The finer families in the surrounding area were afforded tables at which to enjoy the tarts, pies, and various berry-laden treats. The population in general made quick work of their victuals under the shade of obliging trees or walking about the various booths and vendors. It reminded Carina of the late-summer hiring fair held outside Rafton each year. Did Wilkington hold one of those as well? Two festivals each summer sounded lovely. She had always been fond of gatherings, especially when punctuated by such cheerful voices as were heard here.
Aunt Chadwick, who often insisted her “old bones” required resting, despite being one of the most indefatigable people Carina had ever met, remained at the table with Mrs. Garold but insisted Carina seek out a friend or diversion. The independence Aunt Chadwick regularly granted her often took her by surprise, so unaccustomed was she to it. Truth be told, she wasn’t certain it was entirely proper.
Still, the festival was showing itself to be a peaceful one, lacking the more questionable entertainments the hiring fairs often included. It would not be truly unacceptable to walk about a little on her own. She was fond of walking, after all. More so of late.
Grant had walked with her in the Chadwick House gardens every evening for the past fortnight. Though the initial excursions had been rather awkward undertakings, they had swiftly transformed into the pleasant and personal interludes they had once shared in Rafton. He spoke of the mill and other investments he was involved in. He told her of ventures he hoped to take up in the future. She spoke of friends she’d made in Wilkington, of her aunt’s activities and stories, and, as she’d once done easily and without hesitation, she began telling him of the dreams she had for her future. As before, he didn’t mock or dismiss her. He listened and encouraged. Perhaps he hadn’t changed as much these past years as she’d feared.
Her heart had ceased aching when she thought of him. Instead, it warmed and expanded in anticipation of his company. That, she felt certain, was a good sign. Her cautious nature—an aspect of her personality that had developed over the past half-decade—kept her from fully embracing these growing feelings, but neither did she dismiss them entirely.
Aunt Chadwick assured her she was welcome to remain at Chadwick House as long as she chose. Carina meant to use that time to sort out her past, her future, and the mess of emotions tied to both. And, despite the uncertainty attached to it all, she was optimistic.
She had perused not more than a half-dozen vendors’ offerings when she spied Grant ahead. His attention was on Mr. Beaumont, and he’d not yet seen her. Not wishing to interrupt, Carina approached quietly and slowly. She would simply wait until an opportunity presented itself.
“Has Miss Chadwick decided to invest in the expansion?” Mr. Beaumont asked Grant.
“I honestly do not know,” Grant said.
“You are at Chadwick House every night.” Mr. Beaumont eyed him in disbelief.
But Grant only laughed. “I am not there on business, sir.”
Warmth spread through Carina’s chest. She knew perfectly well why he came to Chadwick House. He came to see her.
“You are courting her niece, aren’t you?”
Carina held her breath, awaiting the answer. She felt certain he was, in fact, courting her, despite their stated intention of building a friendship. But he had not said as much outright. To hear the words . . . So many of their difficulties five years earlier had arisen from words left unsaid.
“I am doing my utmost,” Grant said. “Ours is a difficult history.”
“Yes, my daughter said as much.” Nothing in Mr. Beaumont’s posture or tone spoke of disappointed hopes. Perhaps Miss Beaumont hadn’t set her sights as firmly on Grant as Carina thought when they first met. “Are you making any progress?”
“I believe so. Regardless of the outcome, I consider myself the most fortunate of men to have her in my life again, in whatever way she will permit.”
She stepped away, finding a quiet spot despite the bustling crowd. The most fortunate of men. What a perfectly lovely thing to say. He was truly happy to have her in his life again. The sentiment was mutual. Indeed, over the past two weeks, he had become an integral part of her life once more. And the prospect did not terrify her.
“Good afternoon, Miss Herrick.”
She smiled at the sound of Grant’s voice. “Mr. Ambrose. You are just in time.”
“Am I?”
She looked up at him. “I have been forced to wander this festival all alone.”
He held his hand out to her. “Wander alone no more, my dear.”
She slipped her hand into his.
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. “My darling, dearest Carina.”
At the warmth of his touch and the tenderness of the endearment, joy took wing in her heart.
“I do not believe one generally kisses a person one considers merely a friend.” She meant the remark to be teasing, but the words quavered.
He brushed the thumb of his free hand along her cheek. “No, one does not.”
“Grant?” She could manage no more than that.
He simply smiled and put her arm through his. “The festival is yours to explore. What would you like to do first?”
She rested her head against his shoulder as they walked. “Everything.”
Chapter Twelve
Grant felt the shortening of days acutely as the summer wound to its inevitable conclusion. Carina had not said what she intended to do. Did she have reason enough to remain in Wilkington? Her efforts in the Ladies’ Aid Society would be greatly missed by the people she’d helped over the past months. Miss Chadwick would sorely miss her; the two ladies had become dear to each other. The area’s many gardens and vistas would be the lonelier were she to leave.
None of that pressed on Grant’s heart as he made his way along the pond in the east garden of Chadwick House. Many people would miss her, but Grant would be devastated, broken. He knew what it was to lose her; he could not bear it again.
She stood precisely where she always did before their evening walks in the gardens. Here in Wilkington, they’d claimed a spot as their own, just as they had in Rafton. When he last met her in their designated place five years earlier, he ran to her, spinning her about with unfettered excitement. He’d been so certain of the future then.
This time, he was the one facing the possibility of her departure. The prospect tore at him. He’d tried so hard over the past weeks to win back her regard. He felt he’d succeeded to a degree. But was it enough? Would it ever be?
“Good evening,” he said.
She smiled softly. Uncertainty tore at Grant’s nerves. He meant to ask her about her plans, her future. Their future. Though the answer might break his heart, he had to know.
“I have something for you.” He swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat.
“Have you?”
He pulled from his jacket pocket a folded and sealed letter and held it out to her.
“A letter?” She eyed it with obvious confusion.
“The letter I ought to have sent you five years ago.”
She took it but didn’t immediately open it.
Grant took a fortifying breath. “The summer is all but over, and I know full well you might be leaving. Too much was left unsaid a half-decade ago; I cannot let that happen again.”
Her hands shook a little as she flipped the letter over and broke the seal. The wind tugged hard at them both, whipping the tree branches and bushes nearby, not unlike the day they’d parted in Rafton. How he hoped this evening would bring greater happiness than that day.
She did not read his words aloud. She didn’t have to. Grant knew the short missive by heart.
My darling Carina,
I love you. I know there are more elegant and poetic ways of expressing what is in my heart, but urgency compels me to unromantic frankness. I have loved you all these years. Losing you left a hole in my very heart—one that you and you alone can fill. Whatever you choose to do, wherever you cho
ose to go, know that I love you with all my soul and will do everything in my power to make certain you never doubt that.
Your affectionate and loving,
Grant
She did not look up for several long moments, far longer than was required to read the single paragraph. Her wide-brimmed bonnet hid her face, rendering him unable to see, let alone interpret, her expression. Had he said too much? Too little?
“Do you wish for me to remain?” She spoke quietly without looking at him.
“I wish for you to be happy.”
“That is not what I asked.” She met his gaze at last. She watched him so intently he wasn’t even certain she was breathing. “Do you wish for me to remain?”
He took her hands in his. “My darling, I walked away from you—from us—five years ago. I lost everything that mattered to me. Second chances are rare in this world. I doubt fate will give us a third.”
Worry pulled at her brow and the corners of her mouth.
“Allow us a chance to grow closer and find each other again.” He closed his eyes as he tenderly kissed her fingers. “Please stay, my beloved. Please stay.”
“Your letter says that you love me.”
He looked at her once more, hoping she could see and feel the sincerity of his words. “Of course I do. I love you, Carina Herrick. I love you with every breath, with every thought.”
Her smile blossomed once more. “I’ve waited years to hear you say that.”
“I should never have left it unsaid so long. I never will again. Not ever.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “Will you stay?”
“I would not wish to be anywhere else.”
He bent and brushed a kiss to her cheek.
She set her hands on his chest, gazing into his eyes, then slipped her arms about his neck. “I love you, Grant Ambrose.”
He kissed her as the sun set. Fate had, indeed, been kind. He’d lost the love of his life, and the heavens had crossed their paths once more. Life would, no doubt, bring difficulties and worries in the years to come, but neither of them would face those challenges alone again.
Click on the covers to visit Sarah’s website:
About Sarah M. Eden
Sarah M. Eden is the author of multiple historical romances, including the two-time Whitney Award Winner Longing for Home and Whitney Award finalists Seeking Persephone and Courting Miss Lancaster. Combining her obsession with history and affinity for tender love stories, Sarah loves crafting witty characters and heartfelt romances. She has twice served as the Master of Ceremonies for the LDStorymakers Writers Conference and acted as the Writer in Residence at the Northwest Writers Retreat. Sarah is represented by Pam Victorio at D4EO Literary Agency.
Visit Sarah on-line:
Twitter: @SarahMEden
Facebook: Author Sarah M. Eden
Website: SarahMEden.com
The Last Summer at Ivy House
By Annette Lyon
Chapter One
Not a year had passed since Sarah last traversed this section of road between the village of Wilshire and London. As usual, she rode in the servants’ carriage with Mrs. Roach, the housekeeper, and Betsy, the cook. Together, the three of them would join the small staff at Ivy House, the family’s London town house, which had a cook—who also served as scullery maid—a servant, and Mrs. Jones as housekeeper—who also filled any other job that might be required. They ran Ivy House the rest of the year, which was plenty for the few days at a time that Mr. Millington visited the city on business.
During the summer months, when his wife and children joined him for three months, more help was definitely needed. As was the case every year, the rest of the staff stayed at Rosemount, maintaining the estate until the family’s return.
The servants’ carriage had room for one more, but the two other servants going to London didn’t ride with the others. The first, Miss Leavey, was the children’s governess, and the other was Mrs. Heap, lady’s maid to Mrs. Millington. Due to business obligations, Mr. Millington and his valet had gone ahead to London and awaited them there.
For her part, Sarah came along as additional maid. At Ivy House, she typically spent her days cleaning rooms, scrubbing dishes, and doing anything else Mrs. Roach or Betsy ordered her to do, which at Ivy House tended to be a significant amount of work.
Sarah often wondered if the entire family would have still gone to London every summer if more of the seven babes Mrs. Millington had borne yet lived. Not for the first time, she felt grateful on her mistress’s behalf that another child hadn’t come along after Nathaniel, who’d passed his third birthday during the winter. The poor woman’s constitution couldn’t have tolerated the strain. Her temperament, which had become abrasive and easily provoked, already suffered.
Sliding her fingers between the curtain and the glass, Sarah peered outside. A bend in the road showed the family carriage moving smoothly across the rolling emerald countryside. She’d never ridden in one of the family carriages, only in the older ones, which bumped and jolted with every pebble and divot on the road. She’d seen glimpses inside Mrs. Millington’s favorite carriage: padded benches and silky pillows. And it had a smooth ride. One could only dream of how much more comfortable a journey would be within such a conveyance.
When the carriage turned suddenly, Sarah instinctively tried to brace herself by holding tighter to the carriage door. She needn’t have, of course; next to her, the cook’s ample figure filled their shared bench entirely. Indeed, a vise could not have held Sarah any tighter to her spot than the combination of the carriage on her left and Betsy’s girth on the right.
Unaware of the sudden turn, Betsy snored away, head down, which emphasized her chins. When the careening ended and the carriage was solidly upright again, Sarah wrapped her cloak around herself against the damp cold.
Mrs. Roach sat on the bench across from Betsy and Sarah, with plenty of room on either side. She sat square in the middle of it, owning the space as if it were a throne. Due to her station, she had benefits other servants lacked. Even so, Sarah wished she could ride on Mrs. Roach’s bench. Betsy sampled her own cooking so often that she’d acquired a significant girth. The ride to town had never been comfortable, but Betsy must have indulged more than usual, as the space left for Sarah this year had become so tight as to be almost unbearable.
Sarah eyed Betsy and wondered if she could make the cook move without waking her. Perhaps if she leaned to the side, pushing slightly against Betsy, the cook would shift for her own comfort and—hopefully—make more room for Sarah. Right then, Mrs. Roach lowered the ledger she’d been reviewing and peered over the top of her glasses right at Sarah, her arched brows questioning.
The woman must read minds. Sarah smiled innocently and folded her hands in her lap, looking to the window again, despite the view being once more blocked by the curtain. She thinks of me as a child of ten, in need of discipline and correction, she thought, then quickly prayed to the saints that Mrs. Roach couldn’t read minds after all.
Mrs. Roach returned her attention to the ledger, which contained lists and notes she’d prepared and consulted many times over the last month as she’d made preparations to ensure a smooth and successful Season.
For her part, Sarah could hardly contain her excitement at knowing that she’d be in London again. Feeling jittery from anticipation as well as from Mrs. Roach’s gaze, Sarah moved the curtain aside again. This time, she looked through the slightly warped glass as the landscape passed by. The rain had ended, and the sun had come out, leaving a damp road but plenty of warmth coming from above. When they’d left Rosemount early that morning, a mist of pale gray clouds had stretched across the sky, barely visible as dawn approached. Now shafts of golden light shot through the remaining clouds down to the green hills and valleys.
She peered as far ahead on the road as she could—scarcely farther than a stone’s throw—eager to spot the telltale signs of the approaching city. The road would be smoother because it was better
cared for, due to having so much more traffic than country roads. Sheep and farmland would become scarce. More buildings would appear, closer together and taller. Many streets had buildings four stories high, so one couldn’t see far into the distance at all.
Ivy House also stood four stories, but the street didn’t feel as crowded as so many did. That was likely because it was wider than poorer areas of town, where the streets were so narrow that two young women could stand side by side, holding hands, and each could touch a building on the other side of the cobbled way.
While one side of Ivy House’s street was lined by a long building of town houses, the other side held a groomed park. Miss Leavey often took her charges there on warm days, always locking the gate behind them to ensure that no undesirables—those who weren’t residents of the town houses and therefore didn’t pay for the upkeep or right to use the park—came in.
The town houses themselves made the street feel even broader. A short flight of steps set the doors back from the sidewalk. Sarah thought the town houses were beautiful, yes, but some could also seem cold and unfriendly, as if they deliberately stood higher than other dwellings and apart from the street as a sign of aloofness and superiority.
As if buildings have personalities. Sarah smiled softly at the thought. She’d always ascribed feelings to places, though she told few people about it because she knew from experience that many people thought such ideas were silly. So while Ivy House and its neighbors were beautiful in their own grand way, she preferred the parts of the city where doors opened right to the sidewalk. Those doors seemed welcome and inviting, never holding themselves higher than others. Instead, whenever she walked past some, she felt as if a dear friend she’d never before met might open a door at any moment and introduce themselves.
Summer Holiday Page 16
