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It was a long charged moment before he answered. ‘Eleven months old,’ he said at length, so quietly that she had to strain to hear him. ‘My wife was diagnosed as having cancer a month after Jamie was born.’ His voice was toneless—devoid of all feeling, all warmth, all sentiment—and there was a chilly remoteness in his usually expressive brown eyes.
She sensed that sympathy was the last thing he’d want. ‘How—how did you and your wife manage... with a new baby?’
‘My mother took care of Jamie at our family farm in the Cotswolds, while my wife had regular treatment in London. It went on for several weeks, and left her very weak and... failed to help her. She spent her last months on the farm. She was happiest there in the peace and tranquillity of the countryside.’ He turned away to look out of the window. Hoping that would be the end of her interrogation?
But now that he’d opened up, even a little, she couldn’t leave it there. Once she accepted the job he might clam up altogether. ‘Were you able to be there with her?’ she asked tentatively.
A muscle twitched at his jaw, his only sign of emotion. ‘I was with her the whole time...all through her treatment and afterwards at the farm. My brother looked after our business until... it was over.’ He answered in a flat voice, without turning back to face her.
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