Chapter 20
Jason shook his head and glanced back at the carriage. Colby put a hand out of the window and waved, with the enthusiasm of a youthful aristocrat. Jason grinned and blew a kiss, and followed Andy inside.
He worked steadily for the rest of the afternoon. Sitting in the bedroom they were using for Will Crawford’s, pretending to be sitting beside Colby. Finally able to breathe, in the wake of Will’s gradual but undeniable recovery. Able to take in the surroundings, the luxury, the wealth that glinted in gold and paintings and woven fabrics. Ancestral portraits. Fashionable wallpapers and bed-hangings. Lavish sprawling rugs and satin sheets. Even his teacup gleamed, inlaid with evidence of old money.
He stood, moved by Stephen’s restless comparable poverty. He walked to the window, stared blankly at rolling grounds and gardens. Will Crawford’s inheritance rose like an architectural masterpiece of English landed nobility. Stephen’s hands—suntanned, rope-callused, working—tightened.