For Elise by Sarah M. Eden Page A

appearance.
    “Anne will be entranced,” Elise said. “She has never seen a picture book.”
    “Is she sleeping?”
    Elise nodded. “But if she wakes and I am gone, she will be upset.”
    “Has she seen a doctor about her hearing?” Miles knew the instant the words left his mouth that he’d been too blunt.
    Elise’s mouth pulled tight. “I could not always afford to feed her. Doctors were out of my reach.” She spun on the spot and began a stiff-spined march from the room.
    There was a glimpse of his Elise! She had always been sweet-tempered and kind to a fault, but—lands!—she had been proud at times. It wasn’t the side of Elise he’d expected to see first, but it was oddly encouraging.
    “Are you going to push me out of a tree now?” Miles called after her.
    That stopped her on the spot. She looked back over her shoulder, confused.
    “Once, when I upset you, you pushed me out of a tree.” Miles raised an eyebrow. He waited for the flash of memory, for a hint of shared humor. But it seemed the atmosphere was too strained and tense.
    She didn’t smile at the memory, didn’t give him an ironic look. If anything, her expression grew more pensive, her eyes boring into him.
    Miles pushed out a breath. “I’m sorry.” Nothing he did seemed to work. He only wanted to have his friend back again.
    “You broke your wrist,” she said quietly, her voice suddenly thick with what sounded like emotion.
    “Oh, Elise,” he whispered and crossed to her. To his shock, she didn’t glare or turn away. Her sad eyes simply held his gaze.
    “You never even scolded me for that,” she said. Why had that memory brought about this rare moment of openness?
    “You were five years old,” Miles said. “And you cried about my wrist more than I did.”
    “I was convinced you hated me.” She sniffled. “I was absolutely certain you would abandon me.”
    “But I didn’t,” Miles pointed out.
    “Not then,” she whispered.
    “Not—?”
    Elise abruptly pulled away. “I should go back to Anne.”
    “Elise—”
    “Good night, Miles.” She was all the way to the door already.
    “Elise.”
    But she was gone.
    Not then. The words repeated in his mind over and over. Not then. What the devil did she mean by that?
    * * *
    Elise sank onto her bed, the volume of Robin Hood on the night table. She took a shaky breath. A hot tear escaped the corner of her eye. She closed her eyes tightly, not allowing room for another tear to follow the first.
    Miles had conjured up so many memories. And though she did regret the day he’d broken his wrist, the times she’d reflected on while standing there in the library had been happy ones. For a fleeting moment, she’d wanted to simply melt into his reassuring embrace just as she had on the most horrible night of her life. He’d held her in front of him as they’d ridden in silence back to Epsworth, Elise shaking with cold and fear and pain. He had held her so many times in the weeks that followed.
    How easy it would be to lean on him again when her heart was so heavy. So very easy, but so very dangerous.
    “Help me,” Elise said into the darkness. “I cannot bear to be hurt again.”



Chapter Nine
    After a morning of writing letters, Miles was desperate to be out of doors. He’d contacted his solicitor, as well as Mr. Cane, the solicitor who had once handled his father’s affairs; he had also acted as liaison with the man of business who had handled the account Miles created in Elise’s name before leaving for the West Indies. Miles had then written to the current occupants of Furlong House, now known as Hampton House, to request the few items belonging to the Furlong family that the Hamptons had agreed to store in the house’s attics. No doubt, word of Elise’s reemergence would be all over the neighborhood where they’d once lived in a matter of days.
    A cool, humid breeze rushed past as Miles made his way determinedly onto the back grounds of Tafford. He’d decided