letters that left Finch feeling empty. Annette’s words were a flood of information, but never once did they touch on anything of personal interest to Finch.
There was a passing mention of his trip and wishing him well, but no questions about his affairs. Not even asking after his health. The letter was little more than a lecture on their lives, asking nothing of him but to sit and listen as she expounded on the greatness of the Finch family.
The other brothers’ illustrious careers were outlined in detail. Phineas’s effective negotiation with the tenants to raise rents. Solomon and Arnold’s victory in a case that had languished in the courts for some years. Julian’s advancement from commander to captain was all but done. Even remembrances of Wesley’s heroic exploits were given a passing mention, though he’d been gone from this world nearly fifteen years.
Finch wondered what she wrote to his brothers on his behalf.
“Finch still lives.” What more could she say? There was a reason he rarely replied to Annette’s letters, and it wasn’t just a matter of the cost.
“Is it bad news?”
Mina’s question jerked him from his thoughts, and Finch looked up to see her staring at him with a furrowed brow.
Tucking the letter back into the envelope, he smiled and waved away the question. “My sister-in-law enjoys writing novels about the goings-on of the Finch family. I hardly need to visit them, for she paints such a vivid picture of their lives.”
But the words didn’t mollify Simon’s wife, and she stared at him with those warm brown eyes of hers; something in them made him feel as though she was not as easily fooled as her husband, nor would she be put off by false claims of apathy. Yet what advice or sympathy could Mina Kingsley give?
There was only one person who might understand his plight.
“Please excuse me, but the morning has gotten away from me.” Tossing his napkin aside, Finch rose to his feet, gave Mina a bow, and made a hasty retreat.
Chapter 18
Felicity hadn’t thought herself particularly fond of winter. She held no hatred towards the season but neither did she think it a fine time of year. As a child, Felicity had enjoyed all the trappings of the season, but then, youth held more possibilities for such cold months, and it had been some years since she’d enjoyed skating or frolicking in the snow.
The city in winter was a cold, dark thing. The occasional snow lent some beauty to the buildings for fleeting moments, but that pristine white was quickly tinged brown and grey by the press of humanity. And to Felicity’s thinking, there was nothing uglier than a city street filled with melting snow and mud, painting the world in dull colors.
But a country winter was a different beast. Stretches of snow lay undisturbed, covering the countryside in pristine white. The world looked clean and pure in the country. Staring out the parlor window, Felicity took in the sight, certain she would never tire of gazing upon it. Where a city winter demanded sequestering oneself by a warm hearth until spring arrived, the countryside begged her to explore.
“Staring out that window won’t make him arrive any faster.”
Felicity gave a start and then sent Aunt Imogene a narrowed look from over her shoulder. “You are speaking gibberish again, Aunt. Should I send for the apothecary? He might have some medicine to heal your troubled mind.”
Aunt Imogene gave a halting chuckle, shaking her head at that impudence.
“You can pretend all you like, but I am no fool, and even a fool could see how often you and Mr. Finch spend your days together,” she said, turning her attention back to her sewing. “He was a regular visitor to Buxby Hall before, but now he is a fixture. And if he is not here, you are guaranteed to disappear to Avebury Park before long.”
“This has been a beautiful winter,” said Felicity, not bothering to hide her shift in subject. She turned her attention to the window, and her gaze followed the bending swirls of frost edging the window. Even that was prettier in Bristow. “I don’t know if I’ve ever enjoyed a winter so much.”
Aunt Imogene was quiet for a moment or two, but Felicity felt the lady smile and braced herself for whatever mischief her great-aunt would spout next.
“I imagine it’s the company that makes it so remarkable.” Aunt Imogene’s tone was so laden with significance that it was a wonder her words did not fall to