SHATTERING
November 1828, Milton Cottage, Dorset, England
Mrs. Naomi Gilcreststudied the minuscule radish in her hand and, shaking her head, tucked it into her apron. Although it was nearing the end of October, only a handful of her crops had come to fruition.
Resting on her haunches, she arched her back and then perused her garden. She had not been raised for this life, but she wouldn’t trade it for the world.
She would not.
Because neither had she expected that she would marry a man like Arthur, one who loved her so passionately.
If only he’d purchased the seeds when she asked, they could have planted sooner.
She grimaced but then smiled to herself. In one particular instance, she and Arthur had managed to plant early enough. Her hand automatically settled on her swollen belly. Very early.
Too early.
She had not been able to smile about it when she’d first missed her monthlies. In fact, she’d been horrified.
She’d met Arthur at the first ball of the Season, along with several other members of his regiment. As luck would have it, an abundance of eligible young officers were in London at the time, and thusly available to attend the Season’s affairs.
Quite a few debutantes had fallen into fits of vapors while being introduced to one of these gentlemen wearing colors. Such bachelors embodied all that was courageous, brave, and honorable. They had been irresistible.
More than one respectable debutante had emerged from the Season… ruined.
And Naomi, even at the ripe age of four and twenty, had been just as susceptible as the younger ladies coming out.
Arthur had gained an introduction immediately upon spying her at the Willoughby Ball, and he began to court her in earnest after only a few weeks. Despite her parents’ disapproval and rumors of his roguish reputation, she’d been unable to resist.
Even now, her situation was by no means ideal. Despite her marriage, she’d lost the support of her family and many of her friends. Two weeks after Naomi informed Arthur of her—their—predicament, he’d stolen her away to Gretna Green in the middle of the night. The journey had been harrowing but also exciting and adventurous. After a rushed ceremony at the anvil, Arthur had brought her to Milton Cottage, a dilapidated property bequeathed to him as the second son of the late Earl of Tempest.
As a result, she’d lost almost everything she’d known but was now married and expecting a child.
As she’d oft found herself doing of late, she rubbed her belly. Less than four months away, sometime in February, or perhaps late in January, they would be a family.
She stared across the field and around the small property that had become her home and realized the sunlight had turned a shade of gold that was unique to autumn. It lent an almost timeless quality to the trees, the listing stable, and the house.A breeze blew a strand of hair across her face and she brushed it away. A second, stronger gust sent a handful of fallen leaves swirling across the dirt and caused the trim falling off the roof of the porch to creak rhythmically.
Unfortunately, the same uniform that had drawn Naomi to Arthur was the reason she had been left behind alone to deal not only with impending motherhood but an estate that was very much in need of repair.
But those few months before he’d been called away—they had been magical, dreamlike.
The trim groaned and then made a loud snapping sound before it fell to the ground, causing her to jump. She inhaled a calming breath and reached down to pull another radish—this one even smaller than the last.
When Arthur’s soldier’s pay arrived,if it ever arrived, she could pay someone to help her out with repairs. Although Milton Cottage suffered from years of neglect, she wanted it to feel like home for Arthur when he returned.
He’d promised he would be back in time for Christmas and already she was imagining spending their first holiday together. She’d been compelled by his impending return to make little changes that would hopefully make a difference. She’d located a chest of well-preserved fabric in the attic and was slowly replacing the drapes on all of the windows. Meanwhile, her maid had polished so much wood that Naomi wouldn’t be surprised if the house perpetually smelled of lemons now. The lemon oil, however, was a great improvement on the musty odor that had been ever-present when Arthur had brought her here.
A second piece of trim chose that moment to start up its own ominous creaking, but Naomi ignored it. She had so very much to be grateful for.
As long as she wasn’t feeling too uncomfortable by Christmas, perhaps they could go on a sleigh ride, join carolersfrom the nearby village of Hull Crossings. She would make all of the goodies her mother set out at home over the holidays.
She and Arthur would make their own traditions.
When she wasn’t cleaning or gardening, left alone, without her sister or even her mother for companionship, Naomi had taken to writing. At first, she’d jotted down a few fictional stories, about knights and maidens trapped in castles, but when she’d reread them, they had seemed almost childlike.
More recently she found the most satisfaction in writing her own story—falling head over heels in love with Arthur, how he’d made her feel, and then the result of her impulsive behavior. Writing helped pass the time when her body insisted she rest.
She had so much to look forward to—the holidays, the return of her husband, the birth of their child.
