Merry jumped lightly down from the curricle. Sir Barnaby appeared to have forgotten her existence. He was sitting as stiffly as a statue, watching Lord Cosgrove come down the steps, and the expression on his face . . .
Shame. Despair.
Merry looked quickly away, and up at the earl. Marcus’s face was masklike, but she’d lived in his household for ten months now, and she knew him well enough to see his painful hope.
She smiled up at him. “I met Sir Barnaby at the end of the lane. He was kind enough to give me a ride.”
Marcus nodded, and halted on the final step. Merry heard the front door open again, heard quick, light footsteps. Charlotte. She allowed herself to relax slightly. Marcus seemed to relax slightly, too. He glanced back, and held out a hand to his wife.
Lady Cosgrove came swiftly down the steps. She was smiling, but beneath the smile she was anxious. She took her husband’s hand, glanced at Merry, and then at Sir Barnaby.
Sir Barnaby climbed down from the curricle. He had mastered his expression. His face was as masklike as Marcus’s.
The groom cast a nervous glance between Sir Barnaby and Lord Cosgrove; he’d know the history between the two men.
For a moment they made a silent tableau, and then Marcus said, “Barnaby. Welcome to Woodhuish Abbey.”
Sir Barnaby gave a jerky nod. His face was pale beneath the curling red-brown hair. “Thank you.”
“I’d like you to meet my wife. Charlotte.”
Sir Barnaby bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Cosgrove.”
“And you, Sir Barnaby,” Charlotte said, with a warm smile. She held out her hand to him.
After a moment’s hesitation, Sir Barnaby took it.
“I’m so glad you could come.”
Charlotte’s sincerity was audible in her voice, but Sir Barnaby didn’t appear to hear it. He gave another jerky nod, and released Charlotte’s hand and took a step back, as if to put distance between them. “Thank you for your invitation. I’m . . . pleased to be here.”
Merry almost snorted at this patent lie. He wants to be anywhere but at Woodhuish. He’d be on his way back to Berkshire if I hadn’t met him in the lane.
“The stables are around the back,” Marcus told the groom. “Come inside, Barnaby.”
Sir Barnaby seemed to rock back slightly on his heels. He inhaled a shallow breath. He was painfully tense, and beneath the tension was wariness. He was bracing himself for . . . what? Recriminations?
They climbed the steps in a stiff, awkward gaggle. Merry watched Sir Barnaby as he stepped beneath the pointed gothic arch of the great door. He seemed to draw even more closely into himself.
Their footsteps echoed on the polished flagstone floor. The butler closed the huge door and stood silently, as poker-faced as only a butler could be.
“Are you hungry?” Marcus asked. “Would you like some refreshments?”
“No, thank you.” Sir Barnaby glanced around the entrance hall, his gaze skipping over the iron-bound oak chests that were each six hundred years old and the great curving staircase with its traceried stonework.
“I thought . . . perhaps you might like to go for a walk? I could show you Woodhuish. If you would like?” The invitation was diffidently extended, but Merry saw how anxiously Marcus waited for the response.
Sir Barnaby hesitated, and then nodded.
“In fifteen minutes?”
Sir Barnaby nodded again.
Marcus seemed to relax. “Good,” he said. “I’ll meet you down here. Yeldham will show you to your room.”
The butler stepped forward. “If you would come with me, Sir Barnaby.”
Merry followed Marcus and Charlotte into the front parlor, with its tall French windows and view of the park. She peeled her gloves off thoughtfully and removed her bonnet. She had never before witnessed such a painful, awkward meeting between two people.
Charlotte took a seat by the windows, where sunlight fell across her lap. Marcus sat beside her and fidgeted, shuffling through the books on the side table, stacking them in a pile, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, restacking the books. The sixth time he looked at the clock, he said, “I, uh, I should go.”
Charlotte touched his cheek with her fingertips, and then leaned over and kissed him. “I hope it goes well, love.”
Marcus gave a brief nod, as jerky as Sir Barnaby’s. He tugged at his neckcloth as if it were too tight and headed for the door.
When he had gone, Charlotte met Merry’s eyes. “I’ve never seen him so nervous.”
Faintly, came the sound of men’s voices, the sound of the great front door closing. Charlotte tilted her head, listening, and then said, “What do you think of Sir Barnaby?”
“He doesn’t want to be here. He almost turned around at the end of the lane.” Merry spread her gloves on her knee and smoothed out the limp fingers.
“I’m not surprised. Marcus said the most dreadful things to him the last time they met. Sir Barnaby practically begged for a second chance, and Marcus refused.” Charlotte’s lips twisted. “I’ve never seen a man look so stricken. I thought he was going to cry.”
I saw that look on his face only a few minutes ago. Merry nodded soberly. “I think he’s been even more damaged by this than Marcus. And I don’t mean his reputation.”
Outside, on the lawn, movement caught her eye. Marcus and Sir Barnaby came into view. Merry had seen hundreds of men walk into her father’s dancing studio, but none had looked as uncomfortable as Sir Barnaby did now. He held himself stiffly, tensely, as if trying not to hunch in on himself.
Marcus was tense, too, but his was an eager, hopeful tension. He was half-turned to Sir Barnaby, talking, gesturing towards the abbey.
Sir Barnaby listened with his head slightly lowered, slightly averted.
He can’t bring himself to meet Marcus’s eyes.
“They’re talking,” Charlotte said, a note of hope in her voice.
“Hmm,” Merry said. The difference between the man she’d seen dance at Vauxhall four years ago and the man now crossing the lawn was stark.
Her noncommittal response brought Charlotte’s head around. “What do you see?”
A man who has built a dungeon for himself at the bottom of a deep, dark pit.
“I think . . . Sir Barnaby no longer believes that reconciliation is possible.”