She reached for the dressing gown. She reached for the memory that she couldn’t quite let herself believe, and then, once she was safely wrapped in velvet, her mind allowed the thought to escape.
He was not a betting man.
Freddy Hightower was not a betting man.
Could that be true? Could it actually be true?
They had been trying to tell her he had changed for years now. First Millie, of all people, then Dot, then Ember. They had told her absurd, unlikely things.
They said he had smuggled two maidens out of the country to escape a violent father, with nothing to gain at all for himself. They said he punched a man a foot taller than him in defense of a friend, with absolutely no stake in the matter.
They said he could cook and clean now too. They said he insisted upon it! That he rankled Abe for being untidy while sweeping debris in his wake.
That one had been proven true, hadn’t it? At least the premise had, if not the specifics. Did that mean the other stories were true as well?
She floated out into the hallway to check on Oliver, to peek into his room and ensure he was sleeping as he was told to be. To her surprised relief, he was, curled on his side in bed, cuddling that gigantic wooden sword like a stuffed animal.
She leaned against the doorframe, stifling her little gust of laughter at it, and just watched him for a moment, the torchlight behind her dancing over her son’s face. She pulled the door shut quietly and tiptoed away.
She could hear the others returning to the cottages as she passed back toward her bedroom, the stifled baritone of Silas’s voice overlapping with Tommy’s response. Dot’s voice, the only clear one, said, “Good night.”
“Good night,” Claire whispered back to her friend through the glass.
Part of her wanted to go out there too. Part of her wanted to catch Dot by the wrist and ask the question that was burning in her, right at the base of her throat.
Have I changed too?
Am I any better?
She frowned and pulled the curtain shut, blocking out the light from their lanterns as they passed by.
Would Dot be very cross with Claire, should she openly take Freddy back? Would she be disappointed, even though she would never say it?
Claire hated the idea of hurting Dot again, in much the same way. She hated it, and yet she still intended to have him, and have him completely, consequences be damned.
So there was her answer. She was not better. She was not different.
She was just as she ever was, while Freddy had emerged shining and improved. Yet, he still wanted her anyway.
He still did.
She went to her room and crawled into the bed, arranging herself in the center of the mattress and swirling the sheetsaround her fetchingly. She checked her reflection in the faraway vanity. She took a bracing breath.
She waited.
And waited.
Certainly for an hour or more, despite what the lying clock said!
She waited. An agony.
Until she could wait no more.
CHAPTER 25
Freddy was enraptured, a thousand miles away from the Cotswolds, standing on the bow of a ship. He could feel the mist. He could see the stars. He could taste the sea air.
That was how he had lost track of time after his bath.
