That was more than Maggie had been told; she knew nothing at all about Reeve’s Queensland property, except that he raised sugar cane there. She bit her lower lip and then walked purposefully over to the stove to get the kettle. She brewed a cup of tea before forcing herself to join Cora and the nurse at the table.

“Mr. McKenna seems to be recovering nicely,” she said belatedly and in somewhat defensive tones.

“Physical responses,” drawled Eleanor complacently, “can be misleading.”

Maggie felt as though she’d been slapped, and her cheeks burned. “Dr. Claridge was quite pleased, actually,” she said when she’d taken a moment to compose herself.

Before Eleanor could answer, Cora betrayed Maggie by rising to her feet and announcing cheerfully, “Well, I’d better look into packing Miss Elisabeth’s things if we’re making a journey.”

Maggie tossed her a pleading look, which Cora missed completely, and then stared down into her teacup when she and Reeve’s nurse were alone.

“I saw one of your performances in The Taming of the Shrew,” Eleanor said when the interval of silence grew awkward. “You were really very good.”

“Thank you,” Maggie responded woodenly.

“I can’t help wondering why you would create such a stir and then turn your back on the theater entirely, Miss Chamberlin. According to the newspapers, you had quite a future in front of you—and in your native America too.”

The answers that came to Maggie’s mind all sounded childish and petulant. For the first time since Reeve’s return, she began to doubt her place in his affections. In retrospect, she realized that all the romantic gifts he’d sent had one thing in common: a note mentioning Jamie. He might only have given her the power to sign his name because he’d no reason to think she’d ever be called upon to use it and, as for the lovemaking, well, Reeve was a virile man, even in his illness. He might have responded to any other woman in just that way—Eleanor Kilgore, for instance.

Shaken, Maggie stood and carried her teacup to the sink. Eleanor was still waiting for a reply to her remark about Maggie’s career in the theater.

Maggie held out her left hand, the magnificent ring shimmering on her finger. Even that didn’t give her any peace; Philip had said that gems were easy for a rich man to acquire, and he was right. Nonetheless, as Eleanor inspected the ring, Maggie said, “I’m going to marry Mr. McKenna. So, of course, I’ll have no time for the theater and certainly no inclination to travel all the way to America.”

The light in Eleanor’s stunning blue eyes was smug; there was no other word for it. “Mr. McKenna, according to the doctor, is a long way from being well enough to undertake the—er—rigors of marriage, Miss Chamberlin.”