Read Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) for Free Online Page B

obvious, yet he hesitated—he knew how the man he once had been would have behaved, but he was no longer that man, and, apparently, the man he now was had different needs.
    Surrendering to the insistent impulse—and, after all, it wasn’t the Gattings, who would have been more shocked—he quickly gathered his plate and all else he deemed necessary for the rest of his meal, piled everything on the big tray Mrs. Sheridan had left on the sideboard, then, hefting the tray in one hand—something he’d learned to do at the priory—and gripping his cane in the other, he headed for the kitchen.
    They heard him coming, of course.
    He pushed past the green baize door at the rear of the front hall, then went along the short corridor to the kitchen. When he appeared in the archway giving onto the good-sized room, he saw the table sited squarely in its center; all three occupants seated at the board, knives and forks in their hands, had turned surprised and, at least on the children’s part, frankly curious faces his way.
    Seated at the far end of the table, Mrs. Sheridan set down her cutlery and pushed back her chair, preparing to rise.
    “No.” He answered the question in her face as he limped out of the shadows into the lamplight. “There’s nothing whatever amiss with the food.” Halting at the nearer end of the table, he lowered the tray to the scrubbed surface. “The truth is that, through the last five years of convalescing in a monastery, I’ve grown accustomed to taking my meals in the refectory, surrounded by lots of monks.” Raising his gaze, he met Mrs. Sheridan’s eyes. “I’ve just discovered that I find eating alone somewhat unsettling, and I wondered if you would object to me joining you here and taking my meals in your company.”
    That was the truth, just not the whole truth; he was also insatiably curious about the small family he’d discovered living under his roof.
    Sinking back onto her chair, Rose stared at him and swiftly weighed her options. His request was outlandish, entirely outside the norm, yet he owned the house, so how could she deny him? She needed this place, this position—the safety of this house—for herself and even more for the children; she wouldn’t risk that over such a minor matter. Moreover, he had explained his need for company, and that she fully understood. How many years had it been since she had conversed with another adult? Yes, she understood that craving for company, yet . . . she glanced at the children.
    They had lived there for four years, and their story was established and sound. Homer, three years older than six-year-old Pippin, understood enough to be careful, and Pippin simply didn’t remember enough to pose any real risk of exposure.
    She looked up at Glendower, fleetingly studied him anew, confirming the presence that, despite his infirmities, still shone clearly. Still had an impact. She consulted her instincts, yet, as before, they remained undisturbed; no matter the circumstances, she sensed no threat from him. She nodded. “If you wish it, then, indeed, you are welcome to join us.” She glanced at Homer. “Homer—please fetch the other chair for Mr. Glendower.”
    An eager smile lighting his face, Homer leapt up and brought the fourth chair from its place by the wall.
    Glendower took it from him with a smile and a nod of thanks, set the chair, and sat, facing her down the short length of the table. He glanced at Homer. “Homer, is it?”
    “Yes, Mr. Glendower,” Homer brightly replied. “That’s me.”
    “As we’re to share a table, Homer, you may call me Thomas.” Glendower’s gaze passed on to Pippin, who had been equally eagerly, but rather more shyly, regarding him. Glendower smiled, an easy expression that despite the damage to one side of his face remained unimpaired in its charm. “And you are?”
    Rose waited to see if Pippin would deem Glendower worthy of her words.
    After eyeing him for several seconds, during which Glendower