I need neither large nor lavish. I just inherited a house in England, and I can afford to keep it. That puts me well above poverty, William. So far above it that I can’t accept—”
“Charity?”
I squirm. “Generosity. I don’t need—”
“And neither do I. My will bequeaths the manor to a second cousin I’ve only met once. My lifestyle is simple enough that the income from my horses covers it. That cousin will inherit both a grand manor and a tidy fortune.”
“You’re thirty-eight. A long way from—”
“I am not about to develop an opium habit, Bronwyn. Nor take up residence in a gambling hell. Nor marry some empty-headed chit who’ll drain my coffers. Those are the only ways I can possibly die without thousands of those”—he points at the pouch—“going to a man who, while decent enough, has done nothing to deserve it. The advice you gave me all those years ago saved this house. It let me retire here to the lifestyle I dreamed of. You will allow me to repay you with a dozen pouches—a hundred if I wish.”
“I don’t need the money.”
“And, again, neither do I. Indulge me, Bronwyn. Or, if you cannot, grant me indulgence. At least let me feel as if I have repaid my debt.”
When I still hesitate, he says, “I meant what I wrote. If you do not take the pouches, I will keep adding to the stash, and some future homeowner will reap the benefits. He—or she—will almost certainly be a complete gadabout who will fritter it away while our poor house rots from neglect.”
He’s right, of course. There’s also something about the way he says “our” house that melts my resolve. It is indeed ours, now that I have inherited it. His in his time, and mine in mine. Yet it’s also a reminder of that divide, a gulf we cannot breach. It’s “ours” in the sense that we both own it, but not “ours” in the sense that we share it. He cannot come into my world, and I don’t know how long I can stay in his.
I shake off that melancholy thought. “I will use the money for our house.”
“Fifty percent. Or, if you’d prefer to skip the negotiating process, I’ll settle for seventy-five. Three-quarters spent on our house, one-quarter on yourself. Pay off your debts. Buy yourself frivolities.”
“Like first-class airfare?” I smile. “I’ll admit, while I can scarcely imagine paying that much for bigger seats and better service, after seven hours in economy, I’m tempted.” I catch his look. “Yes, I know. I can cross an ocean in seven hours, and I’m complaining about legroom. Twenty-first-century problems.”
“I was not going to comment. If I did, I would only say that if more legroom makes you happy, then you should have it. Everyone needs things that serve no greater purpose than to make them happy.”
He reaches for another cookie and finds the napkin empty. A glance at me.
I sigh and take out the last three cookies, laying them on the napkin. He passes me a chocolate chip. I accept the offering, and he takes a bite from a peanut butter one, crumbs tumbling onto his shirt before he continues.
“What do you have in mind for the money?” he asks.
“I . . . I haven’t thought about it.”
“Liar,” he says. “Which does not mean you wouldn’t have returned the money if I allowed that, but your mind will have permitted some forays into fantasy, how you could use it if you kept it.”
“Parlor furnishings,” I say. “Aunt Judith had to sell them for the house upkeep after Uncle Stan’s death. Also, the fridge leaks.”
“That sounds dire.” Another bite of his cookie. “Notice that I say that as if I fully understand what a fridge is.”
I smile. “Sorry. Refrigerator. It’s—”
“—an automatic icebox. One that runs on electricity, keeping food cold without the constant replenishing of ice. I just didn’t know the term fridge. I remember every detail of every modern miracle you mentioned, Bronwyn. That is why you have a pouch of gold sovereigns in that basket. Now, while I’m certain a non-leaking icebox and a furnished parlor will bring some satisfaction to your life, not everything is about necessity. A home needs indulgence, too. What dreams do you have for our house? Completely nonessential flourishes and luxuries you would like to add?”
I try to demur—I live a life where every cappuccino comes with a prickle of guilt. But William pushes and suggests, and soon we’re deep in a discussion of the