She couldn’t make that mistake again.
No more balls or dinners or concerts. No more gentlemen like Lord Diamond.
“Adam,” she murmured his name aloud, allowing the heartache to remind her he had been real. She’d made sure to accept a long and luxurious kiss from his firm lips before she’d bid him goodnight the final time. His hands had lingered at her waist, holding her close, and she’d slid her own up his chest to grasp his broad shoulders.
In the span of the kiss, she’d memorized the feel of him under her fingers, the taste of his lips, and the fragrance that made her want to howl with desire. With him not knowing it to be a kiss goodbye, he’d been tender and happy. Then he’d allowed her to run inside, where she’d quietly packed up all her things and written her notes of goodbye to Lady Beasley and her daughters.
She hadn’t allowed herself the indulgence of a private message to Adam. That would have been too hard, not to mention too tempting to tell him where to find her.
“As I live and breathe, it’s Lady Alice,” said the head gardener while she made her way across the lawn. What a difference from when she’d left after becoming engaged, traveling in a fine coach and six. A lifetime ago, it seemed.
“Good day, Henry. How are you?”
He tugged on his cap in his familiar way. “I cannot complain, m’lady. We’ll have a good harvest this year.”
“You’ve become a farmer, then, instead of a gardener.”
“Had to,” he said, maintaining a cheerful smile. “What with the chickens, pigs, and cows, those of us here live well.”
“I am glad to hear it. Do you think I shall be welcomed after... everything?”
Surprise crossed his weathered features.
“Indeed, m’lady. It’s your home, after all.” He smiled and looked at the manor. “Almost nothing is the same inside, mind you. Most everything was sold off by the men who came. There are still rooms a plenty, mind you, empty ones at that.” But he chuckled at his little jest, not sounding the least bitter.
“I shall be happy for any place to lay my head.” Alice had endured a long journey first by train, then by mail coach, packed with other travelers. And then she’d walked from the depot at the last tavern for two miles.
“Who remains here?” The last letter before her parents fled to Spain where they could live cheaply and well, her mother had made it sound as if hordes of raiding marauders had taken over. In truth, it was merely the staff moving in as they could no longer afford their cottages. Of course, her mother had also blamed her.Again!
“Ol’ cook calls it home and still makes a fine meal for all of us. Her daughter and a housemaid, who’d nowhere to go, stayed tohelp. My daughter’s middle boy, Bert, remained as well.” Then he shrugged. “Mr. Neble left and Mrs. Smythe, too. A butler and a housekeeper need a family to care for and a staff to manage.”
That might have been the longest speech Alice had ever heard from the man. But maybe in the past, they had simply never had the need to chat.
Then he nodded and tugged his hat again.
“Thank you, Henry. I shall see you later, then.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
She cringed slightly at the term. It had been two years since she’d been addressed thusly. At first, it was strange to style herself as amissus, but now, hearing Henry’s respectful greeting, she felt herself a fraud. A lady didn’t marry a wretch who spent all his own money and then went after hers. A lady didn’t bring calamity upon her home and all those who depended upon it.
But what did that make her parents, who had folded like a bad hand of whist?
Alice continued closer. Knowing her mother and father weren’t inside made it easier and more welcoming. She’d always loved her family’s country home. The location, on the fertile banks of the Thames, made it the prettiest place on earth when she was a child.
She sighed as the door squeaked loudly when she opened it. More of a groan actually, as if the house were announcing its displeasure at the return of the wayward daughter.
No Mr. Neble any longer in the front hall with his straight posture and tidy appearance. No Mrs. Smythe who smelled of lemon oil.
“Hello,” she called out into the echoing front hall.
Strangely, it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. The furnishings were whittled away to the bare minimum, with no paintings or vases or even the mirror that used to hang over a smallrectangular table, which was also gone. Yet the floor was clean, and the place smelled fresh.
Alice set down her bag, having left her trunk at the tavern depot, hoping she could borrow a wagon to collect it later. A yawn split her mouth, reminding her how tired she was, nearly desperate for a bed.
To that end, she went to the back of the house and into the long, stone-walled kitchen.
There was the same cook, Mrs. Georgie, as everyone called her. Seeing her, seated, drinking tea, ever the mistress of her same familiar domain, Alice felt tears fill her eyes.
