Snowflakes and Scandals

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

After the emotional upheaval of the journey, life at Larkspur Cottage felt very quiet to Gwen.

Gran had indeed been very ill, so ill the doctor had sighed and said it was in God’s hands. That had spurred Gran’s teary letter to Gwen. Maisie, though, opined that the doctor wasn’t good for much, as he tended to think every woman’s illness was vague and mysterious, and she had thrown herself into caring for Gran. She was younger by almost ten years, and she had insisted that Gran would have fresh air and clean bedding every day, vast quantities of tea and soup but no heavy food, and a warm poultice on her chest every night. Gran had rolled her eyes during Maisie’s tale, but with a smile.

“And you mark my words, she began to get better three days before you arrived,” said Maisie to Gwen. “The very day you received her letter and decided to charge across the entire country to her side!”

“Maisie, neither of us had any idea Gwen had even read my letter,” scolded Gran. “It’s a coincidence.”

“Nevertheless, that’s the day you turned a corner, Belinda,” replied Maisie firmly. “God knew you must recover in time to see her.”

“If you thought pixies might have crept through your window at night to breathe good health on you, I would be grateful to the pixies,” Gwen told her grandmother, and gladly let Gran embrace her.

For the first few days it was lovely; she was overjoyed to see Gran doing so well. Maisie was delighted to have someone else to bake for, and they enjoyed a feast every night, it seemed to Gwen. Reggie was welcomed into the household and won Maisie’s heart when he caught two of the mice that had been plaguing her for weeks in the kitchen.

Now that Gran was improving, though—and she declared herself vastly better, with Gwen there—there was precious little to do. Maisie and Gran lived simply, with a maid of all work and a man who came by later the day Gwen arrived to deliver coal and make a path through the snow to the well for Cora, the maid.

When Gwen finally confessed that her journey to Blackthorpe had cost her her post, there had been only a moment of shocked silence before Maisie stoutly declared that a young woman as industrious, clever, and good-natured as Gwen would surely find another post as soon as she wanted one, with Gran exclaiming in agreement.

Gwen didn’t say that she wasn’t as certain. She’d felt righteously upset that Sir Edmund had been so callous and rude, and she didn’t regret choosing Gran over the Bradfords. But it meant she had no reference from them, which would make things harder.

She ought to look for another post, somewhere around here. Not as a governess, but perhaps in one of the shops in the village. She liked being near Gran and Maisie, and there was certainly nothing to go back to in Salisbury. The only doubt she had… was Adrian.

She had learned through a few careful questions that the Earl of Wroxham’s estate, Highvale, was five miles from Larkspur Cottage. The earl was elderly, and Maisie’s gossipy friends at church whispered that they’d heard he was dying. Sorrow had squeezed Gwen’s heart at that, thinking of how Adrian had told her he was rushing home to see his grandfather. At least he’d made it in time, but it appeared that, unlike Gwen’s, his journey was going to end in mourning.

So her captain would be an earl soon, and Gwen was sure she knew now why he’d been so quiet during their sleigh ride to Blackthorpe. He would be an earl, and she was an unemployed, cat-stealing governess. Of course he hadn’t wanted to come in and take tea with Gran and Maisie; of course he hadn’t wanted to discuss that night, even though Gwen had meant to tell him that she was equally responsible and would never expect him to do something ridiculous like marry her.

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 the day after next. 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 excuse. She 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 in front of the cottage. 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. A horse was making its 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.