Mrs. Kingsley looked up from her plate, her eyes connecting with his for a moment before they moved to the window that looked out on the overcast and gloomy day. She gave no reply and returned to her breakfast, staring at it with grim determination.
“Good morning, darling,” said Simon, breaking through the tense air of the dining room as he strode through the doorway and came to his wife’s side.
Mrs. Kingsley’s face lit with a smile. “Mrs. White has made your favorite.”
Simon took her hand and placed a kiss on it. The pair said not another word, their gazes locked in some silent communication that felt far more intimate than a proper embrace. Mrs. Kingsley’s cheeks blossomed red, though her lips remained fixed in a glowing grin. Clearing his throat, Finch drew Simon’s gaze, and Mrs. Kingsley’s blush deepened while Simon gave a chagrined smile.
“I did not see you there, Finch,” he said, giving his friend a nod before going to fetch himself some breakfast.
“I was well aware of that,” replied Finch, spearing a bit of kipper on his fork. “You two have been married nearly a year. I would think any infatuation would’ve faded by now.”
Simon cast his friend a self-satisfied grin over his shoulder before returning from the sideboard to take his seat beside his wife, who was blushing all the more. As Simon tucked into his breakfast, Finch was forced to acknowledge that sometime between their marriage and the present, Simon had fallen in love with the lady. In truth, Finch was glad to see it. What he’d thought would be a loveless marriage had blossomed into something beautiful, and it did him good to know his friend was so very contented.
And yet each whispered conversation and tender touch opened a gulf between Finch and Simon. Before, Finch’s visits had provided a welcome distraction from Simon’s never-ending work on Avebury Park. Now, Mrs. Kingsley gave him the daily support and friendship Simon needed. Unfortunately, Finch needed the distraction as much as Simon had, and there was no one left to fill that role.
Getting to his feet, Finch gave his farewells to the pair (one of whom seemed relieved while the other looked only mildly disappointed) and strode from the dining room in search of a new distraction.
***
Fairly pressing her nose against the coach window, Felicity watched the trees pass as she searched ahead for Buxby Hall. So little of the grounds had changed over the years, and it did her good to see it had remained so constant. It was not the proper time of year for berry picking or luxurious picnics among fields of wildflowers, but Felicity was desperate to grasp the peace she found when visiting dear Great-Aunt Imogene.
“Bristow is a little slice of heaven,” Uncle George had always said, and they were words that held an echo of her father’s voice, though Felicity could not recall him saying such.
The house crawled towards them, a great grey edifice sitting amidst a swath of white. The carriage passed the pond, now frozen over and ringed with trees coated in ice crystals. Felicity had the door open before the footman reached it, and she hurried up the stairs and through the front door to find Great-Aunt Imogene coming down the staircase to greet her.
“My dear, thank heavens you’ve arrived,” said the lady. “I feared something terrible must have happened, for I expected you ages ago.”
Felicity widened her eyes and grimaced. “It was not the worst journey I’ve ever taken, but it was quite possibly the second worst. There were lame horses, broken wheels, and impassable roads between here and Plymouth. It is a miracle I arrived at all.”
“My dear, you look pale,” said Aunt Imogene, examining her niece with a gimlet eye. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself.”
“It is the strain of travel, but all will be well now that I am here.”
“Come, the servants are preparing a repast for you,” said Aunt Imogene, motioning for her to follow down the hall. As much as a warm meal sounded delightful, Felicity’s heart sank at the thought of remaining indoors.
“Would you think me terribly ungrateful if I begged off at present? I know I only just arrived, but I have been cooped up for almost a sennight, and I am desperate for a stroll. Might I spend a quarter of an hour visiting your grounds before we eat?”
“Of course,” said Aunt Imogene, patting Felicity’s cheek with a wrinkled hand as though her great-niece was little more than a fretful schoolchild. “I am the same. I cannot bear to remain caged for too long. I would join you, but I fear I am not as steady on my feet, and this winter is far too frigid and icy for my good.”
“Unsteady?” asked Felicity, standing back to examine the elderly lady.
“Not to worry, my dear. It is merely age demanding I pay it more heed,” she said with a smile.
Felicity’s brows furrowed, but Aunt Imogene waved away any concern, bundling the younger lady out the front door with a promise that she would return before her fingers and toes froze through.
Opening her lungs, Felicity took in a deep breath, filling them to capacity. The air was biting but so very bracing that she took several more before making her way around Buxby Hall. Even in the midst of winter, the gardens were lovely. Or perhaps because of it. Though the blossoms were long dormant, the woody plants boasted a fine smattering of ice that sparkled even though clouds filled the sky.
With a tug of the ribbons, Felicity pulled off her bonnet. It was too cold to do so for long, but she reveled in the breezes tugging at her curls. Her hair must look a fright, but such mundane worries faded to the background as she plopped her bonnet back on, allowing the ribbons to hang free. Each step from the house took her further from the weight of her cares and worries, as though the very land she stood upon held some magical properties to erase heartache and troubles.
Yes, this was precisely where she ought to be. Away from the constant demands of business and false suitors. Free of the unending troubles and strife. Unshackled by the expectations of an heiress. Here, she was simply Felicity Barrows.
Though her promise to Aunt Imogene had her thinking she ought to return to the house, Felicity could not keep herself from wandering towards a particularly lovely copse of trees, their dark trunks contrasting against the winter’s white. Just one quick look—
Felicity’s left foot shot forward, her right keeping her tethered to firm ground but without the ability to steady her. She had no time to react to the sudden disruption of her balance, and gravity pulled her down. If pressed, she would have no thought as to what it was she slipped on—the ground looked as sturdy as any patch—but such details did not matter, for they did not alter her present course.
The whole of her weight slammed onto the frozen ground, her right foot wrenching as the force of her fall twisted her. Every joint screamed at once, the impact radiating through her. Her bonnet went flying, her cloak and skirt tangling around her as she landed with a thud.
Staring up at the cloudy sky, Felicity lay there, her body throbbing in time with her heartbeat. Like a howling winter wind, she moaned, the noise pulled from deep within. It was a horrid sound, but her rattled bones demanded it, and another built inside her, growing in volume.
