by Ava Devlin
"Which trunk is yours, sir?" a porter shouted, his collar pulled up so far that Callum could scarcely make out the man's face.
"No trunk," he replied over the whistling of the wind. "Just this pack!"
The porter squinted at him, but waved him off the docking area rather than comment, where it was only a short walk up to a little hamlet that sat on the water. He imagined his choices for the evening were either a last-call stage into London or a night in the emptiest inn.
For the first time, he could afford whichever he liked. If it weren't so damned cold and if he weren't so damned eager to get home, he might have relished the concept of returning to British shores and indulging in a bit of fanciful leisure. After all, he had spent his formative years gazing pie-eyed at his betters and wondering what it must be like to be a man of means.
The other soldiers from the ship had already split off toward a lively-looking tavern that spilled bright light into the thoroughfare. Even from the port, Callum had been able to make out the strains of raucous music, welcoming in a contingent of young men who were starved for luxury and warmth.
He chuckled, shaking his head as he adjusted the meager belongings on his back. Perhaps the true irony of coming into means of his own lay in losing the desire to truly indulge in them. Even with a battalion of brothers-in-arms about, with no call to duty hovering on the horizon which might interrupt a lively night of cards and ale, all he wanted to do was locate a stagecoach and get underway toward Somerton.
He hadn't told his mother that he was coming. Brenda Laughlin was always such fun when surprised, after all. He wagered after she'd boxed his ears for startling her so, she'd turn to biscuits and sweets and a freshly turned-down bed, all the while fussing and sighing and demanding he tell her everything he'd experienced abroad.
A lot of the boys in his regiment had waxed poetic about the day they might return to their own beds, but Callum wagered his carefully curated loft above the stable stalls had long been repurposed. It would be enough to simply be back on the grounds, even if it was too cold to smell the hay and lavish relish the breeze.
Home was much more than a bed, he supposed, even if his little loft had been particularly good. The whole reason he'd gone to war was to rise above living with horses, wasn't it? He knew that, rationally. It was only that a few days to return to everything familiar and safe that had preceded his rapid tumble into manhood would have been a lovely prospect, for a short time.
He breathed out a foggy breath into the night air, stomping the wet sand from his boots at the threshold of a tiny boarding house with a crooked sign out front. The inside, perhaps as a merit of its size, was blissfully warm and cozy, and the instant he entered, a young barmaid with bright red hair shot up from her place at the hearth to assist him.
His heart lodged somewhere between his sternum and his throat at the sight of her, rushing over with an enthusiastic smile on her freckled face. She didn't look like Heloise, not really. Up close, she was too buxom, her nose too flat, her eyes a murky brown rather than sparkling green. Still, he found himself rooted to the spot, barely able to breathe as she approached him, chattering away.
He could scarcely account for acknowledging her before he found himself plopped into a chair next to the fire, a warm bowl of soup in front of him, and a flagon of cider in his hand.
The barmaid had taken notice of his reaction to her, and blushed prettily when she drew near. "The stage won't be back until morning, sir. We've beds available though, if you've a need. We'll have you set off to London first thing tomorrow."
He nodded, patting at his jacket to find his coin purse, but the barmaid stopped him with a gentle hand to his arm. "You can settle up with Pa in the morning. If you find the loft lacking in warmth, do let us know," she said as she bit her lip, lashes fluttering, "we'll make sure you're comfortable."
Callum gave what he hoped was a polite smile and nodded to the young woman, making a show of reaching for his spoon as though he were a man scarcely fed for a long time. She hovered near the table, anxiously watching him take bite after bite. Finally, after a few moments of patient waiting, the maid gave a disappointed sigh and sulked off back to her duties.
Perhaps it would be a relief, he thought, to sleep the night through, to change into dry clothes at the very least, before setting off. Once in London, he could easily find transportation north, though it'd be slow going with the cold. If he was lucky, he'd arrive with plenty of time to ring in the new year at Somerton, an occasion full of hope for the days yet to come.
It had been four years since he'd set eyes on Heloise Somers, and somehow even now, starved for human contact and frozen to the bone, a pretty girl with blazing red hair clearly hoping for a spot in his bed was too dim a candle in her shadow to tempt him. He had wanted no other woman in the wake she left behind. He hid a smile in his spoon as he remembered that morning, after they'd been intimate the first time, to find the only blood on the sheets was his own and his arms raked with scratches from her passion.
Though she had been the maiden and he the experienced lover, in the aftermath of their frenzied coupling, he had felt like a damsel in a tower who'd been ravished by a lusty lord. Despite knowing he should feel some wound to his masculinity, it had only inflamed him more. There was never going to be another girl like Heloise, no matter how hard he looked.
He could only hope that she would be pleased to see him. He could pray that she hadn't pledged herself to another in his absence. He had to believe that she was still his to claim. It was the only thing that had kept him going through the smoke and racket of the war. It had been the sole comfort as he'd trudged into misery after misery, battle after battle, in a world where home felt like a long-abandoned dream.
"Away on leave or here to stay?" a man with a round belly and a bald head inquired, coming to retrieve his empty bowl.
"Here to stay," Callum replied, startled to realize he'd eaten everything set in front of him. He quaffed the remainder of his cider and handed the glass to the man as well. "It's strange to be back home, to be honest."
The man nodded, sizing Callum up where he sat. "Might I ask your name?"
"Laughlin," Callum said, noting the strength of the man's build and his apparent interest in a returned soldier. "Lieutenant," he added, knowing the question of his rank went unspoken between them. "Four years away."
"Light packer, eh, Lieutenant?" the man replied with a raise of his eyebrows and a nod to the pack of belongings Callum had tossed under his chair. "Back when I served, any officer would have at least three times the luggage."
"Well, that was the trick," Callum said with a laugh, "they gave me the title and then kicked me out before it could go to my head."
The man had given him a curious look, but Callum wasn't looking for company, neither from a fellow ex-soldier nor his eager daughter. There were years ahead if he wanted to reminisce about the war, perhaps when it was farther behind him. All he wanted right now was the quickest avenue back home.
With a belly full of warmth, a fire crackling just below, and at long last, a bed that didn't swing with the current, Callum Laughlin found his eyelids heavy and his thoughts winding toward dreams the instant he pulled the covers up around his neck.
Soon, he'd see them all again: his mother and Heloise and his cat, Nero. Even stuffy Lord Somers would be a welcome sight. He remembered with a sleepy half smile that now there was also a Lady Somers by his side. That would be most curious indeed.
All he wanted in the world was to be home, and for Heloise Somers to find him once again, under the light of the full moon.
3
"Well!" gasped Abigail Collins, shooting to her feet. "Aren't you properly turned out! Is today the day?"
"Sit down, Abby!" Heloise tutted, smiling despite the rebuke as the heavily pregnant woman waddled forward to help her with her cloak. "Remember, I told you bed rest! I can very well see to my own cloak."
Abby clicked her tongue, ignoring the scolding, and swept the heavy,
fur-lined cloak from Heloise's shoulders, gripping it to her chest as she took in the other woman's appearance. "You look striking, m'Lady," she sighed in her broad, Northern accent. "It should be you walking down that aisle."
"But the groom is my brother!" Heloise laughed, motioning for her cloak to be handed back over as she kicked the snow from her boots.
"Ah, you know what I mean," Abigail responded with a little pout, turning to retreat back to her bed with one hand supporting the heavy load of her pregnancy in front of her. "You would be a beautiful bride, Lady Heloise."
"If that's what it takes to become beautiful, I'd just as soon not," Heloise teased, taking quick steps forward to aid her charge as she eased back into her bed.
Abigail's house was little more than a hut, with partitions rather than walls separating the living quarters from the kitchen and reception area. The walls were lined with drying herbs and cleverly stored necessities, all framing the large bed at the center of the home that Abigail shared with her aging mother, and soon, her newborn child. There was no husband for Abigail Collins, nor was she willing to divulge the identity of the father of her child.
Though this distressed the township at large, Heloise understood completely. She couldn't tell Abigail, of course, but she had been in the exact same situation only a few years ago. There were many reasons why a woman might hold tight to such a secret, and all of them were valid.
The expectant mother herself was a slight thing, about half a head shorter than Heloise, with gleaming brown eyes and a short mop of curly hair to match. She had remained cheerful and lively throughout her pregnancy, seemingly unaffected by gossiping whispers and speculation. As far as Heloise was concerned as her midwife, Abby was the ideal charge, always eager to learn how to prepare herself and responsible enough to follow through on recommendations for optimal health during this delicate time.
"No Mrs. Collins today?" Heloise asked as she began to do her physical examination of the other woman's abdomen, pressing in to get a feel of where the baby sat within. "She is usually so invested in these visits."
"She's at the market, looking for curd tarts. Bless her." Abigail sighed, eyes following the progress of Heloise's freckled hands. "I've had an ungodly hankering for them of late."
"That is normal," Heloise assured her. "I've seen expecting mothers crave much stranger things. One woman repeatedly asked me if she might sample a bit of topsoil, as it was suddenly very appetizing to her."
"Mm, worms and all." Abby giggled, winning a smile from Heloise in return. She paused, tilting her head with a thoughtful glint in her eye. "You really do look lovely. I so rarely see you all primped and pinned like the lady you are."
Heloise scoffed, waving away the compliment, though she could feel a pleased warmth of color inching into her cheeks. She had made an effort to be presentable this morning, and not just to prove she had the capability to appear polished to her future sister-in-law.
She was wearing a mint green gown that she'd had made in the autumn, specifically for a large house party they'd hosted at Somerton. The fabric was perhaps a bit too light for a winter event, but it was, at present, the loveliest thing she owned. Besides, Heloise was no stranger to the chill of Yorkshire winter.
The seamstress had provided a length of broad ribbon in the same hue to wind into her hair, which her mother had assisted her with this morning. The contrast to her bright red locks was not so striking as to be garish, but provided a pretty enough contrast that she'd been given several compliments on the effect on the night they'd thrown the ball at Somerton.
She only hoped the style hadn't been interrupted by the hood of her cloak or the whipping of the wind as she'd ridden into the township on horseback. At the very least, she knew her color would be high and her eyes bright from the briskness of the weather.
She usually attended to her charges in simple clothes that she didn't mind getting rumpled or stained, but with the wedding taking place this morning, she'd had little choice but to ride in ahead of it if she wanted to check in on Abigail, who was due any day now.
"Have you had any cramping or the feeling of clenching about your belly?" she asked, satisfied that the baby was in a fully turned position. "The little one is ready to make a debut very soon. I need you to ensure that your mother will have someone ride to the dower house the instant you know it is time."
"Nothing as yet," Abby said, shrugging, "but I'm more than ready to have my body back to myself."
Heloise chuckled. "Well, I can't promise that will happen for a good long while. You'll still have to feed the babe and adjust to its sleeping habits, which will be erratic throughout the first year. You're in for quite a journey still."
"Well, aren't we always?" Abby grinned, her cheeks dimpling infectiously. "How about my feet, then? Is it normal for them to swell up like that?"
"Sadly, yes," Heloise replied, remembering her own penchant for simply going barefoot toward the end of her pregnancy. "They will return to a normal size after the babe is here, but they might remain a slight bit larger than they were before." That was the case with me, she thought, wishing she could share these things with someone other than her mother.
"I will craft some soothing oil at the clinic if you like, and you can ask your mother to rub it into your ankles and knees. It won't shed the swelling, but it will help with the discomfort."
"That sounds lovely." Abby nodded, moving to the corner of the bed with the intention to stand and walk Heloise to the door.
"Bed!" Hel commanded, brandishing her finger like a stern school marm. "Rest is essential now that you're close. Don't make me tattle to Mrs. Collins."
"Ah." Abby laughed, flipping her hand in the air. "You'd never do something so cruel."
"Best not to test that particular theory," she replied with a lift of her eyebrows. "I've been known to resort to extreme measures to get my way."
She retrieved her cloak from the peg where it was hanging, still a bit damp around the fringes, and wrapped it around herself. "I'll bring the tonic for your feet 'round tomorrow, unless that baby of yours decides to arrive just as we count down to a new year tonight."
Abigail patted her belly, aglow with that singular pink sheen that seemed to grace pregnant women. "Out with the old, in with the new, eh? Maybe the babe will take it to heart."
"Perhaps," Heloise agreed. "My brother and his bride-to-be certainly have."
Boudicea, Heloise's beloved bay mare, was tethered just outside of the clinic, a mere two doors down from the Collins abode.
Though it was only a short walk to the church from here, and Boudicea would be perfectly content on her own for a few hours, Heloise untethered her and led her along the pathway toward their destination. She imagined her brother Gideon would burst a blood vessel if she attempted to return to the manor on horseback while the rest of the congregation respectably piled into various carriages.
The cold seeped in through her cloak, raising a prickle of gooseflesh along her arms and legs while the snow crunched beneath her feet and Boudicea's hooves. Perhaps she had been earlier than necessary, she reflected, taking in the perfect silence of a morning in the township, blanketed in fresh snowfall.
It was because of this preternatural silence that the booming call of her name from across the path nearly startled her out of her own skin. Boudicea even gave a whinny of irritation, stomping a few steps backward in protest at the interruption of their serene promenade.
"If that isn't my darling Heloise!" a man's voice rang out, ricocheting off the wooden walls of the cottages about them. "I could see that hair from ten miles out!"
She smiled, amused despite the way her heart was racing from the start he'd given her, and raised a gloved hand in greeting. "And I you, dear Sheldon, for you tower above all else!"
Sheldon Bywater, Marquis of Moorvale, chuckled and propped his hands on his hips. His legs were naked as the day he was born under an intricately folded Moorvale tartan of gold and blue. He'd grown out his beard for the winter,
as he'd done every year since Heloise was just a little girl and he a raucous youth, always setting out to get her brothers into mischief.
His smile shone bright white against the black bristle of that beard, his hair already in disarray from the strength of the winds. As soon as Heloise crossed the cobbled path, he scooped her into a tight embrace, the warmth of his welcome drowning out that seeping feeling of frosty chill that had been permeating her cloak only moments earlier.
"You ought to wear your hood up, so you don't catch fever!" he chided, setting her back and examining her like a fretting matron. "You've not even a bonnet to protect your wee ears in this cold!"
"And there you are flashing your bare calves for the world to see?" she scoffed back. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, you shameless man!"
He laughed heartily, the volume of which seemed to ring out around the homes of the villagers. Almost as though to answer his disruption, a pile of snow slid off one of the roofs and landed with a splat on the ground.
"Shall we walk to the church?" Heloise suggested, urging Boudicea forward and taking Sheldon's arm before he could think to offer it to her. "I can't help but notice the absence of your shadow. Wherever is Echo?"
"At the church!" He chortled to himself, patting Heloise's hand as they walked. "I wanted to take a turn around the village and see it coated in white and that bright-faced curate was already half trampled under the old girl, lavishing her with ear scratches. He assured me he would look after her for a few moments while I took in this fine, fresh air."
"Sheldon Bywater, you are the only person I know who seeks to walk around in freezing temperatures," Heloise replied, a fondness in her voice.
"Well, I'm the only Scot you know, then!" he boasted, his brogue seeming to take on a more aggressive lilt at the declaration. "You come up to Hawk Hill for a season, lassie, and we'll see you married off good and proper, to a lad with strong enough stock to match you. I wager you'd love getting lost in the crags of Moorvale."
