But she stopped. Right there at the corner, just out of his sight.
And she knocked three times.
Just because she could.
Twelve
In which nothing is resolved.
When Gregory sat down to breakfast the next day, Kate was already there, grim-faced and weary.
“I’m so sorry,” was the first thing she said when she took the seat next to him.
What was it with apologies? he wondered. They were positively rampant these past few days.
“I know you had hoped—”
“It is nothing,” he interrupted, flicking a glance at the plate of food she’d left on the other side of the table. Two seats down.
“But—”
“Kate,” he said, and even he didn’t quite recognize his own voice. He sounded older, if that was possible. Harder.
She fell silent, her lips still parted, as if her words had been frozen on her tongue.
“It’s nothing,” he said again, and turned back to his eggs. He didn’t want to talk about it, he didn’t want listen to explanations. What was done was done, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Gregory was not certain what Kate was doing while he concentrated on his food—presumably looking around the room, gauging whether any of the guests could hear their conversation. Every now and then he heard her shifting in her seat, unconsciously changing her position in anticipation of saying something.
He moved on to his bacon.
And then—he knew she would not be able to keep her mouth shut for long—“But are you—”
He turned. Looked at her hard. And said one word.
“Don’t.”
For a moment her expression remained blank. Then her eyes widened, and one corner of her mouth tilted up. Just a little. “How old were you when we met?” she asked.
What the devil was she about? “I don’t know,” he said impatiently, trying to recall her wedding to his brother. There had been a bloody lot of flowers. He’d been sneezing for weeks, it seemed. “Thirteen, perhaps. Twelve?”
She regarded him curiously. “It must be difficult, I think, to be so very much younger than your brothers.”
He set his fork down.
“Anthony and Benedict and Colin—they are all right in a row. Like ducks, I’ve always thought, although I’m not so foolish to say so. And then—hmmm. How many years between you and Colin?”
“Ten.”
“Is that all?” Kate looked surprised, which he wasn’t sure he found particularly complimentary.
“It’s a full six years from Colin to Anthony,” she continued, pressing one finger against her chin as if that were to indicate deep thought. “A bit more than that, actually. But I suppose they are more commonly lumped together, what with Benedict in the middle.”
He waited.
“Well, no matter
,” she said briskly. “Everyone finds his place in life, after all. Now then—”