She knew what he meant of course. "My husband passed four years ago." It seemed like a decade to her, for the years alone passed ever so much more slowly.

At some point Mr. Worthington had turned to the basket provided by Mr. Bing and had begun to unload a most copious, if somewhat rustic, luncheon. On the yards of canvas included within, Mr. Worthington arranged a spread of more of the crusty bread, a crock of butter, a jar of pickles that Gemma had put up the previous summer, a generous shank of ham, a wedge of crumbling Swaledale cheese delicately traced with blue, capped bottles of sweet spring water that still held the morning's chill, and the most extravagant prize of all, a tin of biscuits that showed its age in its dented sides and scraped edges.

Gemma bit her lip as she gazed upon it and glanced at Mr. Worthington. "The seal is still pasted down. It has never been opened."

He studied it with most serious consideration. "Years." Then, "Decades."

"Ginger biscuits." Gemma chewed on her lip. "He knows they are my favorites. It's terribly sweet of him."

Mr. Worthington peered at the box as if striving to see through the tin to estimate the condition of the biscuits within. "Dry. Not a spot of rust."

Gemma could bear it no longer. "Oh, do simply crack it open. If they are a bit past their prime, I shouldn't mind that very much. If they are completely inedible, perhaps Topknot would like one."

"Poor Topknot."

Gemma laughed again as he bent to the task of prying open the elderly tin to reveal the paper-wrapped package within. The edges of the paper had curled and gone brown and dotted with age. "Ah." Gemma made a face. "This is not looking well."

"Don't give up." Mr. Worthington gave the package a poke. When it withstood the intrusion, he gave it a more solid prod. "Biscuits. Or rocks."

Gemma bravely dove her hand into the twisted paper and pulled out a perfectly acceptable-looking ginger biscuit. It even had an attractive dusting of sugar crystals across the top. She sniffed it. "It smells of ginger and treacle." That she thrust it at Mr. Worthington. "Go on. Give the nice biscuit a try."

He stared at the biscuit in her fingers in his brows creased slightly. "Another test." It was not a question. Gemma realized that an intelligent fellow like Mr. Worthington had, of course, understood her gentle series of investigations into his emotional state and her attempts to draw him out. Unashamed, she simply smiled widely at him. "Absolutely. Eat the biscuit."

He tried. He really did. But he could not manage to bite even the tiniest crumble from the edge of the rock-hard confection. After three attempts, he lifted his head and clicked his fingers.