Page 19 of Make My Wish Come True
He didn’t know her, and she didn’t know him. She even told herself he might already be betrothed, until curiosity got the better of her and she worked it out of Maisie that the young viscount hadn’t been to Blackthorpe in four years, and no one had any idea of his being engaged to marry.
Of course, Maisie unhelpfully added that he surely would be soon, now that he was home and about to succeed to the earldom. That darkened whatever emotion Gwen felt at learning he was single. It would hardly matter to her.
She felt even more awkward when she realized she’d left her nightgown and brush in the sleigh. Or perhaps they’d fallen out along the drive. She wasn’t sure if she preferred that, knowing the brush—which had been a gift from her mother—would be lost forever, or the thought of Adrian’s servants discovering them, with a knowing smirk about the woman who had been so low class as to leave behind her nightclothes in his lordship’s sleigh.
She tried to keep her mind on Gran. On Christmas, which was only a few days away now. Maisie was baking every day and the house smelled of mince pies and gingerbread. Neighbors came by for cups of tea and to bring small gifts; it turned out Maisie baked for a number of local families, and now they brought her bottles of elderberry wine and rolls of yarn and bundles of dried herbs in thanks. Gwen knew she should feel merry, and she was trying very hard.
That morning they had callers again, and the sitting room was filled. As delighted as Gwen was to see how dear Maisie and Gran were to their neighbors, it was a strain. Everyone gushed about her thoughtfulness in coming to visit Gran, and more than once she was invited to some event in the village, only to be told hastily, “If you’re still here, that is.” No one knew she didn’t have a position to return to, but each kind invitation reminded Gwen quite harshly.
When Gran remarked that she missed the evergreen sprigs they’d used to decorate with, Gwen seized the chance. She excused herself and put on her cloak and Gran’s bonnet, hers having been declared a hopeless case. The days after the snowstorm had been milder, and the snow was mostly gone. She let herself out, smiling at the children playing there. Their mother and grandmother were still inside, visiting with Gran. The two boys were sword-fighting with sticks while the little girl was digging in the remaining snow.
She stopped to admire the girl’s work—she’d carved a design with a stick and decorated it with pebbles—and only realized someone was coming when the boys gave a shout. Someone on a horse was making their way down the lane toward the cottage.
Another guest. Gwen was glad she was going out; yesterday the butcher, wearing his Sunday clothes, had come to call with some beef filets. Gwen was sure he was sweet on Maisie, because he’d stayed and talked for over an hour, but it had been a very long hour, with the faint scent of blood in the air.
She knew she should stay and greet this guest before heading into the woods in search of greenery. The boys had dropped their sticks at the approach of the horse. Even young Mary looked up from her snow art. The rider must have gestured, for the two boys whooped and ran to meet the horse, and their excitement made Gwen smile.
Her amusement faded as she recognized the rider. He wasn’t wearing his scarlet captain’s coat, nor the familiar battered hat, but she knew.
It was Adrian.
Chapter 12
Every morning when Adrian woke, he told himself he would go see Gwen that day. And every morning, something happened to prevent it.
His family had all come to Highvale. His oldest sister was married now with two small children; he’d not met either. His younger sisters alternated between tears at the impending loss of their grandfather, and eager whispers to him about the young men they’d met lately. They made him take them into Bury St. Edmunds to shop for Christmas gifts, where they passed a shop with a blue bonnet with green ribbons in the window that caught his eye, and made him wonder if Gwen would like it.
His mother seemed determined to mother him as much as she could, and Adrian remembered Gwen saying how anxious his mother must be to have him home safe and sound. It struck him that his mother had also buried too many, including her husband and oldest son. He wished he could tell Gwen that she’d been right, and also ask her how he should react. He had been a soldier for so long, he’d forgotten how to be a son.
It hit Adrian that he was the head of the family now, a sobering and abrupt realization. He’d never even been called Lord Westley before. That had been his uncle Louis, before his death eight years earlier, and then his brother Henry, until he died while Adrian was on campaign in Portugal. Now he was Westley, soon to be Wroxham, not only master of Highvale but responsible for his sisters’ marriages and his mother’s security.
His grandfather’s health fluctuated, some days reviving and wanting to spend an hour instructing Adrian on some point or other about the estate, other days declining until Adrian had to talk his weeping mother out of sending for the vicar, as his grandfather rasped that he didn’t want ‘that damned priest’ in his house until he was actually dead.
At times, it felt as though he’d left one battlefield for another.
After a morning when Mama and Gabrielle, his older sister, had broken down in tears over the funeral arrangements, Adrian had enough. He slipped out of the house and saddled his own horse, as if he were still just Captain Fitzhugh, and headed toward Larkspur Cottage. The storm had blown out to sea and left a brilliant blue sky and winter sunshine in its place. The snow and ice that had so hampered him and Gwen in their race to Blackthorpe had condensed into a mere inch of snow packed hard underfoot.
His spirits rose as he turned down the lane to the cottage. Children’s voices rang out, and he caught sight of two boys sword-fighting with sticks, just as he and Henry used to do. Two other figures were outside, both female. One was a child, and the other was Gwen.
He sat up straighter without thinking. He’d missed her even more than he’d realized. And he should have been here sooner.
The two boys came running as he drew near. He swung down and answered their breathless queries about the horse, then offered them a shilling each if they’d take care of the beast for him.
The older boy nodded knowingly. “Aye, sir, you’ll want to stay a while. Hot gingerbread, they’ve got in there. Mrs. Maitland’s a dab hand in the kitchen.”
He smiled. “Is she?”
“The best gingerbread in all of Suffolk!” declared the younger boy, who was petting the horse’s nose. “I wish Mam could make it so good!”
His brother cuffed him lightly. “Mam does make good gingerbread.”
“Ow! She does, only Mrs. Maitland’s is better!”
Adrian told them what to do and finally turned toward Gwen. She still stood by the house, though the girl had run to join her brothers. The brim of an old-fashioned bonnet concealed her expression, but Adrian’s heart lifted just seeing her again.
“Good morning,” he said when he stopped an arm’s length from her.
She curtsied. “Good morning, Captain,” she said, then hastily corrected, “my lord.”
