“Any word?” she asked softly of the maid waiting beside her.
“No.” The maid, a quiet young woman named Alice, paused before she added, “I’m sorry, my lady.”
Lavinia smiled stiffly. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. You had my trunks packed in record time, and for that I’m grateful. You can take the next week off to be with your family. You have a little boy, don’t you?”
Alice’s face all but glowed. “Aye, my lady. Thomas. He’s eight months old. But I couldn’t disregard my duties for an entireweek. My wages–”
“Will be paid in full,” Lavinia cut in. “My gift to you, Alice, for your service and your loyalty. When I return…when I return, things will be different. I may initially require more of your time than usual, so take it now to spend with dear Thomas and enjoy Christmas with your loved ones.”
“I’ll do that, my lady.” Alice bounced excitedly on her heels. “Thank you, my lady.”
“You’re quite welcome.”All right, Lavinia thought silently. She’d wasted enough time. Nicholas wasn’t here, and there were no signs that he was coming. No signs that he was even in the house. No signs that he cared. About her. About their marriage. Aboutthem.
Three steps forward.
Three steps back.
Drawing up the hood of her cloak, Lavinia walked out into the snow.
Chapter Four
The journey to Woodridgewas uneventful, if a bit jostling now that a light layer of snow blanketed the road north, leading to larger ruts and wider ditches. Thrice they passed a vehicle that had taken a turn too sharply and cracked an axle as a result, but Lavinia’s driver was careful, and they arrived at their destination without incident.
Well, theyalmostarrived.
“Are you certain this is as close to the house as we can get?” Lavinia asked, biting her bottom lip in concentration as she navigated the narrow, slippery steps leading down from the carriage. Shivering when an icy gust of wind cut through the blanket of trees surrounding the entrance to Woodridge, she stomped her feet to warm them and buried her hands in a thick muff made from mink fur and lined with swansdown.
Through the forest and the falling flecks of white, she could hardly make out the outline of the cottage some two hundred yards off the main thoroughfare. When she’d last visited, a few summers before, she’d found the isolated location a delightful reprieve from the hustle and bustle of London. But now, with darkness rapidly encroaching and a daunting walk ahead of her, she wondered if it was quite as wonderful as she recalled.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” said Bartholomew, the driver, inadvertently echoing Alice’s exact words from earlier. “With the weather being like it is, there’s too high a risk that the wheels will get stuck. We’ll have to go on foot from here.”
“But my things,” she said, looking at the top of the carriage in dismay where her belongings–dresses, undergarments, stockings, shoes, and more–were packed away in an orderly row of three massive leather trunks lined in strips of brass. It had taken two footmen, the driver,andAlice directing to get the trunks onto the roof. How in the world were she and Bartholomew going to drag them half a mile along a bumpy, snow-filled lane by themselves?
“I can try to bring one, my lady,” said the driver, although he sounded dubious.
“No, I don’t want you to injure yourself.” She tugged ruefully on the skirt of her heavy maroon traveling habit. Beneath it, she wore a plain blue dress with long sleeves designed for warmth over comfort as the current style demanded half-capped sleeves that didn’t extend past the elbow. But she hadn’t come to Woodridge to impress or dazzle. She’d come to rest, to think, to relax. No one would see her here. Not even her own husband. “I suppose what I’m wearing shall have to do for now.”
Looking visibly relieved, Bartholomew nodded in agreement and proceeded to lead the way toward the cottage, forging a path through snow that had been nothing more than a dusting when they’d departed London but was now nearly over the top of Lavinia’s sturdy ankle boots.
“Oh my goodness,” she gasped, stumbling gratefully through the front door when they finally reached the house. “That was exhausting. We’d never have made it with the trunks.” Prying off her leather gloves, wet with snow and slowly turning her fingers to icicles, she pivoted in a circle, ready to be greeted with hot milk and a plate of ginger biscuits. Instead, the only thing that acknowledged her presence was a sharp warning squeak from somewhere under the stairs, followed by an alarmingly loud rustle.
“Bartholomew,” she said cautiously, her gaze pinned to the stairwell.
Behind her, the driver stomped snow off his boots. “Yes, my lady?”
“How large are mice, exactly?”
“Small, my lady.”Stomp stomp.“And harmless, unless you’re a piece of cheese.”
“I see.” Her gaze left the stairs to travel around the foyer. There were candles in the windows and the chandelier above their heads, constructed of bony antlers, had been lit. But the entire house smelled of must, as if the windows hadn’t been opened for a very long time, and there were white linens covering most of the furniture. Dust coated the bannister and the floors, comprised of wide wooden oak planks, were in need of a good sweeping. There were no wreaths on the doors, or evergreens on the mantles, or mistletoe tied in red ribbon hanging discreetly from the eaves. By all outward appearances, Woodridge had sat vacant for quite a while, and aside from a few candles flickering here and there, nothing had been done to prepare for her arrival. There wasn’t even a fire in the hearth.
Lavinia’s shoulders slumped. How different it all was from the way she’d pictured it! In her best dreams, she’d envisioned Nicholas carrying her over the threshold into a warm, cozy cottage overflowing with Christmas cheer. She’d sit on his lap while they ate sweets in the parlor, and they wouldn’t even go upstairs before they started to take off their clothes. In the golden glow of the fireplace, on a blanket made of soft fur, they’d spend the rest of the night making love and wake the next morning wrapped in each other’s arms. They would eat breakfast in bed and then play outside in the snow like children, shrieking with laughter as they rolled across the fresh blanket of white. They’d do all that and more…if Nicholas were here.
But he’s not,she told herself harshly.He chose his ledgers over you, his business partners over his own wife, and now you’re here by yourself, just you and whatever’s living under the stairs, with no heat, presumably no food, and no trunks.
“I’m a fool,” she said softly. “A silly, stupid little fool.”
“What was that, my lady?” Bartholomew asked.
