The Companion by Susan Squires Page B

years ago. He will no doubt have set things to rights. He was always very practical.”
    His tone said he denigrated practicality. She decided being practical had its deficits. “Then you also must have lost your father,” she said, hesitating. “My condolences.”
    “Unnecessary, believe me.” He tossed off a glug of wine. “The old autocrat terrorized his family and brought the estate to wrack with his gambling and his . . . other habits.” He shook his head to shake off any effect his father had on him. Ludicrous, of course, but natural.
    “Fathers can be complicated. My own father loved me but was so distracted he sometimes quite forgot to provide for me. His payments to my school were irregular to say the least. The silver lining was that I was forced to insist he take me with him at fifteen. The independence I learned arranging his expeditions would be useful anywhere but England.”
    “How do you mean?” He put his hand out to toy with his wineglass. It was inches from her clasped hands. She felt it like a magnet. If she was not careful, she would take it in her own.
    “Only . . . only that in England no one seems to allow females to provide for themselves.”
    “Females provide for themselves in quite a determined manner on the Marriage Mart.” His expression darkened.
    “By getting a man to do so by proxy,” she protested. “A husband controls his wife’s fortune, her property. A woman is lucky if her father can negotiate settlements to provide for her widowhood. No, I was thinking of something more direct.”
    His smile was very small. It changed his face. “You mean setting up as a governess?”
    She sighed. “I hope I do not have to resort to employment. Almost no one wants their children to learn archaeology and geology and Arabic.”
    His brows drew together. “Perhaps your aunt will help you to a suitable match.”
    “Unlikely. I will never marry a man I cannot respect, or even . . .” Should she say it? What was this man to her that she should refrain? “Love.”
    “I hope you have choices which suit you, then.” He dismissed her as naïve.
    “I have a fair portion which should let me live independently.” She did not relish being thought naïve, whether thatwas true or not. She rushed on. “Father put money in the Consuls in my name. I was considering whether to offer up my portion to support his next expedition when he was struck on the head by that perfectly arbitrary bit of masonry.” She sighed. “I can’t help feeling his death was a judgment on my selfishness.”
    “Selfishness?” Rufford snorted. “Because you considered keeping the provision he had made for your future in just such a case? And don’t tell me you believe in divine retribution for your thoughts, because anyone who plays chess as you do would be lying.”
    All the tears she had not yet shed tangled in her chest and made breath difficult. “You don’t understand how important his dream was to him. A significant discovery would mean he had mattered. He wanted to find that lost city more than he wanted anything.” She smiled wistfully. “Including me.” She came to herself. “My portion would have been a small sacrifice.”
    She sipped her Madeira, conscious of his gaze.
    He said in a tight voice, “You would not want to find that city. It is evil.”
    “So the folklore says,” she agreed eagerly. “I collected maps, testimonials, even all those tales of bloodsucking and ancient evil. I found one Imam, very old, in Tunis, who I think has actually been to Kivala. I know we could have found it. We were on our way to consult him when my father . . .” Her companion’s face contorted in horror. “Whatever is the matter?”
    Mr. Rufford was saved by the pipe to dinner from answering. He sprang up as though released and knocked his head upon a beam, swearing under his breath. When he raised it, he was master once again. “Shall we?” he asked, only a slight hoarseness conveying the distress she had