Jack trusted the old servant’s report more than his own mother’s account of her health, which was likely to be offhanded and vague so as not to worry him.
Perhaps he’d inherited that hide-the-troublesome-truth quality from his mother.
With Trilby’s reassurance, Jack let out a great breath. It released the tension within him, though it left him hollow and dissatisfied. If he’d known...if he hadn’t left London...
Would it have mattered? Or would he have ruined his chance with Marianne soon enough, in some similar way?
Trilby would never raise his brows or demonstrate impatience, but the way he hovered close was an unmistakable nudge. “Would you care to join Mrs. Grahame and Mrs. Redfern in the drawing room? Miss Grahame arrived perhaps ten minutes ago, and tea has just been served.”
Miss Grahame—that meant his sister Viola. Maybe it was for the best that he’d walk in on all three women at once. He could greet them all, then leave with his duty done, and they could get on with their gossip about him.
Taking the hint from Trilby, Jack entered the drawing room and faced the trio of familiar faces that turned his way. There was Marianne’s mother, Mrs. Redfern, a spare and tidy woman almost crippled by rheumatism, but still with the strong chin and bright eyes she’d bequeathed to her three daughters. Viola, Jack’s elder sister, in her usual half mourning, with wide and shrewd gray eyes and her light hair in a low knot. And in her favorite chair, surrounded by cushions, was Jack’s mother, as round and wrinkled as an apple beginning to show its age and still just as rosy. Her once-black hair was now heavily salted with white, and it curled as tightly as Jack’s would if he didn’t keep it cropped short.
True to the butler’s word, she looked well enough. She was tired, that was clear from the cushions supporting her, but her hands on her cup and saucer were steady. Her voice, when she greeted Jack, was clear.
And then began the interrogation.
“Jacob Elias, you’ve come all alone?” She craned her neck to look behind him. “No Marianne with you?”
Jacob, ugh. Elias, double ugh. “I rushed back to see how you were,” Jack explained. “Marianne still had work to do in London.”
Mrs. Redfern’s shoulders sank. “I’d wished to see her again, very much.”
She wasn’t the only one, though all three women knew that. Jack had journeyed to London on impulse, he thought, but not a one of these widows had seemed surprised by his plans. Instead, they’d all told him a more ladylike version of, It’s about damned time, and, Put a ring on her finger, and, You sapskull.
“Why on earth are you here without her?” Jack’s mother asked. “I was only sending you news. I didn’t ask you to return home. Why didn’t you just write?”
“What does my daughter look like now?” asked Mrs. Redfern. “Is she well? Did she send you with a letter for me?”
“What did you do to ruin things with Marianne?” Viola demanded.
Jack rolled his eyes. “Can’t I have tea and cakes before you sling all these questions at me?”
“Fine,” said his mother. “But you have to sit on the jackal.”
Strange though it sounded, this statement made perfect sense to Jack. His mother, flush with funds and independence all at once, had completely redecorated the dower house in Egyptian style a few years before. Her chair, striped in a bright gold and blue silk, nestled in a corner of the small drawing room. Near at hand was a scroll-back settee of startling crimson on which perched the other two women. Which meant the only other place to sit was on the larger-than-life seated jackal of black-painted wood.
Not for the first time, Jack sat on the back of his near-namesake and patted its pricked ears. “Two sugars, please, Mother,” he said. “I’m tired out from the trip. And in answer to your questions—as you see, Marianne’s not with me. Mrs. Redfern, she’s well and strong and beautiful, and she cooks like a dream, and I’m a villain for not getting a letter from her.
“And I didn’t write for news, Mother, because...I wanted to see for myself that you were all right.” He’d come to see how his mother did, just as he’d gone to London to see Marianne. He didn’t want to write to people when he could see them for himself.
He just wished he hadn’t had to leave one person behind to see the others.
She handed over his tea with a smile.