Summer Holiday

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “We will sort him out in the midst of it. Never you fear. We will sort him out.”

  * * *

  By the end of her first week in Wilkington, Carina was exhausted. How her aunt maintained such a whirl of activity, she did not know. They had called upon any number of local ladies, taken tea at a small tea shop in company of a Mrs. Garold, with whom Aunt Chadwick appeared to have a friendly rivalry, and spent three of the seven nights at various events around town: soirees, musicales, and the like.

  Carina could hardly keep pace with her hostess.

  “Where are we bound this morning?” she asked as the carriage rolled down the cobbled streets toward the far end of the city.

  “A meeting of the Ladies’ Aid Society, of which I am an original member.”

  This, then, was not a social appointment. “What does your society do?”

  “We advocate for the less fortunate here in Wilkington, be they orphans or widows or poverty-stricken workers.”

  “And this is the kind of work your niece took up after leaving here?”

  Aunt Chadwick nodded. “She saw that women can do a great deal of good in this world.”

  “What of your other nieces, those who married? Are they doing good in the world as well?”

  “Of course they are,” Aunt Chadwick said. “Their influence is felt in different ways, but it is real just the same.”

  “You are not nearly as grumpy as my father led me to believe,” Carina said with a smile.

  Aunt Chadwick’s eyes twinkled. “Wouldn’t he be disappointed to hear that.”

  “He likely would have simply locked me in my room until I agreed to marry Mr. Baskon rather than send me here.”

  The admission brought a return of Aunt Chadwick’s searching expression. “This is a complication I wasn’t aware of. Who is Mr. Baskon, and what is your objection to him?”

  “He lives in Rafton on an admittedly grand estate. He is of an age with my father, recently buried his third wife, and wishes for me to be the fourth. My objection—”

  “What you just told me is objection enough,” Aunt Chadwick said.

  “There is more,” Carina told her. “He is cruel and cold and unkind. His most recent wife was an acquaintance of mine. I watched her wither in absolute misery after their marriage. It was more than a loss of happiness in her expression. She became increasingly hermitic and quiet. She physically changed as well, dwindling to little more than a shell of a person. The fact that no one in town was surprised told me his earlier wives endured similar agony in their life with him. I choose not to tread that particular path.”

  “I should think not.” Aunt Chadwick appeared appropriately horrified—something Carina’s own parents had never managed.

  “Perhaps at the end of the summer, you could explain that to my father, as I do not think he will have changed his mind.”

  Aunt Chadwick leaned closer. “It is your mind and not his that matters, my dear. Until you fully embrace that, you will not know how strong you truly are.”

  Carina had never thought of herself in those terms. Ladies did not have a great deal of say in their own lives, after all. She had steadfastly refused Mr. Baskon’s advances and her parents’ seeming acceptance of them. Such, though, was an act of desperation more than true strength.

  “Ah, here we are.” Aunt Chadwick motioned to the carriage window, outside of which rose a tall stone wall cast in shadow.

  Carina had been too distracted to note where precisely they were. She still did not know. The local workhouse, perhaps. A dock building. The poor and destitute were to be found everywhere.

  The coachman, whistling as always, handed them out. A great deal of noise emanated from within the walls of the yet-unidentified building. People moved about in the distance, crossing a shadowed courtyard from one building to another.

  Carina followed her aunt through a narrow door and down a pokey corridor. They passed several small offices in which people were bent over desks, making notes in large bound books. This appeared to be a place of business.

  They were ushered into an office. Mrs. Garold sat inside, along with two ladies Carina did not know. Aunt Chadwick took the nearest seat, then launched into an animated discussion with the other ladies on a topic that, by the sound of it, involved a previous undertaking of the Ladies’ Aid Society.

  Carina moved to take the only vacant seat other than the one behind the large desk. She stopped, however, at the sound of heavy footfalls directly behind her. Spinning around, she came face-to-face with the last person she expected to see.

  “Mr. Ambrose,” she whispered.

  His brow pulled low. Apparently, he’d not anticipated her presence either. His eyes darted to Aunt Chadwick, and a look of wearied understanding filled his features. “Please be seated,” he said as he walked past her to his desk.

  She lowered herself into the armless chair. In the next instant, he sat as well.

  “What can I do for you, ladies?” he asked, eying everyone except Carina.

  “It has come to our understanding that a few families working here in your mill have fallen upon difficult times,” Mrs. Garold said. She, like Aunt Chadwick, preferred to get straight to the point.

  Carina had never known women quite like them before. Hers was a more quiet nature, though she found their directness inspiring. Perhaps more backbone would do her some good.

  “We’ve come to ask your help in assisting them,” Aunt Chadwick said. “We realize there’s not much financial benefit to you, and your mill would likely be more profitable if you simply cut loose workers who—”

  Grant raised his hand and stopped her. “Not all men of business are ogres. Tell me what it is you know, and we can begin discussing what is to be done.”

  “As easy as that?” Mrs. Garold clearly hadn’t expected such easy capitulation.

  His answering smile transported Carina to their meeting place all those years ago, when he would tell her something that amused him and his lips would turn up in just that way. She dropped her gaze, unprepared to face those memories.

  “If I am in a position to be of help, to ease suffering,” he said, “you will not have to convince me to do so.”

  “Well, this is an unfamiliar situation,” Aunt Chadwick muttered.

  “We’d best move forward before the gentleman comes to his senses,” Mrs. Garold said.

  “Do you often have difficulty securing aid in these matters?” Grant asked.

  “In our experience,” Aunt Chadwick said, “men of business are more motivated by profit than compassion.”

  “That is more often true than it should be,” Grant said. “Tell me about these families who are struggling.”

  The ladies gave a detailed account of illnesses and loss, need and near desperation. Carina’s gaze rose to Grant as the discussion continued. He took copious notes, asking questions, and listening to the ladies’ suggestions while making a few of his own.

  He had obviously forgotten her, which was something of a relief. She was not enduring his looks of displeasure or dismissal, but watched him unnoticed. Here, again, was his kind and tender nature, his compassion. He smiled as he once had. He clearly cared about the people he oversaw. This was how she’d imagined him in the role of businessman, the role in which she had pictured herself assisting him.

  This was the Grant Ambrose she had once loved.

  And he abandoned me. Do not forget that, Carina, or you will simply be hurt again.

  The meeting came to a close, several approaches having been decided upon. They all rose. Grant thanked the ladies for coming, offering friendly bows and smiles. Then he turned to Carina. His expression emptied. His bow was quickly executed without meeting her eye.

  “Miss Herrick. A good day to you,” he said, his tone flat and insincere.

  She simply watched him, not returning the pleasantry. Aunt Chadwick was right; this was not indifference. He actively disliked her.

  He had hurt her almost beyond bearing five years earli
er. Why must he continue to do so?

  “Miss Herrick?” Her silence, apparently, confused him enough to bring his eyes to hers at last.

  She hadn’t the energy to argue, nor could she explain all that was weighing on her. In the end, she released her pent-up breath and whispered, “You never used to be hurtful.”

  She turned and followed her aunt out of the office, promising herself that, for the remainder of her time in Wilkington, she would do her utmost not to cross paths with him again. She simply couldn’t bear it.

  Chapter Seven

  You never used to be hurtful. Hurtful. Carina’s words echoed in Grant’s mind for hours on end.

  He hadn’t been hurtful. He’d been civil and polite. He’d not embarrassed her or himself. He’d kept their interaction as serene as possible despite the many questions swirling in his mind. What more could she expect of him?

  The question weighed heavily on his mind as he stepped into the Beaumonts’ house that night for a society gathering. He had actually been looking forward to it. His enthusiasm, however, had waned after what transpired that morning.

  She would be there. He knew she would. And those words—You never used to be hurtful—would follow him all evening long. There were a lot of things he never used to be, things she never used to be. Strangers, for one. Alone, for another. They used to have each other. Nothing had been the same since that changed.

  Miss Beaumont met him not three steps inside the music room, her open, friendly manner weaving its usual spell. He felt content in her company, something he appreciated even more than usual just then.

  “We have secured an unparalleled performer for this evening,” she said, slipping her arm through his. “She is in demand on the opera stages in London, as well as Milan. Quite a coup for Mother.”

  Carina would be pleased. She had once attended a musical evening and heard an operatic soprano. She’d spoken of the experience on more than one occasion, waxing poetic about her enjoyment of the performance.

  How had she entered his thoughts again?

  “You seem distracted this evening,” Miss Beaumont said. “Did you have difficulties at the mill?”

  He smiled apologetically. “No, my thoughts are simply wandering. I believe a musical evening is precisely what I need to calm this overworked mind of mine.”

  “Then I am even more pleased you are here.” She led him toward the rows of chairs set in place in anticipation of the evening’s entertainment.

  A few of the guests were seated already, but most were moving about, mingling. As his luck of late would have it, Miss Beaumont led the two of them directly to Miss Chadwick and Carina, who stood a few paces from a small gathering of attendees.

  “Miss Chadwick, Miss Herrick,” she greeted. “How pleased we are to see you here this evening.”

  Miss Chadwick’s gaze darted from Grant to Miss Beaumont and back again, pausing only long enough to eye their interlinked arms. “How very gracious of you both to greet the guests so personally.”

  Something in that observation felt like a challenge to Grant. If Carina noticed anything odd, she did not allow it to show. Her focus remained to the side, not acknowledging the conversation going on directly before her.

  Miss Beaumont noticed. “Is something amiss, Miss Herrick? You appear displeased with your company.”

  “Not at all.” Her denial was spoken softly, not unlike the denunciation she’d offered him earlier. “I have simply had a taxing day.”

  “You and Mr. Ambrose both,” Miss Beaumont said.

  The comment brought Carina’s eyes to him at last. What he saw in their brown depths pulled him back five years to the day he’d told her he was leaving Rafton: worry, uncertainty, even fear. But, on that long-ago day, those emotions had been directed at fate and the vagaries of the future. In this moment, he knew without question that what he saw in her eyes was directed entirely at him.

  You never used to be hurtful.

  “I have managed to pull Mr. Ambrose from his doldrums,” Miss Beaumont said. “We simply must find someone to ease Miss Herrick from hers. I know any number of young gentlemen in attendance tonight who, I am certain, would be quite pleased to spend the evening at your side.”

  Before Carina could say a word, her aunt spoke. “You should know that Miss Herrick’s parents have bestowed their blessing on a suitor who lives near their family home. I do not imagine her spending an evening on the arm of another gentleman would meet with his approval.”

  A suitor? Was she engaged? Promised? Her expression gave away nothing, though she blushed a little.

  “These tired bones of mine need resting,” Miss Chadwick said. “Let us find a place to sit, Carina.”

  They stepped away and moved toward a back row of chairs. Grant could not be satisfied with so uninformative an answer.

  “Pardon me.” He slipped his arm free of Miss Beaumont’s and followed in Carina’s wake, weaving around guests obstructing his path.

  He reached the ladies before they sat.

  Carina saw him first but didn’t speak. Her attention was immediately focused on her aunt.

  Miss Chadwick’s brows turned up in surprise. “Did you think us incapable of finding seats on our own?”

  He shook his head. “I only—” How did he explain this? He didn’t know if Carina had told her elderly relative about their history. Yet he had to know. His mind would never be at ease otherwise.

  “Who is he?” he asked Carina.

  “Who is whom?” She wore her dignity like a shield.

  “This suitor in Rafton. Robert Caraway?” He had spoken more than once of an interest in her years earlier. “George Wilson?” He was the right age, though not at all suited to her clever and quick intellect.

  “You, sir, have no right to ask me such personal questions. You forfeited that privilege five years ago.”

  He lowered his voice, not wishing to air this grievance at full volume. “You knew perfectly well why I had to go to Preston. You agreed to it. You supported the decision.”

  “And you didn’t come back,” she added firmly. “Your life proceeded without me. You cannot object to hearing that mine has as well.”

  Didn’t come back? He hadn’t been able to in those early months; there’d been no time. By the time he was able, there’d been no reason. Their letters had long since grown impersonal and infrequent.

  “Miss Beaumont appears to be wishing for your company,” Carina said. “It would not do to disappoint her.”

  Miss Chadwick went so far as to wave Miss Beaumont over. She sent Grant a look of challenge as she lowered herself onto her chosen chair. Carina sat beside her, once again refusing to look at him.

  Miss Beaumont arrived and immediately slipped her arm through his. “Mr. Whiting wishes to speak with you. I suspect he may be interested in discussing your mill.”

  Normally, that bit of information would grab his entire attention, but he hesitated. Who was Carina’s intended? How long had her heart been engaged elsewhere?

  “Your thoughts really are wandering today.” Miss Beaumont laughed as she urged him away.

  One step, and Miss Chadwick spoke. She uttered only two words, but they stopped his heart. “Mr. Baskon.”

  Grant was afforded no opportunity to obtain an explanation—one he desperately hoped would ease his horror. Miss Beaumont kept to his side throughout the remainder of the evening, she and her parents pulling him into one conversation after another. By the time he slipped free, long after the operatic performance had ended, Carina and her aunt were already gone.

  He hardly slept that night, his concern for Carina growing by the moment. He remembered Baskon all too well. There were no polite words strong enough to describe the type of man he was. Grant, being male, had been privy to even more details of Baskon’s despicable nature than Carina likely was. Surely she knew enough to give the horrid man a wide berth. Surely.

  If, however, she did not, she had to be warned. She had to know the life she would be choosin
g—one in which misery would be unavoidable and the life drained from her.

  By the next morning, Grant had formulated a course of action. He sent word to the mill manager not to expect him and, instead, hied himself to the far edge of town and directly to the door of Chadwick House.

  He was ushered to a small, private breakfast room where Miss Chadwick sat enjoying her morning meal, despite the morning being half over. Carina was nowhere to be seen.

  “I wondered when we might be seeing you,” Miss Chadwick said.

  “I was expected?” Odd, considering he had decided upon this call only that morning.

  “One does not live as many decades as I without learning a great deal about people.” She motioned him to an empty chair at the small table.

  He sat. “Is Car—Miss Herrick about?”

  Miss Chadwick smiled knowingly. “She has gone for her morning walk, which gives me ample time to see to the matter of your version of all this.”

  He eyed her more closely. “Of all what, precisely?”

  “Come now.” She set herself to the task of buttering a scone. “I may be an old lady, but my wits have not gone begging.”

  “She told you?”

  Miss Chadwick pointed at him with her butter knife. “Told me what?”

  They were talking in circles now. “That we were sweethearts.”

  She laughed lightly. “I sorted that out on my own. I’m hoping to hear from you what ended that connection.”

  “What did she say ended it?”

  Miss Chadwick tsked. “That would be cheating, Mr. Ambrose.”

  She was a formidable verbal sparring partner, that was for certain. Grant had no desire to cross swords over this; he had come on weightier matters. A quick explanation seemed best.

  “We drifted apart.”

  Miss Chadwick appeared unimpressed—extremely so.

  “Is that not how she described it?”

  She arched a silver brow. “That is not how she described it to you last evening.”

  Grant hadn’t truly pondered much of last evening beyond the revelation that Mr. Baskon had been chosen for Carina.