Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [108]
He ached to be able to give her more, and yet he was perfectly sure that what he felt was not pity; indeed he found the word offensive applied to her. She had far too much courage, too much dignity for him to dare such an intimate and intrusive feeling.
And yet he was aware with an ache of pain how her life had changed.
But the most powerful emotion in him was still the longing to be with her, to share his thoughts, his ideas, the experience of the things he loved. He imagined walking across a wide field with her by his side, the smell of the dawn wind off the sea, and the clouds piled and shredded in veils of light. The loveliness of it would fill him till he could scarcely contain it, and he would turn to her, and know she saw it with the same bursting heart that he did. And in that sharing all loneliness would vanish.
It flickered through his thoughts that if Adolphus Pryce felt this same consuming emotion for Juniper Stafford, and over years, perhaps it had driven from him all sense of proportion, and ultimately of morality. But it did not remain with him long, nor form itself into coherent ideas.
Instead of being with Eleanor, he was here, in Bow Street, waiting for reports on a murder he knew he would not solve. If it was solved at all, it would be by Pitt. It would be Pitt’s anger at waste and injustice, and Pitt’s insight, helped no doubt by Charlotte’s curiosity, which would find the answer, whether Drummond was there or not.
The job had completely lost its savor for Drummond, and he realized gloomily that he was in danger of making some stupid, unnecessary error, which would spoil his reputation and close his career with shame instead of honor.
He turned from the window and strode across to the hat stand, where he picked up his hat and cane, took his coat from the peg and went out into the corridor.
“Poulteney, I’m going out. Put the reports on my desk when they come. I’ll see them in the morning. If Inspector Pitt comes back, tell him I’ll see him tomorrow.”
“Yes sir. Will you be coming back tonight, sir?”
But Drummond was already striding away and he did not register the question.
Outside he walked the short length of Bow Street and around the corner into Drury Lane, where he caught a hansom. He gave the driver Eleanor’s address, and sat back trying to compose his mind and prepare what he was going to say. He changed the words a dozen times between Oxford Street and Baker Street, but when he got out at Milton Street and paid the driver it all sounded so much less than he meant. He even considered calling another cab and going away again. But if he did, the situation would not improve. He would be no more than delaying what was for him inevitable. He must ask her, and there was nothing to be altered or gained by delaying.
The same surly maid answered the door, and when he informed her he wished to see Mrs. Byam, she conducted him with ill grace through the hallway and back to Eleanor’s private door.
“Thank you,” he said briefly, and waited while she glared at him, then turned on her heel and went.
With suddenly beating heart and dry lips he raised the knocker and let it fall.
It was several moments before he heard her steps at the far side and the handle turn, and then it swung open. It was Eleanor herself; presumably her one maid was otherwise occupied. She looked surprised to see him. For an instant there was pure pleasure in her face, then within seconds it clouded with anxiety, almost a foreboding