And reminding Naomi of that was the best strategy anyone could use.
It reminded her that, like it or not, she was going to have to address all of these problems facing her. Not for herself, but for their child. She was a grown woman, no longer dependent upon her mother and father. Arthur had counted on her.
A frisson of panic sliced through her grief.
The handful of notes he’d pressed into her hand after kissing her goodbye was all but gone. She’d not been a spendthrift with the money but neither had she been overly frugal. Naomi had never in her life had to worry about funds. Arthur had assured her she would begin receiving a portion of his officer’s pay in no time at all.
Her recent purchases at Mr. Clopwell’s Store, however, had been made on credit and the balance of her account was becoming not insignificant.
In the few months since he’d gone, no monies had arrived—not a single pound. The inkling of fear she’d had when nothing had come the first month was becoming a torrent of worry. And fretting about something so worldly as coin right now made her feel selfish and guilty.
Because he’d died.
Her husband had gone and died on her.
She stepped inside and glanced around the parlor, quiet now that her guest had left.
It should not have been Major Cockfield sitting in the chair taking breakfast with her. It should have been Arthur.
Her gaze landed on a vase sitting atop the mantle of the fireplace. It was empty. She’d thrown out the flowers after they wilted and died.
Why had she thrown them out? She should have pressed them and now…
She would never have those flowers again! They’d been an apology, of sorts, for failing to return from the village one night.
He would never bring her flowers again.
Naomi had barely made it into her bedchamber and thrown herself onto the bed they’d shared before more sobs escaped. She wanted her husband back. The man she’d vowed to love forever. He was supposed to come home and protect her.
As morning turned to afternoon, and then evening, she only rose from her bed once, to pull one of his shirts out of the wardrobe.
She’d comforted herself with his scent. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend he wasn’t gone.
For the remainder of the day, she lay curled up in their bed.
Ester had peered in to check on her, but Naomi feigned sleep. She would eat later. She was so tired. As the storm arrived and drizzled on and off for the rest of the day, so too, did her consciousness.
Even the leak above the window wasn’t enough to rouse her. She was so tired. Tired and alone.
* * *
Upon riding away from Milton Cottage a second time, Luke rode toward the Inn feeling conflicted. It wasn’t right, that she should be alone right now.
Mrs. Gilcrest was an adult and it wasn’t as though she’d given any indication his help was needed, or would even be tolerated, but he’d seen the condition of the house.
The porch was a hazard. One wrong step and she could tumble through the floor, breaking an ankle or worse…
He leaned forward, urging The General to increase their pace as the rain began to fall in sheets.
What additional items needed repair to ensure she could live there safely? Were there other floorboards that needed to be replaced? What of the roof? And the windows? He ought to have done an inspection while he was there.
Even after unsaddling, brushing and putting The General up in the stable himself, other questions plagued him. Did she have a groom in her small stable? Did she even have a conveyance for travel?
Uncertainties persisted as he ducked in from the rain and brushed the water off his jacket. When a smiling barmaid approached and offered him ale, he declined politely, and despite her pouting protest, climbed the stairs to the room he’d lain awake in for most of the night. After removing his jacket, which had been soaked through, he opened the pack for his change of clothing and his heart dropped.
How had he forgotten about the satchel, empty but for a few paltry items Gil had left behind?
Luke withdrew the small canvas pack, and then, staring out the window at the now driving rain, came to a decision. It would seem Mrs. Gilcrest had not yet seen the last of him.
