She turned and quietly walked away, suspecting that the couple never heard her footsteps crunching softly on the garden path.
Bran wasn’t waiting outside her cottage. As she turned the key in the lock, she wondered if she would find him inside. Locked doors hadn’t kept him out before—and she knew now that she had locked them.
The cottage was empty.
She closed the door behind her. “Bran?” she called softly. “Are you here?”
Where had he gone when he hadn’t been with her? Had he been here all along, silently watching her? Did he see her now? Hear her? “Bran? Please, I need to talk to you.”
Nothing.
She sat on the couch and looked at the old photograph in her lap. Her thoughts were a maelstrom of questions, emotions, memories, doubts. Shadows crept like wraiths across the floor as the evening advanced. Bailey hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights when she’d come in; the darkness didn’t trouble her now. It seemed appropriate for the newest turn her life had taken.
If only she could talk to him. She touched a fingertip to the shadowy face in the photograph and leaned her head wearily against the back of the couch, closing her eyes. She wished there were some way she could contact him.
When she opened her eyes again, he was there.
10
December 7, 1910
Something is wrong with me. I have difficulty explaining, even to Dr. Cochrane, but I know that something is not right. I tire so easily these days. My limbs feel heavy, and there is a weakness in my right hand. Last night, my water glass fell from my fingers, as though all the strength had left my grip. My head seems to hurt all the time. Not excruciating. It is just a constant, dull, nagging ache.
Gaylon is worried. I see it in his eyes when he looks at me. I believe the staff is beginning to worry, as well. They have been so kind, so solicitous lately. Particularly Emma. She frets so. I wish she wouldn’t, especially now that she is expecting a baby. Poor Emma. Pregnant and left alone. Gaylon wanted to let her go when she told us. I told him we would do no such thing. Emma Watson has been with me for years. I will not turn my back on her in her time of need. I’ve promised that she will have a job here at the inn for as long as she needs one.
Gaylon wants me to make a will. He said we both ought to, in case something should happen to one of us. He assured me he doesn’t think there is any reason to worry about my health, but he has mentioned the will several times. He told me he wants to provide for Charles, entrusting the boy to my care until he reaches his majority. And, he wishes me to settle the ownership of the inn in case I die before he does.
The inn, of course, belongs to my children. James built this place with his dreams, his sweat, his hopes and his love. There has never been any question in my mind that it will belong to his son and his daughter. I told Gaylon that. He has always agreed with me that I could make no other choice.
He has asked me to name him as executor of the estate until the twins reach their twenty-fifth birthday, should I die before that day. He said it would be best for the inn, and for the twins. He promised he would take care of the place, that he would turn it over at the proper time without hesitation. I have been married to him long enough now to believe in his sincerity. He has enjoyed managing the inn, and he will not look forward to the day it is no longer his to control, but he will honor his promise.
As for Charles, he shows no interest in innkeeping. To be honest, Charles displays little interest in anything other than his books and his lofty dreams of someday having a great deal of money. He knows all too well that he would never make that kind of fortune with this simple country inn. We get by, but we have never been rich. Nor have I ever cared. I have my children. I consider myself wealthy, indeed.
I must consider the possibility that I will die before my children are grown. I must decide what would be best for them. Obviously, they need guidance. Twenty-five does not seem an unreasonable age for them to become responsible for the management of the inn. Mary Anna will most likely marry before then, and move into a new home with her husband, but Ian, I think, will stay on. He loves this inn deeply. He has always expected to own it someday. Gaylon’s suggestion has merit.
Gaylon and I will speak to our man of affairs next week. Regardless of my state of health now, these things should not be left to chance. I hope I will be here to watch my children grow to adulthood, to see my daughter married, to hold my grandchildren in my arms. I hope to be the one to pass the ownership of the inn to my son when the time is right. But if I am not granted that much more time, then I want to die knowing that I have done my best for my children.
I love them so much.
BAILEY WASN’T SURE he was really there at first. The room was so dim by now that he was only a darker silhouette against the shadows. And then he moved toward her.
She jumped up and turned on the light.
He looked exactly the same. His hair, his face, the dark shirt and suit. The look of hopeless longing in his eyes.
But she couldn’t see him in exactly the same way she had before, she realized dazedly. Where before she’d thought him just an exasperatingly enigmatic man who intrigued her more than any man she’d ever known, now she knew who—and what—he really was. And she was having a great deal of trouble knowing what to do about it. What she felt. How she should act.
“Bran,” she whispered, and moistened her lips, which had gone dry and stiff.
“Bailey,” he said, searching her face intently. “Are you all right? How long have I been gone?”
Where had he gone? And why?
She cleared her throat, trying to concentrate on his questions rather than her own. “I—I don’t know, exactly,” she said, having no idea of the time. “A few hours.”
She didn’t try to answer his first question. She couldn’t. She wasn’t at all sure she was all right.
His gaze fell to the wooden frame she held like a shield against her breasts. “What are you holding?”