Chapter Twenty-Six
Eleanor Wrotham was sitting on the sturdy green sofa when Mordecai entered the parlor. She rose to her feet.
Mordecai closed the door and examined her. She looked particularly haughty, and perhaps a little wary. My fault. He’d made a bad misstep this afternoon. He wasn’t sure how to retrieve his footing, or if it was even possible. He took a deep breath. “Nell . . .”
The door opened behind him and two serving-men entered bearing dinner.
Mordecai swallowed the words he’d been about to utter—I’m sorry I shouted at you—and stood silently while the food was placed on the table. Thank God none of the dishes was roasted pork. He didn’t think he could eat pork tonight. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to eat it again. His memory gave him an image of a half-charred
