As for herself, she was tired, concerned for her patient, and spent more time than she should at his bedside, just watching him sleep.
The fever had finally disappeared, and he no longer tossed and turned, sweating into his sheets and groaning as he shivered. She’d washed the linens several times, thanking the heavens for providing some sunshine and a stiff breeze to dry them. So far, the weather had held, and the snow was mostly melted.
But spring was still a long way off, and the sea still roared ferociously now and again, a sound that Willow had become accustomed to during her tenure at Madame’s.
Once again, she had to remind herself that it was now her house. Her home, should she wish to live here. What a series of unexpected events. She reminded herself to write to her parents; the roads should be clear enough to get a letter through to Forest Grange, and she certainly had more than enough news for them.
Sighing, she rose from her chair beside the bed, tucked her patient in more snugly, and smiled as he grunted a little at her touch. He should be feeling more comfortable, since the fever had gone, and the poultices had reduced the swelling around his ankle.
She couldn’t help stroking his tousled brown hair, unkempt and somewhat grubby now. But she knew that when it was clean, and in the sunshine, it would reflect chestnut brown lights, a good match for those rich green eyes. A heritage from some Irish ancestor, Harry would say when asked about them. Although he’d never mentioned if he knew which one.
There was no question he was handsome. Women had been falling over themselves to spend time with him ever since Willow could remember. His family had owned Myrtle Manor for many years, but it wasn’t until a few years ago that Harry had really taken it over.
He and Ashe were firm friends, of course, being of an age, and of similar interests. In other words, they were young men, and Willow couldn’t help but smile at the memories of some of their escapades. She knew now that there probably had been many others kept from her delicate ears, but setting all that aside, Harry Chalmers was definitely a fine gentleman with one all-consuming focus.
Horses.
They were his passion, and she’d spent more than a few hours in the parlour at Forest Grange, listening to him extoll the virtues of one of his new mares, or the delight of seeing a brilliant future for a new foal. He kept some at Myrtle Manor, just a few of his favourites. The Chalmers Stables, however, were located a bit nearer London, and were thus more convenient for Tattersalls, and within a comfortable distance from the Surrey downs and the Epsom racecourse.
Harry had been so excited to enter one of his fillies into the Oaks, and the following year he’d had a colt in the Derby. Neither had won, but he did get a third-place finish in the Derby, which he felt was a reflection on all his horses and their jockeys.
Willow wished she could have been there to cheer for his horses, but young ladies of her tender age weren’t encouraged to frequent racecourses. She had settled for an afternoon spent listening to him as he regaled her brother with a description of the event.
Tucked away in a large chair, they’d barely noticed her presence, which didn’t bother her in the least. She was more than content to listen to the conversation, to hold her breath and try not to gasp as Harry took Ashe through the races, painting a picture of excitement, competition, and nerve-wracking close finishes.
She could almost smell the horses and hear the thunder of their hooves. It was difficult not applauding at the conclusion, but she didn’t want the two gentlemen to amend their conversation because of her presence.
They’d forgotten her, which left her free to enjoy the vision Harry’s words painted in her mind.
It was probably on that afternoon that Willow first felt a stirring, an odd ripple that disrupted her normal equanimity.
Since tea was about to be served, she’d risen from her chair just as Ashe and Harry were leaving the room. Harry had paused as she came up to the door and smiled at her. “I’d forgotten you were there, little Willow. I trust I was not indelicate at all in my enthusiasm?”
Willow shook her head. “Oh no, certainly not. I very much enjoyed listening. I felt I was at the track when you described the race, and I’m so glad your horse did well. A good course, a good rider, and a responsive mount.” She paused. “Will you enter again?”
He nodded. “I think so. You should come by Myrtle Manor sometime soon. Take a look at my fillies. I’ll wager you have a good eye for the ones that will run like the wind.”
Her heart thumped at the sweet smile and the warmth in those glorious green eyes. “You are very kind. I would like that very much.”
“In that case, it is a fait accompli.” He chuckled and held out his arm. “May I have the honour of walking you into tea?”
“The honour is mine, Mr Chalmers.”
He leaned down toward her as she laid her hand on his sleeve, and whispered, “Call me Harry, Willow?”
She glanced up into his eyes as he smiled once more.
“All right—Harry.”
“That’s my girl.” He put his hand over hers and squeezed gently.
Three simple words, one wonderful smile, and young Willow Trease had tumbled headlong into love with Harry Chalmers.
Even though she had matured into a sensible young woman, one irrefutable fact remained.
She still was.
*~~*~~*
