another feeble protest, Cristiano moved forward.
“Samantha wanted us to see her home,” he said, sliding an arm around Sam, his hand resting lightly, and yet provocatively, on her hip. “She thought it was important we knew where she came from.”
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Bishop was nodding and clucking again. “You’ve heard then all about her life. So much tragedy for one so young.” She regarded Sam with a look of tenderness. “I was the head housekeeper when she came to stay with us at the Rookery. It was a very difficult time but we loved her and she adjusted, although there were many nights we heard her crying.”
“Mrs. Bishop,” Sam remonstrated, going hot and cold. Mrs. Bishop’s shared memories were nearly as painful as Cristiano’s arm against her lower back, his hand warm on her hip, her body exquisitely sensitive.
“I know it’s hard, Samantha,” Mrs. Bishop said, reaching out to touch Sam’s cheek. “But if he loves you half as much as we do, he’ll want to know everything.”
Sam shuddered. “He knows enough.”
“So you’ve told him all about Charles, then?” Mrs. Bishop’s expression gentled even more. “Ah, that was a tragedy no one’s forgotten—”
“Mrs. Bishop.” Sam’s voice came out strangled.
But Mrs. Bishop so engrossed in her memories and stories seemed oblivious to Sam’s agony. “It was horrific. No one could believe it, no one knew what to do. Our beautiful Sam, a bride and a widow all in the same night.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE silence that followed didn’t last long, no more than any other silence following a difficult remark, but for Sam, it felt endless.
She’d never told anyone about Charles, had never spoken about her brief marriage that ended less than eight hours after the ceremony.
Sam stepped away from Cristiano. “With the Rookery closed, where do you live now, Mrs. Bishop?” Her voice was crisp, and she did her best to look firmly in control. Best thing to do now was quickly move forward. Act as if nothing had been said. “I know you had family in the area.”
Sam succeeded in distracting the elderly woman and Mrs. Bishop nodded. “That’s right. I broke my hip a number of years ago and it’s slowed me so I live with my daughter, and her family now.” Mrs. Bishop glanced down at Gabriela. “In fact, I have several granddaughters very close to your age. They’re twins.”
Gabby beamed. “I’m almost five. I’ll be five February 16th.”
“Well today is Saturday, the perfect day for a tea party.”
Sam smiled, smoothed Gabriela’s dark hair back from her brow. “That sounds like fun. Maybe later Gabby can meet the girls.”
“Why doesn’t she come home with me now?” Mrs. Bishop said stoutly.
“We haven’t even had breakfast.” Sam felt the panic return, the sensation like little needles in her stomach and brain. She couldn’t be alone with Cristiano, couldn’t be here with Cristiano, didn’t want Gabby gone and Cristiano looking at her, talking to her, having anything to do with her.
Mrs. Bishop waved away the protest. “She can have breakfast with the girls, and we’re just down the lane, not even a mile away. If she wants to come home, we’ll call you and zip her right back.”
“Can I go?” Gabby tugged on Sam’s hand. “Can I? I bet they have dolls and lots of toys.”
And gazing down into Gabriela’s eager little face, Sam realized all over again how much Gabriela had been deprived of these past four and a half years. Not just toys and pretty dresses, but parties and playdates. Friends. Johann wouldn’t let anyone ever come to the house, and overtures made by parents at Gabriela’s school had been immediately rebuffed by Johann. “You’re not afraid to go?” Sam asked softly.
“No! I’m not afraid of anything.”
It was true. Just last summer Gabby had leaped off the high dive at a local swimming pool—a diving board so high that most nine-and ten-year-old girls avoided it—but Gabby had loved it. Gabby said when she grew up she wanted to be an astronaut, or a fireman, as long as she could go fast and jump out of tall buildings.
Sam had never understood where Gabby got her thrill-seeking personality from, but now it was beginning to make sense.
Sam looked at Cristiano, hesitated. “You don’t mind if she goes, do you?”
“Not if you’re comfortable,” he answered evenly. “And I can give Mrs. Bishop my mobile number. That way she can call the moment Gabriela gets tired or the girls stop having fun.”
Sam nodded gratefully. “Good idea. Then we can just run down and pick her up.”
“Or I can bring her back.”
While Mrs. Bishop and Cristiano exchanged phone numbers, Sam went to locate Gabby’s coat, and then using her fingers, did her best to comb Gabby’s hair smooth before pulling it into a long ponytail. “Be good,” Sam whispered into the little girl’s ear, walking her from the primitive bathroom back to the cottage door. “Don’t cause any trouble.”
Gabby flashed an impish smile. “I never do!”
And it crossed Sam’s mind, as Mrs. Bishop trundled a beaming Gabriela toward the car, that nothing must dim Gabriela’s quick smile and bright eyes. Gabriela mustn’t ever grow up quickly. She should remain a child as long as she was a child. Sam was only six when her own parents died and life had never been the same. Everyone at the Rookery had tried to step in, patch things together, but mothers and fathers were never replaced. And Sam’s parents, although working class, had been solid and loving. Dependable.
And that’s what Sam tried to be for Gabby. Solid, loving. Dependable.
As Mrs. Bishop shut her own door, she rolled down the window and leaned out. “Sam I nearly forgot. I have the key to the Rookery. Why don’t you stay there? It has a generator in back, and a proper kitchen with working appliances.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Sam said, glancing at the cottage behind her. It was small, and rustic, but it was also quaint and cozy in a way the old rambling Rookery would never be.
“Take the key anyway.” Mrs. Bishop extended her hand, held a key ring out to her. “Just return it to me when you leave.”
Sam was conscious of Cristiano standing behind her as she stood in the driveway watching Mrs. Bishop slowly make her way down the lane, her small blue car bouncing in the potholes just like the taxi did last night. The lane was a mess, the sides of the road a jungle of weeds and blackberry thorns, so different from how Sam remembered it as a child.
“You don’t let her out of your sight very much, do you?” Cristiano said, his voice a deep rumble.
Sam shivered at the bite of cold air. It was chillier this morning than it had been last night when they arrived. “No.” Reluctantly she turned to face him, her hands burrowing in her coat pockets, fingers stiff. “I worry about her when she’s gone.”
“Why?”
“Things
