Andrew Lord of Despair(72)

“I miss my Robert every day,” Arabella said as Rose made another raid on the jam. And because the child would not understand, but the young ladies would, she added, “and every night.”

Astrid set her pear down, probably realizing belatedly she’d set a bad example for the child. “I cannot see Andrew ever pining for me that way, though I can see him taking ship for darkest Peru without a backward glance.”

“But you would pine for him,” Gwen said, rising and holding out a hand to Rose. Rose and her mother left, with Rose munching on her cheese and nattering on about why lessons after lunch were not a good idea.

Now it was safe to smile. “That girl…” Arabella reached for the teapot.

“Rose?”

Rose, too, who was at risk for growing up exactly as independent and lonely as her mother—and her great-aunt.

“Guinevere. If only I knew which of her admirers had taken such shameless advantage of her, I’d turn both Gareth and Andrew, not to mention your lovely brother, loose on the scoundrel. But she’s never said a word.”

They finished their meal in quiet, companionable conversation, though Astrid glanced repeatedly at the door and at the clock. No doubt she worried that Andrew was out in the barn, starving himself—as his mother worried—and not for food.

Arabella announced an intention to depart the very next day, lest anybody waste effort trying to change her mind.

“You’ll miss Andrew,” Astrid said, demonstrating the perceptivity Arabella was counting on to salvage a young and troubled marriage—and a young and troubled husband.

“I have been missing Andrew for thirteen years,” Arabella said. “In some ways, he was the worst casualty of the accident. I don’t recall many details of the entire incident. I doubt Andrew can forget any of it.”

“I hate that accident,” Astrid said. “I never knew those who drowned”—a less forthright woman would have used a gentler phrase for death—“but I know that because of that day, Andrew does not intend to remain a proper husband to me. I might well be missing him myself, every day and every night, even thirteen years from when he leaves my side.”

“Then you must not allow him to slip out to sea, lest he take your joy, your meaning, and your heart with him.”

Arabella ran her finger around the edge of the jam pot, and let a dab of strawberries and sunshine grace her palate before leaving the dining parlor in search of her maid.

And a quiet corner, in which a lady might say a prayer or shed a few tears.

A few more tears.

***

The dream started the same way it always had, with the frigid sea air whipping a stiff, briny lock of Andrew’s hair against his mouth. He didn’t bother brushing it away, and beside him, his brother Adam waved off a footman who would have teetered and plunged across the pitching deck to offer yet another dram of Heathgate whiskey.

“At least we’re getting close to shore,” Adam muttered. “Bloody, infernally stupid of Grandfather to keep us out in this weather.”

Adam rarely used foul language around his younger brother, and that as much as the heaving seas made Andrew uneasy. “We’ll be on shore soon.” Part prayer, part wish, because progress toward shore was hampered by the wind, the waves, and the whiskey Grandfather and the other adults had been swilling all morning.

“I’m glad Gareth isn’t aboard to see that.” Adam’s scowl took in the sight of Julia Ponsonby, standing at the captain’s wheel with Grandfather, the damp wind plastering her dress to her body to an indecent degree.

Andrew looked away, whereas five weeks ago, he would have shamelessly gawked. “She seems to be enjoying herself.”

“That damned woman has a penchant for enjoying herself, but Grandfather needs to be minding the tiller, not Julia’s wares.”

Another wave lifted the small pleasure vessel higher, which meant the plunge down the trough—

I’m scared. Andrew was fifteen, and a man at that age did not admit such a thing, even to a trusted older brother whose expression suggested he too was at least uneasy.

“You can swim, right?” Adam asked.

“Like a fish. Anybody who wants to row crew has to be able to swim.” Though the sea was only part of what frightened Andrew. Julia Ponsonby and her penchant for enjoying herself was a large part of the rest of it.

On the quarterdeck, their father was also watching the goings on at the wheel with an uneasy eye, while their mother stood clutching the taffrail, her expression shuttered, her gaze on the shore that hadn’t come closer for the past half hour.

“If we come a cropper, you swim for shore, Andrew. You don’t bob in around the wreckage, hoping for survivors, understand?”