When she had died, he had been so grief-stricken he’d been unresponsive for days.
He’d mourned her for eight blasted years.
That was why he hadn’t remarried.
That was the plain truth.
He heard female voices outside in the courtyard, and he got up to look out of the window. There she was, herlight blonde head and Mona’s dark one, together, bent over a basket on the ground.
Lena’s sweet, clear laughter drifted up to him through the window.
A memory struck him, of that same laughter, her in a simple blue dress, her eyes covered with a kerchief, her arms outstretched as she turned in circles in the middle of the meadow while a group of children danced around her, honey-gold hair blowing in the wind…
The sudden stab of longing piercing his chest made him gasp for breath. It was a very old, very familiar feeling.
He rubbed the spot on his chest.
Exactly when had he begun to love her?
When had he started to see her as more than the pale, characterless waif he’d always perceived her to be?
When had he become so entranced by her sweet charm?
He couldn’t identify a specific moment. It had crept up on him like ivy tendrils crawling up the trunk of a tree, taking firm root and binding him with an iron grip he could never shake.
His mind wandered back to the spring after they’d been married. They’d been married in November, and he’d immediately travelled to London to be present at the opening of Parliament, leaving Catherine behind at Aldingbourne Hall. At the time, he was convinced that this arrangement suited them both. She was free to do as she pleased in the house, while he pursued his own interests in politics. He would not subject his young wife to boring political dinners and parties. No, she would bewell off at Aldingbourne Hall, and he would not question her interests.
In retrospect, of course, he realised that he’d badly neglected his young bride.
Though not unusual, people in arranged marriages often led separate lives, in separate houses, and if they did share a house, it was in separate bedrooms.
He hadn’t questioned it. He’d naturally assumed that they, too, would have this arrangement, and that Catherine would be amenable to it. It was the way of their class, after all.
It wasn’t until much later that he’d realised how wrong he’d been.
He furrowed his brows, deep in thought.
That early spring, after Parliament had adjourned, he’d returned to Aldingbourne Hall suddenly without notifying Catherine of his impending return. It had been a difficult term. He was tired of all the debating and arguing, he was tired of London, of the crowded city, the dirt and the smog. He craved clean, fresh air, walks in the woods, and rusticating in his library without doing anything at all.
His carriage pulled up the sweeping drive of the house, and he’d climbed the steps to the porticoed entrance two at a time, until he reached the top where the butler greeted him.
“Her Grace is in the front garden,” he informed him. “With some visitors.”
He was annoyed. The last thing he wanted was to have to dance attendance on guests.
So he took his time, changed out of his travellingclothes, had a cup of tea, and then strolled out into the garden, hoping the guests had left by now.
Laughter greeted him.
It had taken him by surprise. Laughter in Aldingbourne Hall? Were the walls still standing?
There were children in the meadow, and judging from the way they were dressed, barefoot and in simple clothes, they were his tenants from the surrounding farms. The smallest one toddled about, and the eldest was a youth about Catherine’s height…
…Who was blindfolded, turning around in circles, laughing helplessly.
She was like a butterfly fluttering in the meadow, and the children were like bees buzzing around her.
What a child she was, he thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought that. To be honest, he’d thought it every time he saw her, especially after a long absence, when he was reminded again of her youthfulness, that she was really no more than a child bride. However this time, the thought wasn’t dismissive.
