to Aunt Maria, despite Aberfield’s orders to the contrary. David’s letters. And some things that had given her pain … like the brief, factual note her father had written informing her of her mother’s illness and death, after the funeral had taken place.
That had been almost the last thing she had put in apart from David’s letters. For the past year or so she had not even dared to look inside, just shoving each letter in and locking the box again.
But now … now she had things to put in it again. Invitations. Notes from Diana—telling her that friendship could endure. There was a little pile of papers down in the drawer of the escritoire in the drawing room. She would take the box down there and sort it out. When she had glanced into it before leaving Yorkshire it had been a terrible mess. It was time to sort it all out. She rang for a maid to help her with her stays.
She found the drawing room occupied.
His back to the door, Richard was sitting near the window in one of Almeria’s prized Egyptian chairs, complete with gilt crocodile arms. Not odd in itself, but the chair was placed squarely in the middle of a raft of newspaper sheets. A faint scraping sound gave her the clue, and she understood; Richard was carving. He had the tea table beside him, and on it she could see several knives, a cloth and several small wooden objects on more spread newspaper.
Silent laughter welled up. He hadn’t changed at all. Except that he obviously thought of the newspaper for himself now, rather than after Lady Arnsworth scolded him for making a mess.
She cleared her throat and he glanced round, frowning.
‘Ah.’ The frown disappeared. ‘Ring the bell.’
She did so, and then asked, ‘Why?’
‘Myles will bring some tea now you are awake. Did you sleep well?’
She nodded. ‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘Idiot. What have you got there?’
A blush heated her cheeks. ‘My collection, for want of a better word.’ Heavens! He’d think all this rubbish … well, rubbish!
‘Collection?’ He looked curious. ‘I had no idea you collected something. What is it? Sea shells? Roman coins? Max and I used to find them around Blakeney when we were boys.’
‘Nothing so exciting,’ she told him, and explained.
To her complete surprise he wasn’t in the least dismissive. ‘When you’re an old, old woman, your grandchildren will find that fascinating. It will tell them something about how you lived.’
She set the box down on the escritoire, and said dubiously, ‘I suppose so.’ Perhaps David’s grandchildren.
He laughed. ‘Would you believe the British Museum has an extensive collection of ephemera, courtesy of old Miss Banks?’
‘Miss Banks?’ She lifted the lid of the box.
‘Sir Joseph Banks, the naturalist’s, sister. After she died a few years ago her entire collection came to the museum.’ He paused. ‘All nineteen thousand items of it.’
Thea dropped the lid with a bang. ‘Ninetee—! Good God!’
‘Quite,’ said Richard with a chuckle. ‘Visiting cards, invitations, admission tickets, you name it—she kept it.’
Thea looked at her own collection. ‘I think I need a new box.’ She opened the lid again and lifted out some of the contents.
His husky laugh warmed her. ‘I’ll make one for you.’
‘Would you?’ The warmth spread, and she reached into the box again. Her fingers felt something small and hard, irregularly shaped, at the bottom. Curious she delved and drew it out—’Ohh …’
In her hand lay a small wooden bird, rather crudely carved, its beak open, wings half-spread. Richard had made it for her, and all these years it had lain forgotten in the box, the unheard song stilled. She had thought it left behind when she went to Yorkshire.
‘What have you got there?’
Blinking hard, she turned and held out the little bird on the palm of her hand.
For a moment he seemed not to understand. Then, ‘You’ve kept it all these years?’ There was an odd note in his voice.
Scarlet, she said, ‘I had forgotten all about it.’ Desperate to change the subject, she asked, ‘What … what are you making now?’
‘Something to hang over the cradle for my godson or goddaughter,’ he answered. ‘Max and Verity’s child. Tell me what you think.’
She went over to the table and a gasp of delight escaped her. Five gaily painted little wooden horses, in various attitudes, pranced there. A sixth, as yet unpainted was in his hand. ‘Not very exciting,’ he said. ‘I did think of dragons, but these pieces of wood insisted on being ponies. I’m just doing the finishing touches to this one before painting it.’
‘They are lovely,’ she said softly. ‘And I think your godchild will treasure them.’ She reached out and stroked the nose of one pony with her forefinger. ‘They’re like my box of clutter—one day your great-nephews and nieces will look at these and think of you.’ Perhaps even his great-great nephews and nieces. And so on until the children no longer knew anything about the man who had carved these dancing ponies so long ago. But they would know the toy had been made with love.
Just as she had remembered the wooden bird.
Very softly, she said, ‘I shall like to think of you making something like this for your own children one day, Richard.’
He went very still as her words fell into a deep silence within him.
Until a year ago he had assumed that one day he would marry. There was no reason not to, but marriage had never been compelling. He had been busy, satisfied with his life, and his role as Max’s steward. Indeed, that role was still his. But ever since Max’s marriage he had been increasingly aware that something was missing in his life, and that it was time to fill the void.
‘Thea—’ Unsure what he was going to say, only knowing that words were there, he reached for her hand.
The door opened without warning.
He slewed around in his chair.
‘Damn it, Myles! What the devil do you want now?’
Myles looked severely shaken. ‘Mr Richard—there … there is a magistrate in the front hall—’
There came a sharp gasp from Thea. Richard reached out and took her hand, enveloping it in his, shocked to feel her trembling.
‘A what?’ Surely Myles hadn’t said—
‘A magistrate, sir. Sir Giles Mason. From Bow Street. Requesting an interview with Miss Winslow.’ Myles swallowed. ‘I know her ladyship will not like it, but, sir, perhaps you—since her ladyship isn’t here?’
Her ladyship would probably have apoplexy when she found out, reflected Richard, but he
