He had not spoken for hours, but from time to time, as Louise laid her hand upon his arm, he had slowly taken and pressed it between his own before raising it with a sigh to his lips.
“Don’t speak to me, my darling,” he had pleaded to her when he first took his place there that morning. “I want to think.”
She had respected his prayer, and in her endeavours to take her thoughts from the horrors which oppressed her she had stolen into her father’s study, as an idea struck her, but only to come away sadly. Her visit had been too late; the cherished collection of marine objects were one and all dead.
Her father looked up as she returned. He had not seemed to notice her, but he knew where she had been, and as he gave her a questioning look Liza entered the room.
“Miss Van Heldre, miss.”
Vine caught his child’s hand, as if too weak for the encounter; but, as the closely-veiled figure in black crossed the room quickly, and both realised the meaning of those mourning garments, Louise burst into a wild fit of sobbing, and turned away for a moment, but only to be clasped directly in Madelaine’s arms.
There was an earnest, loving embrace, and then Madelaine turned to Vine, laying her hands upon his breast, and kissing him as a child would its parent.
“So much better,” she said, in answer to the wistful, inquiring look directed at her. “I have come to fetch you both.”
“To fetch us?” faltered Vine with a horrified look.
“My father begs you will come to him. I am his ambassador. You will not refuse?”