She nestled against his shoulder and closed her eyes. "I am still angry, you know."
"I know."
"You left me and Clare, and we waited and waited and waited..."
"I'm so, so sorry," he whispered. "I will atone for the rest of my life."
"But I am also very sorry. Because I broke all those vases. They must have been very expensive."
"They were ugly, and I didn't like them anyway."
"Still. I shouldn't have thrown them at you. It wasn't your fault, and you were suffering so much. And I am sorry I shouted at you and called you a chuckle-headed dolt."
"You are absolutely right. I am a chucklehead. Most of the time, especially in Parliament, I don't understand what they are saying. I just pretend I do."
"Kit?"
"Hmm?"
"I'm so sorry I didn't find you sooner."
"If only… if only I had not believed the lies they told me. About you being dead. All these lost years. I don't know how I will ever forgive myself for that." He hung his head.
"Don't." She took his hand, the one with the ring, and pressed a kiss on its back. "It wasn't your fault. None of it was. Do not feel guilty for what happened," she told him. "Do not look back. But let us look forward to what is to come. So much joy."
Kit wrapped his arm tightly around her and hugged her to him, pressing a kiss on the top of her head.
The next morning,Monsieur Petit found the Marquess and Marchioness of Atherton huddled on the floor by the stove, sound asleep, still hugging each other. A plate of half-eaten biscuits lay on the floor.
ChapterEighteen
Horse-drawnsledges had pulled up to the main entrance of the manor and were waiting for the guests to climb aboard for the Christmas service. Hot bricks would be placed under their feet, with the ladies wrapped in furs, muffs, shawls and hooded cloaks, and the gentlemen in fur-trimmed greatcoats.
It would be a splendid affair indeed to see the cavalcade of grand ladies and gentlemen drive through the village to the church for Christmas mass.
Just before the guests boarded the sledges, a plain, unassuming horse-drawn carriage pulled into the driveway and stopped beside them.
A footman stepped forward to open the door and a wiry woman descended from the vehicle.
She stood ramrod straight, wrapped in several layers of shawls, a masculine beaver hat sitting smartly on her iron-grey hair.
Behind her appeared a bundle wrapped from head to toe in shawls, and in the attempt to jump from the carriage, fell headlong into the snow.
The woman picked her up, brushed off the snow, and unpacked the bundle. Underneath five shawls and two coats, a dark curly mop of a head appeared. The child was wearing a simple, threadbare woollen coat that seemed too small, and mittens that were too big for her. She pulled them off and looked around curiously.
Seeing the ladies and gentlemen standing on top of the stairs, watching them, she turned away shyly and made a motion to hide behind the woman's skirts.
Until she saw Mira.
A squeal pierced the air, scaring up a murder of crows from the treetops. "Mama!"
Mira's heart stopped, then began to race. A little whirlwind whisked up the stairs, past the sledges, horses, coachmen, footmen, and astonished ladies, and hurled itself at Mira.
Mira dropped to her knees and buried her face in the child's hair. "Clare. My Clare."
"Look, Mama, look! I have lotht my teef." Clare bared her teeth and showed off a gap where her two front teeth used to be.
Mira tucked away the curls from her face. "So you have, my love. Since when?"
