It was exceedingly strange to be sitting at the kitchen table with Sir James de Vere, sharing tea. Laura cast about for something to say. “I’m sorry you came all this way. Can I help you, perhaps, or . . .” Laura trailed off.
“Thank you, no,” he said again, with as little emotion as he had earlier rejected her offer of tea. “It was a professional matter. Graeme suggested it. Clearly, he was not aware of your father’s passing.”
“No.” Laura shook her head. “I haven’t written his mother yet. It must be such a happy time at Lydcombe Hall, with the new baby. I hated to bring up anything sad.”
“I am sure Aunt Mirabelle would want to know, however. And Graeme.”
“Yes, she’s always been very kind to me. She and my mother were close friends.”
“I remember. I shall tell them, if you wish, when I reach Grace Hill.”
“Thank you. Pray tell her that I will write soon.”
Another silence fell. The dog’s crunching of the bone seemed inordinately loud.
“What sort of dog is he?” Laura dredged up another topic.
“A mastiff. He’s a good watchdog, though not as fierce as he looks.”
“I would think his appearance would suffice.”
James smiled faintly. “Generally.” He glanced around at the emptied cabinets and filled boxes. “What will you do now?”
“I haven’t decided. Perhaps I’ll go to my father’s relatives.” Laura could not entirely keep her distaste for that idea from coloring her voice, so she forced a smile to negate it.
“I am sure Aunt Mirabelle would be happy for you to visit, um . . .” He cleared his throat. Laura suspected he had belatedly realized the awkwardness of Laura’s presence in the house of the man who had once loved her.
“Yes, Lady Montclair is very kind, but the situation is—it hardly seems the time to intrude upon them. The new baby . . .”
“Of course. Well, I . . .” He pushed up from the table. “I should go.”
She stood up, as well, relieved to be rid of him—though she would rather miss the reassuring presence of the enormous dog stretched out on her kitchen floor, gnawing at the soup bone. For a moment her home felt warm again, as it had on so many nights when she sat with her father in this very room, talking about his research or an unusual medical case.
James hesitated. “About that fellow . . . will he return?”
“I feel sure he learned his lesson.” That was a lie. Merton would doubtless be back tomorrow; he wouldn’t give up the money her father owed him. But she wasn’t about to reveal all the miserable details of her life to James de Vere. She would simply have to manage to stay out of Merton’s clutches.
“But . . .” From the way he frowned, she suspected James didn’t believe her. He would probably also guess that the man had been hounding her for money. He had seen the small cottage and its rather shabby furniture. It made her cringe to imagine what his thoughts were.
“I’ll be fine.” Laura squared her shoulders, smiling determinedly. “Thank you once again.”
Her tone was dismissive, and after a moment’s hesitation, James bowed and took his leave of her, slapping his hand against his thigh to summon Demosthenes. The dog arose ponderously and followed him, bone still clenched between his teeth.
Laura stood in the doorway, watching her visitors depart. Sir James attempted to dissuade the mastiff from bringing his prize into the carriage, but finally he lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat and motioned for Demosthenes to jump in, bone and all. Apparently Demosthenes’s powers of persuasion worked on his master, as well. It was almost enough to make one like the man. Almost.
She shut the door and turned the lock. Drifting to the window in the parlor, she stood, looking out at their minuscule garden. But she did not see the tall spikes of purple irises or the riot of red roses climbing the trellis.
All she could see was Sir James in this room eleven years ago as he hammered the nineteen-year-old Laura’s dreams of a life with Graeme into dust. It was unfair to blame him. Sir James had not forced her to give up Graeme. He could not have compelled his cousin to marry an American heiress.
He had simply told her, as swift and sharp as a knife, that her continued engagement to the man she loved would ruin him. Graeme was too much a gentleman to break off their engagement himself, so Laura must do it. James had ripped aside the rosy veil through which Laura had been viewing the world those last few months and made her face the truth.
And for that, she could not like him. She had managed to avoid seeing him again, an easy enough task given that Laura was in London only infrequently and James scorned the social whirl. Time had covered the old wound. Passion subsided and memories faded. Her love for Graeme had not died, exactly, but it had settled down to present regard and a wistful memory.