December 15, 1813
Agatha and Amelia sat on the floor of Felton’s bedchamber. Dresses of cream and light yellow curled about their lean ankles as they craned their sad faces toward him.
Packing a portmanteau, he eyed his special chestnut cases with his weapons. They should be put away now that he was no longer in service to the Department of War and the Colonies, but he’d left them on his dresser.
The weapons were too refined for merely shooting pheasant at Warwick. As his friend Repington complained, one couldn’t shoot guns in Mayfair without hitting a door knocker or visitor.
“Papa,” Amelia said, holding tight to her stuffed doll, “why isn’t Mrs. Cecilia back like you told us?”
That was a good question.Where was she?was a better one. And why had he waited hours before he took action?
The misplaced hope she’d return and walk through the door any moment hurt.
The false pride of thinking he was in the right stung.
“Lady Gantry had to go away. She’ll be back—”
“Before Yuletide? We won’t be able to exchange presents like last year.” Amelia sort of whimpered her words and Felton’s heart fell deeper into his chest.
Agatha’s arms folded. A defiant frown filled her oval face. “She just won’t get hers. And she won’t bake the coconut bread either.”
Last year, it had taken Felton several attempts before he located coconuts. He and Cecilia walked the markets together until they spotted them being sold in Covent Garden. Cecilia’s smile had radiated as he broke open the shells and scooped out the tender flesh.
He realized too late that they both wore shells, protective armor. They were well matched, even from the beginning. If he’d recognized and not fought his feelings, they’d be together. “I’ll see if the cook knows her recipe.”
“Not the same.” Amelia shook her head, her riotous curls escaping her chignon. “Cook won’t burn it right.”
Cecilia wasn’t much of a cook. The flavor was there, the chewy texture too. “It was good dipped in chocolate sauce.”
He stopped his woolgathering and gathered the girls. With kisses to each of their brows, he made a commitment, a solemn vow. “When Lady Gantry is done with her adventure, she’ll return. Our family will be complete again.”
Amelia tugged on his waistcoat. “Must you go away again, Papa?”
He tweaked her sad lips. “Yes. I need to hurry your stepmother from her visit. I think I can speed her up.”
“Why would she leave without us?” Agatha broke free from his hug and plopped against the footboard. “Or even say goodbye.”
Cecilia had left, in her purple coat and bonnet, almost as soon as she’d stepped back into the house. Why did he stay in the garden with Tramel when Cecilia needed him to convince her to stay?
Why didn’t someone warn him that she went for a walk on a blustery eve? His wife loved walking, but not the cold. Like Jane, he’d thought her locked away, painting. He would’ve started looking for her hours earlier.
No reports from the coroner of anyone found frozen around Mayfair. That was his fear: that she’d succumbed to the weather. He’d seen her get disoriented sometimes when the streets were noisy. A snowy evening was not the place for an upset woman to be.
Like a bad spy, he’d taken his eye off the mark. You’d think a beautiful woman in a purple coat out walking in winter would be easy to find.
“I’ll hurry her back.” He hoped his voice sounded strong, even though his gut stewed.
The little red faces of his daughters didn’t look encouraged.
Felton had nothing to lift their frowns. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
His daughters looked at him, then each other, then grew quieter.
He knelt near his eldest. “Lady Gantry is well.”
Agatha bounced up and gripped him tightly, like he’d vanish. “How do you know, Papa? She didn’t say goodbye, just like Mama didn’t.”
His oldest was two when Elizabeth died. Of course, she’d remember.
