Page 73 of My Highland Rogue
“You and Harrison don’t look alike, either.”
What if it was the truth? The horrible truth?
Her mind was beginning to wrap around the idea, even as she tried to repudiate it. This was why Gordon had been so different, why he’d avoided her. He, too, was coming to grips with Sean’s confession.
Something died inside her, and she felt it as it writhed and curled and twisted in its death throes.
This was the man she loved. This was the man against whom all other men had been compared. This was the man she’d kissed and with whom she’d planned a future. She’d thought about the children they would have, the life they’d create.
She was suddenly so cold that the trembling was almost anticlimactic. She wished she’d worn her gloves, but the day had seemed too temperate earlier. She wrapped her arms around her midriff and fought back the nausea.
He took one step toward her, then seemed to think better of it, stopping where he was.
“You might as well know something else. I hold Harrison’s markers. He’s a gambler, but not a good one. Adaire Hall is essentially mine now.”
A moment later he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there.
Life will give you lessons that seem too hard to bear, my darling girl. You must accept them anyway and become the stronger for it.
Her mother’s words. Mary Adaire had lived a shadowy existence ever since the night of the fire. Yet she’d never complained, either about her deep, life-altering scars and infirmities or the fact that she could barely see.
Her mother was wiser than she. Stronger, too. Yet the loss of her husband had changed her. Grief had worn her down just as it was eroding Jennifer.
The cold wrapped around her like a blanket made of ice. She thought that Sean might be warmer in his grave than she felt at this moment.
Somehow, she had to take a step and then another. She was standing in a mulched flower bed. If Sean were alive, he would fuss at her now. She had to get to the Hall and then upstairs to her rooms without speaking to anyone. Without anyone coming up to her with an endless request for information or permission. She would shatter if anyone talked to her. She would disintegrate if she was forced to answer any kind of question.
The Hall loomed before her. All those steps seemed impossible to navigate. She couldn’t do it. She fell to her knees in the flower bed. Better here than someplace private. There she might scream at God, demand to know what sick and horrid jest He had perpetrated on them.
She sat back on her heels, clutching her hands together. She was getting her cloak dirty and her best dress soiled as well. How very strange that it didn’t seem to matter.
In that moment she wasn’t Lady Jennifer Adaire of Adaire Hall. She was simply Jennifer, of the wild curls and abandoned laughter, who ran through the strath following Gordon, who found limitless things about which to be fascinated, who hoped and dreamed and wept when her love left her, only for him to return and destroy her.
She didn’t know how long she knelt there, but she heard the sound of a carriage pulling away from the Hall. She wasn’t able to see it until it had climbed to the top of the hill. Then it seemed to hesitate.
Did Gordon wave goodbye? Did he tip his hat to her in a final, horrible gesture of farewell?
She had to get up before someone saw her. She had to stand and make it to the Hall. A low, keening sound emerged from deep inside her chest. She wanted to silence herself but couldn’t. The grief was too great, the sorrow too overwhelming. She finally grabbed the edge of her cloak and stuffed it into her mouth, unsurprised when her hands came away wet with tears.
“Lady Jennifer?”
Oh no. Oh no. He was the very last person she wanted to see. Yet even Mr. Campbell’s presence wasn’t enough to control her weeping. He bent and put his hands under her arms, helping her stand.
“Lady Jennifer, what’s wrong? What can I do?”
His unexpected kindness was enough to summon another wave of tears. He pulled her into his arms, and she fell against him, both horrified and grateful for his presence. He didn’t say anything else, simply let her cry there in a flowerbed. Occasionally, he would pat her back, but not a word passed between them.
Somehow, she returned to her suite of rooms. She wasn’t entirely certain how it had happened, but it had involved, strangely enough, Mrs. Farmer who, along with Mr. Campbell, provided a wall of security around her.
She heard a few people questioning her appearance, but Mr. Campbell simply brushed them off. Then, she was in her bedroom, and Mrs. Farmer was helping her off with her cloak and then her dress before wrapping her in her dressing gown and sitting her in her favorite chair beside the window. Then that remarkable woman was rubbing her feet. Her bare feet that were as cold as a block of ice.
In the next few minutes a maid arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits. After that, she was wrapped in a blanket and tucked back into the wing chair. Once she’d curled her hands around the hot cup of tea, Mr. Campbell entered her room.
He came and sat on the footstool in front of her, Mrs. Farmer standing near.
“What can I do for you, Lady Jennifer? What service can I perform for you?”
She hadn’t meant to, but she started to cry again. Mrs. Farmer clucked at her and said something to Mr. Campbell that made him get up and leave the room. When they were alone, Mrs. Farmer took his place on the footstool, holding her hands and looking earnestly up into Jennifer’s face.
