Page 36 of The Season for Loving
Her favorite gift, naturally, was from her husband. The antique silver brooch, in the shape of his family’s clan badge, had signaled her entry into his Highland clan. When Fergus pinned it to her dress during the wedding ceremony, Georgie had embarrassed herself by dissolving into a puddle of tears. He hadn’t minded, though. In fact, she could swear he’d gotten a little misty around the edges, too.
“I don’t know how we’ll get it all into the carriage,” Fergus said.
“I haven’t given you my gift yet,” Mrs. Clotworthy said from her chair tucked away in the corner. “I was waiting for things to settle down.”
Georgie had forgotten about Mrs. C’s gift, which was probably a bit of wishful thinking. Still, the old darling had been working on it forever, so whatever it was she would make herself love it. Mrs. C had been so much more than a chaperone—she’d been her confidante, friend, and ardent supporter—the woman who’d nursed her through the most serious crisis of her life. In every way that counted, Mrs. C was the mother Georgie had lost when she was a little girl.
“Oh, would that be the, er, trousseau you were knitting?” Bertie asked, looking vaguely alarmed.
“Indeed it is.” Mrs. C rummaged around behind her chair before pulling out a large, lumpy package wrapped in brown paper.
“Are trousseaus usually knitted?” Fergus whispered to Georgie.
“Not usually,” she whispered back.
Beaming, Mrs. C trotted across the room and deposited the package on Georgie’s lap, along with a small pair of scissors to cut the string that bound it up.
“Thank you so much,” Georgie said, smiling up at her. It didn’t really matter what the package contained, because she knew the contents had been made with all the love Mrs. C had for her. That, by its very definition, made it infinitely precious.
After cutting the string and opening the package, she held up the bundle it contained. Whatever it was, it was made of thick, gray yarn knit in a sturdy, practical stitch, and was lined with gray wool to match. She shook it out, trying to deduce what it was.
“Is it a blanket?” Eliza asked.
“No, I’m sure it’s a cloak,” Georgie said, inspecting the frogs and buttons at the top of a large collar. She smiled at Mrs. C. “It will be just the thing for tromping about in the woods on a cold day.” Of course, she’d probably trip herself up in no time, since it was big enough for at least three of her.
“Oh, well done, Mrs. Clotworthy,” Bertie said with the kindest of smiles. “But perhaps the dimensions are not quite right. Georgie’s rather a slip of a girl, after all.”
“I can always wear it if it’s too big,” Fergus said. “A sturdy wool cloak never goes amiss up in the Highlands.”
“There’s a reason it’s so big,” Mrs. C said in a solemn voice. She gazed down at Georgie, a far-away look in her eyes, as if she were remembering something from long ago.
“What is it?” Georgie asked softly.
“Georgette, do you remember that when you were a little girl, you would go out into the garden at night and look up at the stars?”
“Yes, I remember.” In the city, there weren’t that many stars to see. Still, she could remember those nights spent in the small but pretty garden behind their townhouse, picking out the constellations and gazing up at the moon. “I used to dream about all the adventures I was going to have when I grew up.”
Mrs. C nodded. “You dreamed of travelling to Greece and Constantinople, and visiting the Pyramids and the Nile. All the exotic places you read about in your books.”
Georgie grinned at Fergus. “I suppose you didn’t realize you were marrying such an adventurous woman, did you?”
He kissed her on the nose. “I was counting on it.” Then he looked at Mrs. C. “But what does this cloak have to do with Georgie’s childhood fantasies?”
“When she would go outside,” Mrs. C said, “her father would give her an old woolen cloak to wear, the one he’d kept from his military days. So she wouldn’t get cold or damp.”
“I remember that so well,” Georgie said in a soft voice. She’d loved that cloak. The rough wool had scratched like anything, but the garment had enveloped her like her father’s embrace—warm, sturdy, and with the scents of bay rum and snuff.
“You would roll yourself up in it and lie out on that little patch of lawn between the flowerbeds, staring up at the night sky.”
“I remember that too,” said Bertie in a rueful voice. “I was always afraid Georgie would catch a chill, but Father told me not to fuss about it.”
“And I never did catch a cold, did I?” Georgie said with a cheeky smile for her big brother.
“That’s because you were wrapped in your father’s cloak to keep you safe,” Mrs. C said. “But you didn’t just dream about travel to exotic places, did you? You dreamed about other things, a little closer to home.”
Georgie nodded, suddenly feeling a little shy. “I dreamed about falling in love with a tall, handsome man, who would go on adventures with me. But also a man who would sit by the fire on a cold winter’s evening, telling stories to our children and reading to them from all the books that I loved.”
Like her father had read stories to her when she was a child, and like Bertie—who’d read story after story aloud to her when she was sick and confined to bed for week after long week. Truly, all Georgie had ever wanted was a family and place of her own to call home. Like the one she’d had all her life, she now realized, thanks to the people who’d loved and cherished her.
