“Imogene tells me you appeared displeased at the station this afternoon,” Mr. Beaumont said, interrupting Grant’s moment of reflection. “Did you have trouble with the shipment of cotton?”
Grant nodded slowly and with emphasis. “I’ve nearly reached my limit with this supplier. Shipments are forever arriving short or behind their time. His rates might be better than others, but that price comes far too dear.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Beaumont’s knowledge of business was second only to Grant’s uncle’s. If he was in agreement with Grant’s analysis, that was a strong vote in favor of seeking a new supplier. “The money and time you lose tracking down your missing merchandise may be better spent on a new, more trustworthy distributor. Those increased rates will pay for themselves over time with your increased productivity and reliability.”
“That is my evaluation as well.” Finding a new supplier and forging a relationship took time, however. Productivity would be down while that was all arranged, unless Grant could time it such that there was no gap in deliveries. That was easier said than done.
“Let me send a wire to a few men I know in the City,” Mr. Beaumont said. “They may have a few recommended suppliers for you—more reliable options.”
“I would be deeply grateful.”
Miss Beaumont arrived on the scene in that moment, eying them both with a playful look of scolding. “Are the two of you discussing business matters again? What will it take to convince you to set that aside long enough to enjoy a dinner?”
“My apologies, Imogene.” Mr. Beaumont even bowed, though his mustache danced with mirth. “We are quite the worst of guests.”
“You, Father, are not a guest,” she said. “You are the host. It is for you to set a good example.” She turned to Grant. “You must think us the veriest heathens.”
She made comments of that nature now and then, alluding to his more exalted origins. Wouldn’t she be shocked to discover that the rung he occupied on the social ladder of Rafton and the surrounding area had been a relatively low one?
“On the contrary,” he told her. “I am always pleased to be in your company.”
She blushed, and he realized his mistake. She spoke of her family’s impression on him, and he intended his reply to reference her family. It clearly had not been received that way. Still, correcting the misunderstanding would only embarrass her.
“If you and Father are willing to set aside your talk of cotton and investments and shipping schedules, we do have two other guests who are expected this evening,” Miss Beaumont said. “One of whom is old Miss Chadwick.”
Grant had interacted with Miss Chadwick on a few occasions, though nothing of a significant nature had passed between them. She was a lady of advancing years with a sizable income, known to invest in any number of ventures. Thus far, she showed only a passing interest in any of his.
“Miss Chadwick?” That was unexpected. Grant looked to Mr. Beaumont, who nodded subtly.
Miss Beaumont was smiling when he looked at her once more. “I thought that might seize your attention.”
“Who is the other guest? The Queen herself?”
She shook her head. “Miss Chadwick’s niece, who is only lately arrived in Wilkington. A poor relation, I believe, who has been thrust upon her aunt for the foreseeable future.”
That was an unenviable position for anyone. The niece of a lady who was old enough for her age to be described as “significantly advancing” must be rather old herself. Grant remembered well the dinners with his own grandmother. They had been short affairs, owing to her low energy, and conversation had been difficult, owing to her nearly nonexistent hearing.
Perhaps the dinner would be ended quickly. That certainly met with his approval. A great deal of business awaited his attention.
“I look forward to making their acquaintance,” he said.
“Look forward no more,” Miss Beaumont said. “I believe I hear them in the corridor.”
The Beaumonts moved closer to the door, ready to greet their guests. Grant stayed back a few paces. He had already given the impression of stronger feelings than he felt for Miss Beaumont. Inserting himself into the family’s welcome would only confirm what he’d never meant to imply.
Mrs. Beaumont’s voice broke the silence first. “Miss Chadwick, what a pleasure.”
“Isn’t it, though?” came the reply, spoken firmly despite the telltale shake of age.
Miss Chadwick was not the docile, soft-spoken octogenarian most would expect. Grant had realized that during their very first interaction. He knew not what to expect of her niece. Poor relations were often mistreated and trampled on, rendering them far more timid than they might have been otherwise.
He stepped closer to the window, granting the new arrivals space and time in which to greet their hosts. Their voices were swirling about, mixing too much for any one word to be truly discernible. The group moved in one mass farther inside the drawing room. Grant kept to his side of it. Introductions would be undertaken once doing so was convenient; he would not press for speed when it was not necessary.
His difficult mood was beginning to ebb. The past years had taught him the trick of forcing unpleasantness from his mind and summoning lighter thoughts and brighter moods to take its place.
The Beaumonts always served a fine meal, and their conversation was without fault. Though they did not keep exclusively to the topic of business, when they did discuss such matters, Mrs. and Miss Beaumont proved themselves nearly as knowledgeable as Mr. Beaumont. On other matters, their opinions and thoughts were pleasant and interesting. No doubt Miss Chadwick and her niece would prove equally enjoyable dinner companions.
Miss Beaumont separated herself from the small group and moved toward him. “You have not suddenly become bashful, have you?”
He’d never been truly bashful, but he did prefer quiet and solitude to gatherings of people, unless those people were particularly well-known to him. Still, he knew how to be polite. “I only wished to allow your family time and space to greet your neighbors.”
“You are our neighbor as well.” She had perfected her tone of playful scolding. He had heard it often enough to know that for a fact. “Come greet the arrivals.”
He stepped closer. The crowd parted enough for an older lady dressed in the finest fashion, leaning on a cane and moving at a slow clip, but with eyes keen and sharp, to move to the front of the group.
“Miss Chadwick.” Grant offered a bow.
She answered with a dip of her head. “Mr. Ambrose. I’d like to introduce you to my great-niece, Miss Herrick.”
His heart stopped at the sound of that name. The entire world, that very moment, slowed to a painful crawl as his eyes tracked in the direction of the second, yet-unseen guest. He told himself again and again in that elongated instant that the surname was a mere coincidence, that he would feel an utter fool when he saw the truth of it before him. But his heart knew. Heavens, it knew.
There she stood. Carina. No trick of the eyes, no cruel jest of the brain. Carina. In the same town as he was. The same house. The same room. Carina.
He knew he was meant to do something. Bow or dip his head or say something. His mind, however, emptied of everything except his all-encompassing shock.
She did not seem similarly bewildered. Her expression remained as serene as could be. She dipped a perfect curtsy. By sheer habit, he managed the required bow of acknowledgment.
“Miss Herrick.” He hoped his voice emerged as steady as it sounded to his ears.
Carina answered with a fleeting smile, one that spoke of obligation more than any real pleasure. She lowered her eyes, her posture stiff and unyielding. That was to be the nature of their interaction? After all these years, after the loneliness and disappointment, they were to go on as if they’d never known each other, as if there was nothing between them beyond the vague interest one might feel when meeting a stranger?
He had sunk to the depths of agony as her letters had grown shorter, filled w
ith fewer personal sentiments. He sensed no enthusiasm for the parts of his life about which he wrote. They exchanged fewer notes, fewer expressions of hope for their future or tender regard. In time, they simply drifted apart, the short distance between them proving too great a barrier. And now, here she was, entirely disinterested.
Grant steeled himself. He accepted long ago that her affections had cooled. He would not be felled now by the evidence of it.
Mrs. Beaumont announced that dinner was ready, and they proceeded to the dining room. Grant offered his arm to Miss Beaumont, as had become customary during his increasingly frequent evenings amongst the family. This time, however, the ritual was more than the result of habit; he needed a reason to look away from the unexpected materialization of half a decade of disappointed hopes.
He moved mindlessly to the dining room and sat in the chair he always occupied. If he did not allow any conscious thought, he was far less likely to dwell on the situation. Then he looked up and saw Carina directly across the table from him.
A growl of frustration nearly escaped before he muscled it back. He had not been at all prepared for this. How could he have been? He hadn’t the first idea how he would manage an entire evening spent in her company without either storming out in frustration or disrupting the Beaumonts’ evening by demanding to know why she’d pushed him away all those years ago and why, by the stars, she had come here to torture him further.
“Mr. Ambrose, you have been in Wilkington nearly a year now,” Miss Chadwick said. “Why is it we seldom see you?”
He set his attention firmly on her and not upon her niece seated beside her. “I cannot say, other than the possibility that the demands of my business have prevented my participation in most of the social gatherings in Wilkington. The Beaumonts have been good enough to include me, but I daresay most of the other local hostesses have given up all hope of me.”
He glanced at Carina out of the corner of his eye. She showed not the slightest interest in his conversation or presence, though he felt certain she was listening.
“Have they?” Something far more pointed than casual conversation lay beneath the older lady’s words. Indeed, when he looked more fully at her, he could see that he was being evaluated. Perhaps, as the Beaumonts had hinted, she was considering investing in his mill. “Where did you live before coming to our fine city?”
“In Preston.” It was the truth, though not all of it. If Carina did not mean to reveal their connection, he certainly wasn’t going to volunteer it.
“Ah.” Miss Chadwick’s gaze narrowed on him. “You’ve family there?”
“Yes. My uncle. I am a business partner of his, currently assigned to oversee Ambrose Mill here in Wilkington.”
“And are you turning a profit?” Her questions were direct, which did not surprise him in the least. His few interactions with her before now had revealed that bit of her character.
“I am turning a profit, yes.” He matched her matter-of-fact tone. “I expect it to grow each year, in fact.”
“Mr. Ambrose has an excellent head for business,” Miss Beaumont said. “My father has declared him the second best business man in all of Wilkington—second to himself, of course.”
That earned the expected amusement from all at the table, except Carina. Her expression did not change in the least. Indeed, her gaze did not rise above her plate.
Mr. Beaumont launched into a discussion of margins and risk assessment, joined by his wife and daughter, as well as Miss Chadwick. For his part, Grant could only half listen. Carina continually pulled his notice. She had never been one for endless prattle, but this silence was unnatural.
Was she overset at being in his company again?
Had the years since they’d last seen each other rendered a fundamental change in her?
Was she being mistreated by her aunt?
He reminded himself more than once that they were no longer sweethearts, that she had made plain her waning connection to him. His head had, logically and correctly, closed that chapter in his life with a firm and resounding snap. He simply could not allow his heart to open it once more.
* * *
Carina returned to her bedchamber at Chadwick House that night and wept.
Chapter Six
Breakfast was a quiet affair the next day. Mrs. Jones informed Carina that Aunt Chadwick did not generally rise before midmorning. So Carina indulged in a quiet walk through one of the gardens, during which she practiced putting Grant Ambrose out of her thoughts once more. His behavior toward her the night before baffled her. He had not admitted to being from Rafton. Nothing in his interaction with her even hinted at a previous acquaintance. Her heart ached recalling the coldness of his glances.
Had he not hurt her enough five years earlier? Was doing so again truly necessary?
Too many uncertainties flowed through her mind for any degree of peace or contentment despite the beauty of her surroundings. She would try not to think on him, but trying and doing were different things.
She returned to the house no less burdened than when she’d left. Her aunt had arisen and taken a seat in the sitting room. Carina joined her there, determined to pass her day with more pleasant pursuits than torturing herself with thoughts of Grant Ambrose.
“Good morning,” she greeted as she sat near her aunt.
“How long have you and Mr. Ambrose known each other?” Aunt Chadwick asked without preamble. “And do not think to brush me aside with protestations: the tension between the two of you last evening could have securely suspended a bridge.”
Was it so obvious? Her heart sank, weighed down by humiliation. Had everyone at the dinner noticed?
“The Ambrose family moved to Rafton seven years ago,” Carina said, resigning herself to the retelling.
Aunt Chadwick’s sharp gaze grew more pointed. “He, then, is not from Preston as he said.”
“He moved to Preston five years ago to be a partner in his uncle’s business ventures. So he was being honest, if not detailed.”
Aunt Chadwick shook her head, apparently dissatisfied with that. “He went to great pains not to reveal any connection between the two of you. There must be a reason.”
Carina had been trying very hard not to ponder that reason. If he had merely grown indifferent toward her over the years, as she had told herself he had, then he would have acknowledged their acquaintance and perhaps shrugged it off. To make no mention of it at all spoke of something else entirely.
“Were you sweethearts?” Aunt Chadwick asked.
With a small sigh, Carina nodded. “When he left for Preston, it was with the understanding that he would visit regularly and write to me—his sister allowed our notes to each other to be included in her correspondence with him—and that once he was established as a partner and had secured his own lodgings, he would—” She could not force the remainder of the sentence to form.
Her aunt seemed to understand what was left unspoken. “Did he write to you?”
“He wrote for a time. His earliest letters were long and detailed, delineating all he was learning and doing, the people he was meeting. He told me he missed me and longed for my company. I wrote back, sharing my thoughts and feelings, asking questions about matters of business I did not fully understand but wished to. At first, his responses were eager, allowing me to be part of all aspects of his life. They changed, though. They grew shorter, less personal. He seldom spoke of loneliness as he once had or of wishing I were with him. In time, his letters stopped entirely.”
She did not dare look at her aunt. She’d spent far enough time seeing pity in the eyes of those who knew of her dashed hopes and aching heart. Last evening’s painful encounter had left her even more vulnerable to it.
“Did he ever visit you?” Aunt Chadwick asked.
Carina swallowed down a lump forming in her throat. “Not even once. It seems he grew indifferent very quickly.”
Aunt Chadwick snorted—actually snorted. “What I saw on young Mr. Ambrose’s face las
t night was anything but indifference.”
She had to admit that was true. “There was too much coldness for true apathy.”
“And too much coldness for true coldness.” Aunt Chadwick leaned back in her chair, her wrinkled face pulled in thought. “I found myself wondering again and again last night and this morning just what he is feeling.”
“I am not certain I wish to know,” Carina admitted quietly. “I have long since come to terms with his disinterest. I do not know that I could abide anything else.”
“Then let us not dwell on him.” Aunt Chadwick’s hand swished the air. “We will spend this summer, instead, discovering who you are and what it is you want.”
“My father sent me here for precisely that same reason.”
Aunt Chadwick laughed softly. “Heavens, child. I know perfectly well his motivation. Do you think you are the only one of my nieces to be sent here as a warning against the perils of spinsterhood?” Again, she laughed, not bitterly or humorlessly. She seemed to truly find it amusing. “You are the fourth resigned to this fate. Two have gone on to marry wonderful gentlemen and build beautiful lives. The third did not choose to marry, but has built a beautiful life as well—one filled with work that brings her satisfaction and many, many people who consider her as close as family, whose lives she has touched. My relatives send their daughters here on the assumption that they will be miserable. I receive them on the assumption that, here, they will finally learn to be joyous.”
Oh, how Carina liked the sound of that. She had not felt truly joyous in far too long.
“I have often felt these last five years as though joy hovered just out of my reach,” Carina said. “I haven’t any idea how to grasp it.”
Aunt Chadwick nodded firmly. “Then that is our goal for this summer. We will go out amongst society, attend meetings for charitable societies, explore various pastimes. We will find what brings you happiness, and you will embrace it—all of it.”
“And what of Mr. Ambrose?” She worried his presence in Wilkington would be a source of tremendous misery for her.
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