Husband? Ambrosia’s heart tripped up at the thought, her mind going first to Harrison, dead and buried back in Rockford Beach, before she realized that they must have been referring to Dash.
“We sure do. Good thing too, I doubt you’ll be able to get on the road until tomorrow at the earliest, especially with the festival going on.”
“Oh, but—” Ambrosia began.
“I’m Dash Beckman, and my princesse, my missus. She is Ambrosia. We appreciate your hospitality.” Dash placed one arm around her waist, speaking over her attempt to correct their assumption. “Don’t we, princesse?”
Ambrosia glanced over to where Mr. Daniels was grousing about the wheel, oblivious to their conversation, and then back to Mrs. Wooten. Of course, this provincial couple wouldn’t be nearly as hospitable to a woman traveling alone with a gentleman who was not her husband, brother, or father.
“Er, yes. Thank you.”
“Why don’t you collect your valise, dearie, and come up for a spot of tea while our gents fiddle with the carriage. And bring your darling little dog along too.”
Ambrosia stepped out of Dash’s hold with a questioning glance over her shoulder.
“I’ll bring our belongings, princesse. You go have tea. Mr. Dog will be wanting a drink as well, I imagine.”
“You are sure?” she asked Mrs. Wooten, her gaze drifting toward the squat stone cottage nestled beyond the hedgerow. It sat quietly in the distance, small on the horizon, the late sun gilding its windows.
“Oh yes, just through the grass here,” the woman replied, gesturing ahead with a warm smile. “Not far at all.”
Behind them, Dash remained by the carriage, arms folded, his expression unreadable. The wheel lay in the dirt, appearing as little more than a pile of scrap wood, a casualty of the rutted road.
Ambrosia cleared her throat and tugged gently on Mr. Dog’s leading string. “Come along, Mr. Dog.”
They started forward at a gentle pace, the tall grass whispering against her skirts. Mrs. Wooten walked beside her, both of them adjusting their stride to match the short-legged gait of the dachshund, who paused every few steps to investigate some invisible excitement in the grass.
“I’m always happy to have a bit of company,” the older woman said brightly. “My niece and her husband visited last spring—such a sweet pair. No children yet, but they’ve only just started. What about the two of you? Any young’uns?”
Ambrosia hesitated, then raised her voice just enough to carry back across the field. “Mr. Beckman and I haven’t any children either. We’re only recently married.”
She felt, rather than saw, the shift in Dash’s attention behind her. Let him hear it.
“Is that so?” Mrs. Wooten beamed. “Newlyweds!”
Ambrosia nodded, warmth rising in her cheeks. Had she imagined this scenario?
“Just over a week ago. We wed in the church where I was christened—St. Mark’s in Rockford Beach. The pews were filled with family, flowers everywhere…” Her voice softened, painting this dream. “Afterward, my mother hosted a wedding breakfast in the town assembly hall. There was music, sugared cakes, and everyone danced until the candles burned low.”
It wasn’t true, of course. Not the flowers or the music or the dancing. Her real wedding had been stiff and silent, her mother in black, the parlor airless with dread.
Beside her, Mr. Dog gave a happy bark, sniffing at a butterfly. The cottage was close enough now that she could smell bread baking.
“I will come to you soon, ma chère! Try not to miss me too much.”
Ambrosia turned just enough to catch his gaze over her shoulder. He stood there, tousled and…precious, a grin dancing on those lips…
She gave him a little wave. Nothing grand. Just enough.
Mrs. Wooten sighed. “Your fellow reminds me of Mr. Wooten, back in the day. They’re always more romantic in the beginning, when everything is fresh and exciting. You enjoy it while you can, darling.”
Ambrosia laughed politely, but her heart ached.
She had never played the part of beloved before. Never been someone’s “love,” even in jest. She’d thought she had accepted that Mr. Beckman couldn’t give her anything more once their journey to London was through, but now—even acting as though they were husband and wife, she wasn’t sure how she’d ever let this go.
“Isn’t he handsome, though?” Mrs. Wooten chuckled. “Ah, to be young again.”
THE FESTIVAL
