All he might ever have of her.
“You’ll have your memories,” people liked to say about lost things.
And yet his memories were both bliss and torment.
But he would not yet go in pursuit of her. He simply could not be certain it wouldn’t appall and distress her. He wanted to cause her no further suffering.
But he had sent out a signal. And if nothing else, whatever befell the two of them, at least hopefully she would know for the rest of her life that Dominic Kirke had loved her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Mrs. Cartwright, will you please pass the salt?”
“Of course, dear,” she said absently. She didn’t look away from the page ofThe Timesshe was reading as she pushed the salt dish over to Catherine, who sat opposite her father in the sunny morning kitchen. They were surrounded by a pleasant morning feast of eggs and toast and kippers and coffee.
Catherine sprinkled some salt over her eggs and scooped her fork into them.
She dropped the fork with a clatter when Mrs. Cartwright gasped theatrically.
“Good heavens, Mrs. Cartwright. What is it?”
“The news about Lord Kirke!”
Freezing dread roared through Catherine with such force she nearly toppled from her chair. She dug her fingertips into the edge of the table.
Her lips couldn’t form the words “what news?” She merely made an inarticulate questioning sound. Almost a whimper.
“The beautiful speech he gave on the floor of the House of Commons a few weeks ago,” Mrs. Cartwright expounded. “They’re saying grown men were weeping. Weeping! Now, that must have been a sight. They’re calling it ‘The Clover Speech.’”
When Catherine said nothing for long seconds, Mrs. Cartwright looked up. “Catherine dear, you’ve gone pale.”
Portent had sent tingles racing all along Catherine’s arms and up the back of her neck.
She couldn’t speak for the white-hot flare of hope in her chest.
“My dear. What’s wrong? Something’s wrong.” Her father laid a hand on her arm.
Catherine could scarcely get the words out. “Did they print it? The speech?” Her voice shook.
“Of course.”
“Will you read it to us, Papa?”
Mrs. Cartwright passed the paper to her father. “He does the voice so well, doesn’t he?”
No. No one can do his voice justice, Catherine thought.
Her father cleared his throat and read it, in the stentorian voice he liked to adopt for Lord Kirke. “When I was a boy...”
When he was finished, Catherine brushed at her cheeks, surprised to discover they were wet.
“It is very moving, isn’t it?” her father said gently. Deeply confused.
She nodded.
“I’ll warrant he’s a fine man,” her father said, clearing his throat.
“The finest,” she said fervently, thickly.