning about, started his work.
Daniel, with nothing left to do—and surprisingly relieved to have an ally—made his way to the large oak desk in the corner. Once there he sat heavily, looking at the neat stacks of papers, the lead crystal inkwell, the spotless blotter. He knew what he had to do. But what to say? And how to say it. Finally, knowing he was only delaying the inevitable, he took up a creamy piece of foolscap and, dipping a pen in the ink, began to write.
It wasn’t a long note. The words he longed to say to Margery could never be said, could never be written. And so the letter was straight to the point. And much colder than he would have liked. Then, tucking the bank draft inside and folding it up, he secured it in his pocket and made his way from the room. Wilkins was right in that he had to speak with his mother. Though he only hoped she would not question what he was about to suggest.
She was sitting up in bed when he arrived at her room. He expected surprise at his early appearance. Instead she gave him a sad smile, as if she had expected him.
“Leaving, are you?”
He stood by the door, feeling as awkward as if he were a ten-year-old boy being called to the carpet. “Yes.”
“Was it Gregory?” she asked sadly.
“No.”
“Was it Mrs. Kitteridge?”
He sucked in a sharp breath. There was entirely too much knowing in her eyes.
She nodded, as if his silence gave all the answers she needed. “Come here, Daniel,” she said softly, patting the bed beside her.
He did as he was bid, making his slow way to her side, sinking gingerly to the feather mattress.
“Now,” she said softly, “why don’t you tell me everything?”
He let out a humorless laugh at the knowing look in her mild eyes. “I expect, madam, that you’ve understood my heart better than I myself have these past weeks.”
“Are you admitting it then?”
“What, that I love Margery?” He sighed heavily, running a hand over his face, his fingers tracing the puckered scars. “Yes, I love her. Which is why I have to leave.”
She bit her lip. “And is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”
“No.” The word was quick, and certain. She thought this was a mere matter of him refusing his heart. When in reality it was so much more devastating, so much messier. And so unfixable as to be laughable.
“I want you to stay here on Synne, with Lady Tesh,” he continued, looking down at the coverlet so he didn’t have to look her in the eyes. “You’ve healed so much in spirit since we’ve arrived. I don’t want you to lose whatever ground you’ve gained by going to the London house. I don’t want you to revisit that grief. I want—no, Ineed—you to get well.”
She was quiet so long he thought she might not answer. Finally she spoke. “If that’s what you wish.”
“Yes,” he lied. Of course it wasn’t what he wished. But it was what needed to be done.
“Before I leave, however,” he continued, reaching into his coat pocket and retrieving the letter, “could you promise to give this to Margery for me?”
“Of course, darling,” she whispered, taking the letter and holding it gently.
