Page 17 of Make My Wish Come True
Adrian barely registered the drive to Highvale. The sleigh felt empty without her beside him, and he even imagined his feet were cold without the cat’s basket by his boots. Gwen had looked dismayed before he left her, but then she had been swept into her family’s embrace, and he’d heard her exclaim in happiness as she flew to the older woman in a dressing gown.
So he’d kept his word to her. He tried not to think about how cowardly he’d been, to wait until the end to bring up the subject of last night. Everything he had wanted to say had seemed to swell in his mind until it was all a blur. He’d meant to ask if he could call on her, if they could become acquainted in more decent ways, and then he’d failed to do even that much.
Later, he told himself. Now he must focus on his own business, which promised to be far grimmer.
His mother had not minced words in her last letter; Grandfather was dying. Little else could have pried him out of the army, not when they had the French on the run. Adrian had intended to fight until Bonaparte was thoroughly beaten, to finish what his father started, but now he would have duties and responsibilities here that superseded that desire. Even had he not wanted to come, he would have been sent home by Whitehall.
“My lord.” The butler greeted him with visible relief after he’d delivered the sleigh and horses to the stables with instructions on where to return them. “Madame has been expecting you.”
His heart fell at the strain in his mother’s face. She saw him and mustered a wavering smile. “At last, you are here! I feared the snow would delay you.”
The snow, and a woman who’d made him forget that he was coming home to bury his grandfather. Adrian kissed her cheek. “I came as quickly as possible. How is he?”
“Not well.” She took his hand. “He’s still alert, but very weak. You must prepare yourself, dear.”
He nodded. “Let me change and I will see him.”
His grandfather’s bedchamber already smelled of death, despite the window standing ajar. Wroxham had always been a proponent of fresh air as a cure for all ills. But not even the cold winter air could banish the scent of camphor and lavender, the sour odor of sickness.
The earl’s valet, who’d let him in, quietly indicated a chair near the bed. Adrian pulled it close and sat down, reaching for his grandfather’s hand. The long fingers closed around his, but weakly. Wroxham’s eyes opened slightly.
“Ah,” he murmured. “You came… at last.”
“Yes, sir,” he said with a smile. ‘“It took me a while to find my way out of Spain, but I am here.”
“Wellington… is getting robbed,” said the earl with a faint smile. “Send him my… apologies.”
“He got good value while he had me, I hope.”
A spark blazed in Wroxham’s eyes. “Of course he did! The army owes me! They got you, they got Victor…” At this mention of his son, Adrian’s father, the earl’s face sagged. He sighed, sinking back into the pillows. “Ah, Victor, and Louis, and Henry… my beloved Elizabeth… even innocent little Louisa. I’ve buried too many. I’m glad… it’s my turn.”
Adrian’s throat constricted. He’d been a lad of fourteen when his father was killed in the Low Countries, a young soldier when his Uncle Louis had died of a fever, and only a few years older when his brother Henry was thrown from his horse and killed. He’d only learned of his grandmother’s death three months after it happened, when the army’s postal delivery went awry, and his Aunt Louisa had died as a girl, long before Adrian was even born. Grandfather had indeed buried too many. “I wish you would wait a while,” he said, trying to fend off grief. “I’ve only just returned, and not had a chance to talk to you.”
“Oh?” Wroxham’s smile returned, a little more like himself this time. “Brought great news, have you?”
“Yes,” he heard himself say. “I met a young lady.”
Wroxham’s brows went up. “In Spain?”
“No. On the journey here.” He paused. He shouldn’t be speaking of Gwen. He should be circumspect, and call on her to see if the spark caught and burned, and most of all wait until their acquaintance could be measured in weeks rather than hours. “She’s lovely, Grandfather, warm and charming and clever.”
“Does this paragon have a name?”
Don’t say it, he thought. His mother would quiz him mercilessly if she got wind of any of this. “Miss Guinevere Barrett.”
“A lovely name.” Wroxham smiled. “I give you my blessing.”
He tried to retreat a little. “I’ve only just met her. She might not be as taken by me.”
Wroxham gave a soft, wheezy laugh. “I can tell… by your expression that she is worth… trying for. Go see the girl.”
Adrian pressed the limp hand gently. “Only if you will try to stay around to meet her.”
“My dear boy, I will try. I will try.” With painful effort, he put his other hand on top of Adrian’s. “But you do not need my approval…. Always been a very… clever, sensible lad. And thank God for it. I’m sure it saved you from being shot by those infernal French!” He dissolved into a coughing fit, and Adrian lunged for the cup of weak tea on the table nearby. He caught the whiff of laudanum in it as he held the cup for his grandfather to sip.
“Call on her,” said Wroxham hoarsely, when he could speak again. “I would delight in some happy news.”
He shouldn’t have said anything. “That seems rashly optimistic, sir. I’ve only known her a few days.” Two, barely enough to justify calling it days.
