Page 8 of For The Love Of A Widow

No one had told her his dying day would come before hers.

Every inch of her felt the loss of her soul mate.

Her heart barely beat, having lost the connection when his heart failed to beat.

Her fingers tingled restlessly, knowing they’d never again feel his warm skin against hers.

Her eyes no longer shone brightly at the thought of his return from a hard day’s work.

Her legs scarcely moved, realizing they would never carry Lettie into Gregory’s loving embrace again.

Lifting her gaze, she could only feel envy as she witnessed the couple nestled across from her, their hands clutched as they excitedly stared out the window, waiting for the carriage to stop. Pure jealousy spiked within her as the older man who’d shaken her awake caressed a small pearl brooch in his fingers…obviously belonging to someone he loved dearly and was likely to be reunited with soon.

It only served to remind her of how alone she was.

Soon, she would be reunited with her parents, yet she hadn’t seen them in many years. They hadn’t approved of Lettie’s decision to marry a man without a farthing to his name and no title to speak of—despite her having told them that he could provide for her. And that was only what had happened six years prior. What about all she’d seen and been through since departing England? They could not understand the horrors of battle, the ungodly sight of a man lying prone with missing limbs, or the notion of holding a loved one as they passed on from this cruel world.

What if they never understood her?

What would she do then? With no money, no means of supporting herself, and no home to call hers, Lettie was at the mercy of others.

It was exactly as she and Gregory had lived their married life, but they’d found comfort in knowing they both believed in the war in which they fought. And when things became too overwhelming, they had one another.

Calls of greeting sounded outside as the carriage halted in The George’s courtyard.

None of the good tidings and shouts of celebration were for her.

There was no way of knowing if her father had received her letter, informing him of her impending arrival. At best, her parents would be waiting to collect her. At worst, word had not reached them in time, and Lettie would need to find her own means of travel across London to her family’s townhouse.

She’d done much more with far less.

Though she was remorseful over deciding to spend her remaining coin—collected for her by the surviving soldiers to make her way home—on a warm room and a decent bed. She hadn’t even enough left over for a lukewarm bath to wash away the grime that had clung to her for more years than she cared to contemplate.

Waiting until everyone had disembarked the coach, Lettie stood and navigated the steps to the inn’s courtyard. The driver held her simple tote out to her as her eyes fought to acclimate to the bright afternoon sun.

The yard was eerily quiet for the midday hour.

Lettie glanced around, hoping to see a familiar face among the disbanding people.

Maybe her parents had made better time on their journey than planned; however, the position of the sun as it descended toward the horizon told Lettie it was three o’clock.

There was even the possibility that they had received her letter and had chosen not to come and collect her. It was their right. After all, Lettie had gone against their wishes on more than one occasion.

Instead of making a spectacle of herself by dissolving into tears in the courtyard, she hefted her bag onto her shoulder and made her way into the inn’s taproom to wait. No matter what their pasts held, her parents loved her. They’d often written to her over the years. Lettie was the only child of Lord Percival, and his wife, the Duchess of Essex, Lady Percival. As their only child, she was the heiress to her mother’s Dukedom—even though her father’s title and properties would be inherited by another male in the Percival line.

The dim interior of the taproom gave her a sense of ease that she hadn’t felt in years. A few moments without being under the constant watch of others, whether in camp, on the ship to Dover, or the crowded traveling coach. Maybe the barkeep would take pity and offer her a drink, though she had no coin to pay for it.

If not, Lettie would wait for an hour or two, at most, before setting off on foot.

Glancing around the taproom, filling quickly with afternoon clients, she spotted a table nestled in a darkened corner, away from the door and foot traffic as patrons moved about. The table appeared clean, and the stools acceptable.

The smell of stale food and drink and hints of cigar smoke lingering in the air were far more welcome than the ever present smell of rot and rust on the battlefield. Why then did it cause her unease? Even at its worst—raw sewage clinging to the city streets—the odor of London should infuse her with a sense of hope, yet, on the battlefield, Lettie had known who she was. She’d been infused with an immense amount of purpose.

The familiar aroma of her hometown only highlighted her sense of being alone; no purpose driving her and less sense of who she was.

Lettie started across the room, keeping her head down as she hoped to discourage undue attention, but the smell of a savory, rich meal had her chin lifting and her mouth salivating with hunger. Several men gathered around a table close to the bar, plates overflowing with food, and tankards of ale before them.

It was a meal fit for a king—certainly not the widow of a fallen soldier.