Page 70 of The Summer Country

There was something about the way George said it that gave Emily a rather shivery feeling, despite the heat of the day.

“What was her name? The little girl?”

George blinked at her. “Do you know, I don’t know? Something foreign, I imagine. My grandmother only ever called her the Portuguese ward, so that’s how I think of her. The Portuguese ward.”

“Is there no grave?” It seemed terribly wrong that a child should die and be remembered as nothing more than a cry in the night, remembered only for the manner of her death and not her brief life.

“I don’t believe they ever recovered enough to bury. The fire smoldered for days, my grandmother said. People were afraid to go near it. And by the time they did . . . So many people died in the blaze, and it was all such a muddle, that they never did quite find all the pieces of everyone who was missing. There had been a number of house servants in the building, you see, and some of them had visitors, and . . . well.” George grimaced at her. “What a grim topic for a beautiful day. I’m sorry. I didn’t follow you out here to regale you with horrors.”

“I’m glad to know,” said Emily slowly. “It makes it all—not make sense, precisely, but at least I know now why the plantation was sold.”

“If you believe the story,” said George.

“Do you?”

He thought for a moment. “Yes. I do. My uncle—no one ever speaks much about him, but I gather he had grand plans for Peverills, for reforms and model farms and all that sort of thing. Whatever happened had to be truly wrenching for him to give all that up—and break all ties.”

He sounded a bit wistful. “Have you ever wanted to just disappear?” asked Emily curiously.

George smiled a lopsided smile. “Constantly. Haven’t you?”

“No.” Emily felt a pang of fierce longing for the world she had left, for her grandfather’s study at twilight, with the lamps just lit; for Laura’s room at Miss Blackwell’s, where Laura would read or dream while Emily sewed; for her work at the hospital, where Adam would appear out of nowhere to swoop her off for drives in his new curricle. She missed the life she had built for herself, that busy, useful life. “Where would you go?”

“Rome, perhaps,” said George dreamily, “to wander the Colosseum and sketch statues. Or maybe Switzerland to gaze up at the hills and paint my reflection in mountain streams.”

“Not Paris?”

“My father is in Paris.” George shook himself out of his reverie. “It’s just a dream, of course. I’d never go, not really. There’s too much to be done here. Shall we go back?”

“I’ve only just got here,” said Emily. “I’d wanted to see more of the estate.”

“It’s mostly dead fields,” said George. “There are some tricky bits toward the east—caverns and ravines as you near the water. You wouldn’t want to go there without a guide.”

Emily remembered Dr. Braithwaite’s warnings. “Are you volunteering?”

“If you’d like.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t intend adventuring that far,” said Emily, amused despite herself at his obvious lack of enthusiasm. “Just to the bookkeeper’s house.”

“Oh,” said George. And then, “Why?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s mine now, isn’t it?”

“It’s nothing much to see,” said George. “Just a house, and not a particularly grand one.”

Emily looked up at him curiously, wondering what it was that made him so reluctant to show her that particular corner of the estate. “My grandfather lived there once. I’m curious to see the place that was once his home.”

Before he was accused, if Mrs. Poole was to be believed, of sending it all up in flame. But no. She couldn’t possibly believe that. It was just malicious gossip, the vicious slanders of those who resented that a poor boy had made good.

“All right,” said George reluctantly. “It’s not far. But you should know . . . it may not be entirely unoccupied.”

“No?” Emily had to concentrate on her footing; what had once been a walkway leading around the house was now crumbled and cracked, roots stretching across to trip the unwary. George offered her his arm as she stumbled. “Thank you. But what do you—oh.”

In front of a plain, white-walled house waited a good dozen people, some sitting on the ground, others leaning against the wall of the house. There was a man with a makeshift bandage around his arm and a woman with a child on her back and another in her arms. Three children played a game that involved running back and forth, adding to the din.

They all fell silent as Emily and George approached, and in the sudden silence Emily recognized her own maid Katy, holding a child of two or three, who locked her arms around Katy’s neck and buried her head in her shoulder as Emily raised a hand in uncertain greeting.

“Hello?” said Emily, feeling rather as though she’d intruded. She smiled at the little girl. “Good morning.”