Why did she have to leave?Lothar thought. He wanted to go after her and convince her to stay. Ishould at least make sure she is safe.He thought as he had already moved in her direction. He could see her just in front of him.
Then the large wooden door in the entrance hall opened. He watched a carriage stop at the entrance, and then Gemma was inside. He moved quicker, breaking into a run, but instead choked on the dust as the carriage moved off.
His shoulders slumped in defeat as he turned back and headed back through the house to the garden. He moved around the room and made conversation from one group to the next.
Lothar had found it easy to speak to most people. He had often wondered if his large frame intimidated people into listening, or if they were truly interested. He listened to each person as they spoke, yet he could not hold a thought or remember a word as it was being spoken.
He tried his best not to keep watch of the time. Every second felt like it was weighed down since Gemma had left.
Have I ever missed Henny even a fraction as much as I miss Gemma?Lothar thought as he thought of an excuse to leave.
He looked up at the large clock that hung above the doorway—yet again—that led from the main house, out to the garden. It confirmed that only half an hour had gone by since Gemma had left. It felt longer than the entire evening had felt, and he had been there for over four hours. He went to thank Susan for a lovely evening and then went to the entrance hall to ask a footman to let his waiting groomsman know that he needed the carriage.
He took care not to injure his head again as he took his seat. He had an overwhelming desire to ask his driver to take him to Gemma. It was too ungentlemanly to do so. He had not seen her father yet.
I will not be waiting a month to see him!Lothar thought. Just her absence tonight had spoiled his evening, he did not think he would last a month.
The moment he arrived home, he went to see his mother. He found her doing embroidery by the fire.
“Getting cold already, mother?” Lothar said with a smile.
“You are back already? It is only seven in the evening, do these affairs not continue well into the evening?” Violet asked.
“They do, mother. However, I do not feel I needed to mingle any further. I would like to know if Mrs. Gardner has made arrangements. I wish to see Mr. Castwell regarding his daughter as soon as possible. I have therefore taken it upon myself to arrange it.” Lothar’s reply was unusually lengthy.
“Does this mean that you are taking finding a wife seriously?” The joy in Violet’s eyes was plain to see.
“Yes, mother, it does. I believe Gemma Castwell will make the perfect wife. She is wealthy, and that will help this estate. She is ladylike, and I must admit I am both fond of her, as well as attracted to her. I will hence be able to produce an heir without it being… cumbersome,” Lothar went on, choosing his last statement carefully.
“You are serious!” Violet exclaimed and put her embroidery aside to get up from her chair and embrace her son. “I cannot tell you how elated this makes me.”
“More reason why this is a good idea. Please tell me the minute Mrs. Gardner calls,” Lothar asked.
“I shall send word first thing in the morning,” Violet said.
“Shall I get us tea?” Lothar asked. It was a sign that he wanted to speak more on the matter.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” Violet said as she took her seat again. Lothar did not let her see that he had noticed his mother needed to rest more than she used to. The winters had become more difficult for her to get through as well.
He knew it was natural that she grow old, but he wished she could be more comfortable, in less pain. It was the sole reason he had fought to keep the estate afloat. He wanted his mother to be cared for the way his father, William, would have liked her to be.
He went to the kitchen. They could not afford to have servants on duty day and night, and therefore only employed them during the day. The cook had been so grateful to receive payment when Lothar had inherited the estate. His wages had been almost a year late. It had been almost three years since, andthe cook would leave them a cake or other nibbles every night before he left. It was not part of his job. But it did speak to his nature.
Tonight, he had made them a butter cake with raspberry icing. Lothar smiled as he carefully placed the cake onto a nearby tray. He thought of Gemma, who had gotten her dress ruined by a raspberry tart. He still felt saddened that she had left and could not wait to see her again.
His thoughts went to when she had lost her balance, and he had held her. He had to admit that there had been a spark between them, a strong attraction that they both shared.
He lit a lamp nearby before lighting the stove.
He packed kindling and small twigs before putting a bigger log on top of it. Then he took a twig and held it above the flame of the lamp, waiting until it held a flame. He then lit the kindling and blew gently on it to help the small fire.
Soon, the log crackled as it ignited, and the steel kettle could be placed directly on top of the fire. When the water boiled, he poured the water into a silver kettle and placed it on the tray, along with two cups and a container with sugar in it. He hoped to afford cattle soon. A few cows and bulls would produce milk and meat for his family. They might even be able to sell butter to the market in town.
Lothar returned with the tea to find his mother had fallen asleep. He quietly put the tray down and took a wool blanket from the bookshelf nearby. He covered her and went to make himself a cup of tea, made one for her as well, and placed it nearby with a slice of cake.
She can enjoy it when she awakens, Lothar thought as her light snores filled the room. Lothar finished his cake and tea and put a few more logs on the fire before going to his study. He wanted to write a letter to Mr. Castwell, yet felt it better to have Mrs. Gardner arrange it. She knew more about these things, and besides, he needed all the help he could get courting a woman who did not even want to marry.
I shall have to ask her myself to be sure. Lotharthought
