The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2)
Page 28
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September 1695, Loxsbeare Manor, Exeter – Helena
September brought salt-laden breezes along the estuary from the sea, dispelling the humidity of a long summer. Henry made murmurings about returning to London, but it was obvious to Helena it was a perfunctory suggestion. Life had settled into a comfortable routine which no one appeared eager to change.
Aaron announced his intention to take the twins into Exeter one morning to visit the fulling mill. A valet hovered as he shrugged into his coat. “It’s not just gold these boys need to know about, Ellie.”
Helena was about to make all the same objections her mother used to when their father took Aaron on the same errands, but kept silent. Her boys were wool men too, and Guy would have applauded their uncle’s action.
An indignant Hannah appeared wearing a scowl, as the carriage pulled up to the front door, her chestnut curls bouncing on her shoulders. “Papa. You are not going without me?”
Aaron rolled his eyes and Henry held the door open for her to scramble inside. “How could I forget you, my little poppet?” He grinned, calling back to Helena with a frown. “Mary Ann is resting. She seems very tired lately. I do hope she’s not taking a fever.”
“I’ll go up to her a little later.” Helena suspected what Henry evidently did not, that Mary Ann would have some welcome news to impart soon.
A flurry of dry leaves swirled at her feet as she closed the door. The house seemed to breathe a sigh as it settled into the quiet. Helena strolled in the garden, Little Charles trotting at her side, laughing as he pulled the remaining petals from late blooms to scatter on the paths.
When a freshening wind drove them indoors, Chloe took him to the nursery, the same one Helena and her brothers had occupied as children. Unconsciously, her steps brought her to the window seat on the half landing, where she perched with her back to the stone and hugged her knees the way she used to so long ago.
The courtyard below stood empty apart from a groom desultorily sweeping early leaf fall from the cobbles, a boisterous hound puppy at his heels. A startled pigeon snapped its wings as it soared over the roof and a lone horseman cantered by on the road outside.
A rumble of wheels shattered the quiet, together with the rhythmic clop of multiple hooves as a large black coach lumbered into the yard, its driver calling for a groom to take the horses.
“Another caller,” Helena sighed. She looked down with a frown, debating with herself whether it was necessary to change her clothes.
A man stepped down from the carriage, but all she could see of him through the wavy glass was the crown of his wide brimmed hat. “Whoever it is will just have to accept me as I am,” she announced to the empty hall as she reluctantly descended the stairs.
She brushed ineffectually at her plain gown to give Glover time to answer the door, examining her hair in a mirror, which Chloe had swept up from her neck in a swirl onto her head, not bothering with a fontange. “They will take me for the housekeeper,” she murmured aloud, fluffing out the lace at her elbows in a final effort to look presentable.
Glover appeared as she reached the ground floor. “A gentleman to see you, Mistress,” he announced, vanishing into the shadows before she could ask for a name.
She muttered to herself, as she crossed the hall, that he grew lazy these days, but did not really mind as she wiped her hand on her skirt in anticipation of holding it out to be kissed.
The visitor stood with his back to her, gazing out of the long casement window. He wore a black, full-bottomed wig draped over the shoulders of a well-fitting blue coat. The black, wide brimmed hat she saw from the window dangled loosely from one hand and he could have been anyone. But not to her. “William!”
He turned to face her slowly and her trite greeting dried on her lips when she caught the expression in his eyes. It was the same as that first morning at Berkeley Street, the autumn day their love began. And like then, he did not speak.
Their time apart drained away and she knew these last months at Loxsbeare weren’t the escape she imagined. She had been waiting for him. What had taken him so long?
“Were you never returning to London?” William’s tone held complaint. He tossed his hat in the direction of the table without looking to see where it landed. “Though had I known what an infernal journey it was, I might have been more patient.”
“Was it so very bad?” she mocked, laughing. Like Aaron, William appreciated his home comforts.
He rolled his brown eyes at the ceiling. “Bad? Four days I’ve been jolted to a pulp in a rickety hired coach, because, as luck would have it, mine has a broken axel and you have father’s second one here.” He raised a hand in the direction of the open stable door where the object of his annoyance stood, his other hand pressed theatrically into the small of his back. “Every bone hurts and I cannot understand a word these ‘Exeterrrr’ people say. How can you stand it? The only consolation is the inn food.”
He continued his litany of complaints as sheeven as she threw herself into his arms. He was so…well so… William. And he was here.
She breathed in the delicious, masculine smell of him, his peruke soft on her cheek and his muscled shoulders firm beneath her hands. “Promise me,” he whispered into her hair, “We’ll not have to live here?”
She pulled back and stared into his face, which held such a hopeful expression; she could not resist teasing him. She set her bottom lip into a slight quiver. “My Great-Grandfather built this house.”
“It’s most elegant,” His smile was sheepish, “and we can visit as often as you wish. But—”
Tightening her hold round his neck, she finished for him, “we belong in London. Our life is there.” He gave a relieved shout and lifted her off the floor, swinging her round in his arms. A bubble of laughter welled in her chest and she threw her head back, her hair spilling free of the fastenings.
He set her gently on the floor again and looked her up and down. “Hmm, I quite like the milkmaid look.”
Helena gasped in mock horror and cuffed him. “I do not look like a milkmaid.”
He kissed her feigned indignation away and when he finally lifted his lips from hers, he held her with their faces no more than a hand span apart as he whispered, “How is my son?”
Her skin prickled as a rush of heat ran through her. “He is well,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “It’s the first time you have called him that.”
“I had no right to before.” He lifted a hand to cradle her chin, tracing her lower lip with his thumb. “I have missed him, Helena, almost as much as I have missed you.”
More coach wheels sounded on the drive, followed by the sound of several pairs of feet scrambling up the front steps to an accompaniment of childish shouts and masculine laughter. Helena disentangled herself from William’s arms and together they walked into the hall.
“William!” Aaron strode forward and slapped him enthusiastically on the back. “Welcome to Loxsbeare.”
Henry followed his brother’s example, the look he shot Helena filled with understanding.
The children squealed with excitement and small hands tugged at William’s coat, reaching into his pockets for treats.
Mary Anne appeared at the top of the stairs with a welcoming smile, Chloe beside her holding Charles’ hand. They reached the bottom and the little boy broke away and ran forward, his arms held out to anyone who cared to indulge him.
William lifted him onto one hip, their faces level as they studied each other with fascination. His tiny hand traced its way down the side of William’s face and Helena blinked tears away. Neither of them had spoken of marriage, or even mentioned the word love. They didn’t have to. Henry was right; true love does have a life entirely its own.
The End
Also available from Books We Love
The Woulfes of Loxsbeare
Book 1 – The Rebel’s Daughter
About The Author
As a Londoner constantly drawn back to the c
ity, Anita connected with its history at a young age. When the rest of the school trip were busy throwing the contents of their lunch boxes across the school coach, Anita daydreamed about men in high white wigs, long coats and petticoat breeches climbing into sedan chairs on the cobbles of Paternoster Row, where the sight of Christopher Wren being lowered down the outside of the half built St Pauls Cathedral in a basket was a daily occurrence.
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Table of Contents
Dedication:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
About The Author