“And the driver,” Mr. Burleson continued, flipping to the next page. “Mr. Daniels is now employed by yourself, not Mr. Milton Bloomington. You are, of course, welcome to secure a coachman more familiar with the city, but I understand he’s served you well thus far.”
She lowered her gaze, a flicker of memory catching her off guard—Dash’s arm around Mr. Dog in the backseat of the carriage. His knee brushing hers. The sound of his voice laughing at something she'd said, his accent curling softly at the edges of every word.
A dull ache settled in her chest. Even the mention of a driver was enough to stir him to the surface.
“I see,” she murmured.
Mr. Burleson paused, perhaps sensing the shift in her demeanor. “Is something unclear, Mrs. Bloomington?”
“No,” she said quickly, but then she reconsidered. She pressed her gloved fingers to the edge of the folder, steadying herself. “Actually… I do have one more question.”
“Of course.” He leaned forward, adjusting his spectacles. “Anything at all.”
Ambrosia twisted the ring on her hand. “Would it be possible to purchase a different carriage?” she asked haltingly. “This one…”
Mr. Burleson tilted his head. “I rather think I understand. You are recently widowed, and the carriage must remind you of your deceased husband.”
Ambrosia had not thought of that.
“Well, um, yes. Are there enough funds to purchase a different one? We can sell this one, of course.”
“Absolutely, Mrs. Bloomington.” He smiled sympathetically. “And Mr. Daniels?”
“I’m fine with him. It’s just the carriage that I would like to be rid of.” Yes, she’d rather not be confronted with the memory of Dash Beckman—holding her comfortingly or making her laugh—every time she deigned to take a ride.
“It’ll be no trouble at all. I’ll take care of that today. Here is my card. Please, contact me if you think of anything else you require.”
“You’re certain the coach won’t be too great an expense?” she asked, still half-expecting the answer to change.
“Not in the least,” Mr. Burleson assured her with a genteel smile. “And should you have need of anything—anything at all—you’ve only to contact my office.”
Ambrosia nodded, murmured her thanks, and left the solicitor’s office feeling slightly unmoored. Everything was handled. Everything was in place.
It was… overwhelming.
Later that afternoon, she strolled through Hyde Park—just a short distance from Autumn House—and tried to remind herself to breathe. The spring air was soft against her cheeks, and the rustle of trees overhead offered a kind of whispered reassurance.
She had a beautiful home. A staff. Security. Her freedom.
Practically everything she’d ever hoped for.
No, it was everything she’d ever hoped for.
And yet… she felt hollow.
Lonely.
When she returned to Autumn House, her boots quiet against the stone steps, she was greeted at the door by Mr. Carrington.
“You have guests, ma’am,” he said, bowing.
Guests?
Her heart leapt—foolishly, painfully. Dash?
She didn’t ask. She couldn’t bear to ask. Instead, she hurried to the drawing room, pushing open the door with far less composure than she intended.
It was not him.
