Page 8 of Mine This Winter
“Miss Caldwell,” he repeated, looming like he had unfinished business and meant to flay her alive again. “We should agree to put our differences aside. It will make my stay at Westmore easier to bear.”
Gwendolyn couldn’t look at him. Of all the stressful situations she expected to encounter this week, this tested her resolve to the limit.
“Put your mind at ease, Mr Garrick. Whatever happened between us is in the past. For everyone’s sake, I’m sure we can be civil.”
She didn’t give him a chance to reply but continued her march back to the house, praying she didn’t fall again.
Her face damp with tears and her cloak wet with snow, she hurried to her bedchamber, locked the door and collapsed to the floor.
Breathe!
The world will seem brighter tomorrow.
She had told herself that many times.
Yet Mr Garrick lived under her skin.
He haunted her dreams nightly.
“Good riddance to all men!” she muttered.
It was better to remain a spinster than live with a loon. Mr Garrick was definitely three pence short of a shilling. His waffling made no sense. And he avoided answering the simplest questions.
A light knock on the door brought her maid. “Flanders said you’d retired for the evening, miss. But I knew something was wrong when you didn’t ring for assistance.”
Wrongwas the understatement of the century!
“Come in, Myrtle, and don’t ask why I’m wearing a wet cloak.”
Myrtle slipped into the room and closed the door. “Happen it has something to do with your walk in the garden. It’s only right you’d want to speak to Mr Garrick now he’s made a shocking return.”
As always, Myrtle had the measure of the situation. “One question. One answer. What is so difficult about that?” Yet pride meant she hadn’t directly asked why he’d deserted her five years ago.
And why was he so angry?
It was like she’d missed a vital piece of the puzzle.
“Have any of the servants mentioned Mr Garrick?” Gwen raised her arms as Myrtle helped her undress. “Most of you were here when he left Whitehaven so suddenly.”
Myrtle hesitated. “Only that his arrival is bound to cause a stir.” She guided Gwen to the stool as if she were incapable of walking unaided, and quickly changed the subject. “Sit down, miss, while I brush out your hair. You know how tangled it gets in damp weather.”
Gwen met Myrtle’s gaze in the looking glass.
The air grew thick with suspicion and unspoken secrets.
Myrtle knew something.
“Flanders must have an opinion.” Gwen turned in the seat and faced the young woman. “A lady’s maid should always be truthful. If I cannot trust you, Myrtle, I shall have to find a replacement.”
Myrtle worried her bottom lip before blurting, “Flanders said Mrs Samuel would likely die of apoplexy if she’d witnessed Mr Garrick’s return. He didn’t say why.”
“Mrs Samuel? The old housekeeper?” A sickening feeling coiled in Gwen’s stomach. “What has she to do with anything?”
Oliver had thrown Mrs Samuel out when he inherited the viscountcy. The woman claimed to be their father’s mistress and had demanded money from the estate. But what did Mrs Samuel have to do with Mr Garrick?
“I don’t rightly know, miss, but Flanders said she could wrap the old Lord Holmes around her little finger and use him to spin a yarn.”
Gwen’s father had behaved like a fool around the young widow, giving her an important role in the household when previously she’d only managed young children.
