GATCOMBE, ARTHUR’S country home, stood overlooking a broad expanse of lawn. Behind it, trees stretched up the long, gentle slope of a hill. Much smaller than Sandringham, the house could even be called modest by royal standards. It might even have been been smaller than Kirkham House.
A large part of Amelia’s lingering anger at Arthur faded as soon as she saw him standing in front of the house, watching the car as it pulled up the driveway, much like he had that morning at Sandringham. His posture was impeccable, but there was a set to his face that spoke of weariness and worry.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured as Amelia stepped out of the car.
“I could have been here sooner,” she noted more gently than she could have.
He gave her a wan smile and stepped close. Amelia’s breath caugh
