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He’d tried to keep the tightness out of his voice, but he must not have succeeded, because when he looked at her, she was regarding him in that unsettling way of hers. “Why don’t you want to go home?” she asked.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that her imagination was too active, or, since he really ought to be reverting to form, something clever and grandiose, involving sunshine, twittering birds, and milk of human kindness.

Statements like that had got him out of far more delicate situations than this.

But he hadn’t the energy just now, nor the will.

And, anyway, Grace knew better. She knew him better. He could be his usual flip and funny self, and most of the time—he hoped—she would love him for it. But not when he was trying to hide the truth.

Or hide from the truth.

“It’s complicated,” he said, because at least that wasn’t a lie.

She nodded and turned to her lunch. He waited for another question, but none were forthcoming. So he picked up an apple.

He looked over. She was cutting into a slice of roast chicken, her eyes on her utensils. He opened his mouth to speak, then decided not to, then brought the apple to his mouth.

Then didn’t bite into it.

“It’s been over five years,” he blurted out.

She looked up. “Since you’ve been home?”

He nodded.

“That’s a long time.”

“Very long.”

“Too long?”

His fingers tightened around the apple. “No.”

She took a few bites of her meal, then looked up. “Would you like me to slice that apple for you?”

He handed it over, mostly because he’d forgotten he was holding it. “I had a cousin, you know.” Bloody hell, where had that come from? He hadn’t meant to say anything about Arthur. He’d spent the last five years trying not to think about him, trying to make sure that Arthur’s was not the last face he saw before he fell asleep at night.

“I thought you’d said you had three cousins,” Grace said. She wasn’t looking at him; she gave every sign of giving her complete focus to the apple and knife in her hands.

“Only two now.”

She looked up, her eyes large with sympathy. “I am sorry.”

“Arthur died in France.” The words sounded rusty. He realized it had been a long time since he’d said Arthur’s name aloud. Five years, probably.

“With you?” Grace asked softly.

He nodded.

She looked down at the apple slices, now neatly arranged on a plate. She didn’t seem to know what to do with them.

“You’re not going to say that it wasn’t my fault?” he said, and he hated the sound of his voice. It was hollow, and pained, and sarcastic, and desperate, and he couldn’t believe what he’d just said.

“I wasn’t there,” she said.

His eyes flew to her face.

“I can’t imagine how it would have been your fault, but I wasn’t there.” She reached across the food and laid her hand briefly atop his. “I’m sorry. Were you close?”