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Ah, Sydnam thought, they had gathered in droves to greet the lost sheep, had they? Perhaps on the assumption that there was safety in numbers?
A
“A
She took a couple more steps forward, both hands stretched out before her.
A
“Yes, it is I,” A
“You have come home,” Mrs. Jewell said. “And here we all are to greet you.”
A
“We have called here on our way home,” she said with slight emphasis on the last words. “I have brought David to meet you. My son. And Sydnam Butler, my husband.”
Mrs. Jewell’s eyes had been fairly devouring David, but she looked politely at Sydnam, who had turned fully to face them all. She recoiled quite noticeably. There was a sort of collective stiffening of ma
Just a few months ago Sydnam might have been upset-especially about the children. He had spent years basically hidden away in a place where he was known and accepted and very few strangers ever came. But it did not matter to him any longer. A
Besides, this moment was not about him. It was all about A
“Mr. Butler.” Mrs. Jewell curtsied as he bowed and turned to introduce the others-Mr. Jewell; their son, Mr. Matthew Jewell, and Susan, his wife; Sarah Arnold, their daughter, and Mr. Henry Arnold, her husband.
Sydnam’s eye alighted on that last gentleman and saw a man of medium height and pleasant looks and balding fair hair-neither a hero nor a villain as far as looks went. He exchanged a brief but measured look with the man and had the satisfaction of seeing that Arnold knew that he knew.
There were bows and curtsies and murmured greetings-and a great deal of awkwardness as A
But Mrs. Jewell had returned her attention to David.
“David.” She ate him up with her eyes again, though she did not move from where she stood.
“Are you my grandmama?” David asked, his voice and eyes still eager. He seemed unaware of the awkward, tense atmosphere that was affecting all the adults. His eyes moved to Mr. Jewell, a tall, lean gentleman with gray hair and stern demeanor. “Are you my grandpapa?”
Mr. Jewell clasped his hands behind him.
“I am,” he said.
“My real grandmama and grandpapa,” David said, stepping away from A
“David.” Mrs. Jewell had set one hand over her mouth and seemed to be half laughing and half crying. “Oh, yes, we are real. Indeed we are. And these are your uncles and aunts, and those children, who were told that on no condition were they to step outside, are your cousins. Come inside and meet them. And you must be hungry.”
“Cousins?” David looked eagerly to the doorway.
Mrs. Jewell reached out her hand to him and he took it.
“What a big boy you are already,” she said. “And nine years old.”
“Going on ten,” David said.
A
“Well, A
“It is teatime, A
“I am very pleased to meet you at last, A
“And your husband.”
“A
It was not a joyful homecoming, Sydnam thought as he led A
Surely there was hope in that fact.
He held A
The house was disorientingly familiar-it was where A
Her father looked older. His hair was now entirely gray, and the lines ru
He looked achingly familiar, yet he was a stranger.
Her mother had put on weight. Her hair had grayed too. She looked anxious and bright-eyed. She was the woman who had been a rock of security through A
Matthew had lost his boyish look, though he was still lean and still had all his hair. Five years ago he had been appointed vicar of a church five miles away-he had just said so. His wife, Susan, was pretty and fair-haired and was doing her very best to converse as if this were any ordinary social occasion. They had two children-Amanda, aged seven, and Michael, aged five.
Strangers.
Sarah had grown plump, and Henry had grown bald. They had four children-Charles, aged nine, Jeremy, aged seven, Louisa, aged four, and Penelope, aged two.
Charles, aged nine.
David was with the children, his cousins, somewhere else in the house. He was probably reveling in their company and in their relationship to him. He never seemed to be able to get enough of other children, particularly cousins. Yet his life until a very short while ago had been quite devoid of the latter.
A
She had not expected this sort of reception. She had expected her mother and father to be alone. She had imagined that Matthew, as a clergyman, might disdain to receive her. She had expected Sarah and Henry to stay well out of her sight until she was long gone. She had not decided if she would try to force them to confront her.
But they had come here, knowing she was expected.
Neither of them had spoken a word.
But then neither had she since coming inside the house except to murmur thanks every time someone offered her food or tea.
The last time she had been in this house was when she had come from Cornwall to spend a short vacation. They had celebrated Henry’s twentieth birthday and pla
Sydnam was telling them all about Alvesley and his family. He was telling them about Glandwr, where he was the Duke of Bewcastle’s steward, and about Ty Gwyn, which he had recently purchased and to which he was eager to take his bride and stepson. He told them that he had been a military officer in the Peninsula, where he had sustained his injuries.