The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)

She remained in bed for the rest of that day, too. By the next morning, she was feeling considerably better. The doctor called again, tested her vision and her balance, probed the tender spot on her skull, then pronounced himself satisfied.

“But I would advise you to avoid any activity that might exhaust you, at least for the next few days.”

She was considering that—considering the apology she had to make and how exhausting, mentally and physically, that was likely to be—as she slowly, carefully, went down the stairs.

Humphrey was sitting on a bench in the hall; using his cane, he slowly rose as she descended. He smiled, a little lopsidedly. “There you are, my dear. Feeling better?”

“Indeed. A great deal better, thank you.” She was tempted to launch into questions about the household, anything to avoid what she foresaw was to come. She put the urge from her as unworthy; Humphrey, like Harriet and Jeremy, needed to speak. Smiling easily, she accepted his arm when he offered it and steered him into the parlor.

The interview was worse—more emotionally involved—than she’d expected. They sat side by side on the chaise in the parlor, looking out over the gardens but seeing nothing of them. To her surprise, Humphrey’s guilt stretched back many more years than she’d realized.

He broached his recent shortcomings head-on, apologizing gruffly, but then he looked back, and she’d discovered he’d spent the last days thinking much more deeply than she’d guessed.

“I should have made Mildred come down to Kent more often—I knew it at the time.” Staring through the window, he absentmindedly patted Leonora’s hand. “You see, when your aunt Patricia died, I shut myself away—I swore I’d never care for anyone like that again, never leave myself open to so much hurt. I liked having you and Jeremy about the house—you were my distractions, my anchors to the daily round; with you two about, it was easy to forget my hurt and lead a normal enough life.

“But I was absolutely determined never to let any person get close, and become important to me. Not again. So I always kept myself distanced from you—from Jeremy, too, in many ways.” His old eyes weary, half-filled with tears, he turned to her. Smiled weakly, wryly. “And so I failed you, my dear, failed to take care of you as I ought, and I’m immensely ashamed of that. But I failed myself, too, in more ways than one. I cut myself off from what might have been between us, you and me, and with Jeremy, too. I shortchanged us all in that regard. But I still didn’t achieve what I wanted—I was too arrogant to see that caring about others is not wholly a conscious decision.”

His fingers tightened about hers. “When we found you lying on the flags that night…”

His voice quavered, died.

“Oh, Uncle.” Leonora raised her arms and hugged him. “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” She rested her head on his shoulder “It’s past.”

He hugged her back, but brusquely replied, “It does matter, but we won’t argue, because you’re right—it’s in the past. From now on, we go forward as we should have been.” He ducked his head to look into her face. “Eh?”

She smiled, a trifle teary herself. “Yes. Of course.”

“Good!” Humphrey released her and hauled in a breath. “Now—you must tell me all you and Trentham have discovered. I gather there’s some question about Cedric’s work?”

She explained. When Humphrey demanded to see Cedric’s journals she fetched a few from the stack in the corner.

“Hmm…humph!” Humphrey read down one page, then eyed the stack of journals. “How far have you got with these?”

“I’m only onto the fourth, but…” She explained that the journals were not filled in chronological order.

“He’ll have had some other order—a journal for each idea, for instance.” Humphrey shut the book on his lap. “No reason Jeremy and I can’t put our other work aside and give you a hand with these. Not your forte, but it is ours, after all.”

She managed not to gape. “But what about the Mesapotamians—and the Sumerians?”

The work they were both engaged in was a commission from the British Museum.

Humphrey snorted, waved the protest aside as he levered to his feet. “The museum can wait—this patently can’t. Not if some nefarious and dangerous bounder is after something here. Besides”—on his feet, he straightened and grinned at Leonora—“who else is the museum going to get to do such translations?”

An unarguable point. She rose and crossed to the bellpull. When Castor entered, she instructed him to move the stack of journals to the library. The journal he’d been looking at tucked under his arm, Humphrey shuffled out in that direction, Leonora assisting him; a footman carrying the journals passed them in the hall—they followed him into the library.

Jeremy looked up; as always open books covered his desk.

Humphrey waved his stick. “Clear a space. New task. Urgent matter.”

“Oh?”

To Leonora’s surprise, Jeremy obeyed, shutting books and moving them so the footman could set the towering stack of journals down.

Jeremy immediately took the top one and opened it. “What are they?”

Humphrey explained; Leonora added that they were assuming there was some valuable formula buried somewhere in the journals.

Already absorbed in the volume in his hands, Jeremy humphed.