Page 125 of Better Love Next Time
The netherworld aside, your Christmas celebration was a success. Your gifts were much appreciated and put to good use by all. Case in point, Harry Plumley guzzled his entire bottle of whiskey and pinched Jeffrey Dillon’s grandmother’s bum, to which she used the cane you gifted her to knock him senseless (more than he already was). Sam Worthing led a toast in your honor which carried on until every man had his chance to commend you and mourn your absence. (Hence, Harry Plumley getting drunk as an emperor.)
The pageant was equally successful per Anthony who watched as if in a box at the Royal Opera. The little angels sang mostly in tune, a donkey and sheep were overturned, and Joseph dropped our savior, the infant Jesus. (Exactly why men are kept from the nursery.) By the by, Miss Althea Dixley is a woman of many talents, of which I will provide details at a later date.
I sit here alone, writing at your desk, in your office, inyourshipyard with snow blustering at the window. I should have given this yard to you when you asked, because it has been your dream as well as mine and without you, I would not be in possession of a letter from Mr. John Gilbert, offering a commission for two merchant brigs.
I have learned much about myself without you. Anger has never served me well. Neither has withholding my feelings. My father is embedded within me, in ways I never realized, and to mend our marriage, my life, I will have to overcome it.
Will you have me at Farendon?
Yours in Doubt,
Julian
PS - I have continued with your support of the town merchants by going to market. I bought a chicken.
Kitty set the letter to her black skirt and blinked over Julian’s strong hand, a little too upright in the opening lines and the script taking a decided slant left as he had written down the page.
The letter had taken over a fortnight to reach Farendon. She was surprised it had reached her at all given the ice storm that had followed Christmas. What had begun as a melodicsmattering of sleet on windows and rooftops had turned to a crushing layer of ice, felling trees and freezing doors.
She wasn’t exactly certain what to do with Julian’s letter. Reply to him, but how? She had not received a response from Father Dunlevy.
Reading the letter again, she felt her resolve flag. Which was wrong. She had cataloged the myriad of reasons why she should stay the course and considered them each night.
Mr. John Gilbert had offered a commission. The triumph was Julian’s, and she was proud of him. Sam Worthing missed her? The rest of the men who had wished her gone had honored her? Merely a reason to drink. And wasn’t one inclined to appreciate those absent? Further, if she had interpreted Julian’s words correctly—that he was giving her the yard—how long would the men’s gratitude last?
A third reading of Julian’s letter and she wanted above anything to believe her marriage could be mended. Her heart twisted at his irreverent observations. It was Julian’s way, to meet life’s hardest moments with humor. Her eyes warmed at the image of her husband buying a chicken.
Kitty looked across the steaming tray of tea to Georgiana who sat with her own letter, Stephen on her lap and gently threading her fingers through his baby-soft dark hair. Georgiana’s skin had taken on a ghostly pallor as she flipped the letter over and devoured the page.
Kitty poured more tea and sipped. Through the glass doors, a sunbeam alighted on her lap. It led from the northwest garden where ice clung to the pruned rose canes and brittle grass. Christmas had come and gone. On Plough Monday the Yule log had been extinguished and the evergreen boughs and trimmings burned to raze the misdeeds of the previous year and start anew.
What would this year hold? What were Julian’s feelings? Where was the love? She could not live with him, without love.
The crisp folding of paper interrupted her brooding.
Georgiana nodded at the letter on Kitty’s lap. “Is everything well?”
Kitty was not going to ask why her friend was putting a face on it, the smile Georgiana pasted when her world was barreling toward disaster.
“Oh yes,” Kitty said. “Very well.”
Georgiana settled Stephen to his feet and watched her son toddle to an overstuffed chair and busy himself with a basket of tin soldiers. Her smile fell. “I’m sorry, but I wrote to Julian,” she said. “And he has written back. I had to try, you know.”
Kitty’s scant breakfast of toast and jam rose in her throat. She was as cooked as a goose. “What does he say?”
“He is shipbuilding again in Southampton. He reports the future appears promising.” Georgiana slumped in her seat. “Oh, Kitty. I don’t know how to say it.”
If Julian had divulged their marriage, Georgiana would not be close to tears. What had he written?
“Julian is married,” Georgiana said. “To a French widow.”
The blood drained from Kitty’s face.
“Oh, I could just clout this Madame Féline. Can you believe it? Madame Féline! What sort of name is Madame Féline? Well, I will not know this—this paragon of womanhood. His exact words.” Georgiana stood. She pressed the paper a foot from Kitty’s nose and jabbed at the script. “There. Paragon of womanhood.”
Before Kitty could read it, Georgiana swiped the letter away. “She’s intelligent. Gracious. Beautiful. She manages his business with him. The entire town adores her. She is supporting a new school and organized a children’s Christmas pageant.”
Kitty was feeling too warm, too inclined to listen. “I’m sure Madame Féline had assistance with the pageant.”
