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Her smile slipped then. She wrapped her hands about the sturdy, lovingly cared-for cup, willing the warmth of it into her suddenly chilled fingers. “I’m sorry I haven’t written much since Aaron died. There’s no excuse for it.”
“Ah, no worries, my girl,” he said, patting her arm. “It couldn’t have been easy on you. I’m just thankful you had your family to get you through it all.” He paused then, taking a slow sip, eyeing her carefully over the rim. “Did you come to see your father?”
She frowned, looking into the opaque depths of her tea. “Nothing has changed between us. I came to see you, and you alone.”
Mr. Kitteridge let out a sad sigh. “I’m sorry to hear it, my girl. Not that you’ve come to see me, of course,” he clarified when she glanced up at him in hurt. “Goodness, but it does my heart good to see you. I’ve missed you something terrible, and having you back makes me feel I’ve got a bit of my boy back with you.”
Tears burned Margery’s eyes again at the admission. But the man’s expression resumed its serious mien as he continued to gaze at her.
“I do wish you could put your hurt behind you. There’s no room for bad blood between a parent and child. And if you only knew what he’s suffered since.”
Margery gaped at him. “You cannot mean to tell me you pity him. After all he’s done? How unworthy he made Aaron feel?”
But there was no nod of agreement. Instead he only seemed to grow more pained, more frustrated. As if something inside him ached to be let loose. Just as she was about to question him on it, however, there was a commotion at the front door. And suddenly Joan burst into the room.
The girl—ah, no, she was a girl no longer, but a woman grown now—was, as ever, a whirlwind of energy as she dropped her packages in the corner and swung off her cloak to hang up on a peg. “Papa,” she said as she grabbed her apron and began to busily secure the back, “I’ve bought that handsome fabric you were admiring in town the other day, and shall make you a fine new suit with it—”
Her voice cut off abruptly as she turned and spied Margery sitting at the table with her father. Her jaw dropped, her eyes widening.
Margery smiled wanly. “Hello, Joan.”
The squeal that burst from Aaron’s younger sister was deafening. She rushed forward, throwing her arms about Margery. “We never knew you were coming. Oh goodness, how wonderful to see you. Bill!” she called out, her voice echoing in the small space. “You must come quick, and bring the baby. Oh, Margery,” she said, “we’ve missed you so. Why have you not come before now? But never mind, for you’re here now. Oh! But here is my handsome husband,” she said with a grin as Bill entered the room with a dark-haired baby cradled in his arms. “I went and snatched him up, as you can see. Not that he had a chance of refusing once I set my sights on him. Bill, darling, you remember Margery, Aaron’s wife? Oh, and you’ve never met Wesley. But what do you think of my son? Isn’t he as handsome as his father?”
Margery couldn’t help but laugh. Joan had always been boisterous, almost larger than life, and Margery had forgotten how exhausting it could be—and how much she’d missed it.
“Bill,” she said with a smile, stepping forward to take his free hand, as the other was busy cradling the baby. “How good it is to see you again. Congratulations on your son. He’s beautiful.”
Bill beamed, his teeth flashing in his dark face as he passed Wesley over to Margery. “Thank you. But don’t let his calm demeanor fool you; he’s as spirited as his mother.”
“And how lucky you are,” Joan quipped, sending her husband an arch look. “But sit while I prepare dinner. I’ve some mutton stew I need only reheat, and so I won’t miss a minute of anything.”
The familiarity of the scene tugged at her heart. Granted, Joan and Bill were married now, and with a baby. Mr. Kitteridge was more frail and had stepped back to allow his son-in-law to take over his business.
But that same camaraderie that had called to her when she’d been a young child visiting her dear friend’s home was still there. The same welcome and acceptance was still present that she’d found solace in when newly married and cast from her father’s life. And so she hugged Wesley closer to her and sat again at the table.
The child gazed back at her with wide, curious eyes. She smiled down at him. “Do you love to torment your poor papa?” she teased. “I daresay he has enough to deal with in your mama.”
The baby gurgled merrily, flailing his fists in the air.
Joan, from her place at the stove, laughed. “He does like you, Margery. Not that I had any doubt he would. You love your Aunt Margery, don’t you, my darling?”
Aunt Margery. The title struck her mute. Not that she was unused to being an aunt, especially with Lenora and Clara recently adding to that particular blessing. But knowing she was still connected to the Kitteridge family, that she would always belong no matter where life took her, touched something deep in her, something she thought she’d lost.
The rest of the evening passed with a swiftness that stunned her. How lovely it was to be reminded of Aaron in these warm, welcoming people. How wonderful to forget for a time her pain over the revelation about her husband and to remember who he had been.
And so when supper was over, and she finished helping Joan clear the dishes and clean up the kitchen, she didn’t even consider refusing when they insisted she stay the night.
“I’ll locate your carriage and fetch your things,” Bill said. Then, kissing his wife and smoothing his son’s dark hair, he was off.
“Papa,” Joan said, rocking a sleepy Wesley in her arms, “I’ll put the baby down. Why don’t you get Margery settled?”
Margery followed Mr. Kitteridge up the narrow flight of stairs. It wasn’t until they reached a familiar door, however, that she realized just where she would be sleeping.
The breath left her as the door swung wide. Aaron’s room was just as it had been all those years ago. There was the narrow bed they had shared in the early days of their marriage before leaving for London, the dark blue quilt his late mother had made for him when he was a child still smoothed over the top. She spied the small wooden box that contained his battalion of lead soldiers, the framed watercolor of Margery that Lenora had painted, the collection of shells she had brought back for him after each of her summers spent on Synne.
Mr. Kitteridge cleared his throat. “I haven’t changed a thing,” he said gruffly. “Couldn’t bring myself to. I hope you don’t mind spending the night in this room.”
“Of course not,” Margery managed, though it was the furthest thing from the truth. She had come here with the hope of remembering Aaron and all they’d had. But would it break her, staying in this place where she had loved Aaron? Would it destroy her, being surrounded by reminders of him?
