“My goodness, Miss Carlisle!” she cried out, her large brown eyes as wide as a startled doe’s. “Don’t tell me you came all this way on foot?”

Lottie ran a sheepish hand over her hatless head and pulled away a twig. “Only from the train station.”

Mrs. Houston tsked as she cast a worried gaze over her. “Come with me. Ailish, make us some tea, then.”

Lottie followed Mrs. Houston to her sitting room where they could talk privately. She had always loved this cozy little space and whiled away many rainy afternoons by the hearth listening to Mrs. Houston’s stories of her youth spent in Ireland’s West Country. For a time Alec had joined them, until he grew too old for such things. Lottie’s throat tightened at the rush of memories.

The events of the day suddenly pressed down upon her and Lottie slumped into an overstuffed armchair clothed in faded green velvet. Mrs. Houston took the one opposite, her brow puckered with worry. She still retained much of the striking beauty of her youth, though her dark brown hair was now heavily streaked with gray. There had never been a Mr. Houston, and not for the first time Lottie wondered what had kept her here all these years, when she could have had a husband, a family, and a home of her own.

Ailish promptly arrived with the tea tray. Once they were alone again, Mrs. Houston began to pour. “Now,” she said as she handed Lottie a steaming cup and saucer, “am I right in supposing Alec found you?”

Lottie nearly dropped the china.

“No one else knows about Florence,” Mrs. Houston added.

Lottie’s eyes fell. “I know it was childish to leave the way I did, but I couldn’t spend another minute with Mrs. Wetherby. And Uncle Alfred was putting so much pressure on me to marry.”

Mrs. Houston gave her an understanding nod. “Where did you end up?”

Lottie let out a breath. “I went to the village my parents visited on their honeymoon.”

“Oh, my dear. No wonder Alec found you.” The sadness behind her words turned Lottie’s heart inside out. “But, he did not return to England?”

Lottie fiddled with the edge of her saucer as her throat tightened. “He thought it for the best,” she said hoarsely. “We…we quarreled before I left.” She had to look away from Mrs. Houston’s sympathetic gaze. “But that’s not why I’m here. It’s Uncle Alfred. He isn’t well.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

“I know,” Mrs. Houston said. “But he’s being taken care of. I hired Mrs. Ragmoore myself.”

“But why did he send you away?”

A faint tremor of emotion passed over the housekeeper’s face until she mastered it. Mrs. Houston swallowed hard. “I must respect his decision.”

“His or Mr. Wetherby’s?”

“You weren’t here, Lottie,” she frowned. “It was only natural for Mr. Wetherby to handle the arrangements. The doctors thought it best if your uncle had as much peace as possible until he regained his strength.”