Page 30 of Snowbound Regency Christmas
She didn’t want to allow it. The memories held in that out-of-the-way place wouldn’t make her feel any less wretched, but they took advantage of her sadness and pressed forwards while she was too weak to hold them in check.
Once upon a time she’d had a chance at happiness and had to let it slip away, she acknowledged with dull reluctance as she stepped back from the glass. Someone had wanted to marry her, and it was her greatest regret that she’d had to saynoinstead of theyesshe’d yearned to shout from the rooftops. She hadn’t seen him since the day he’d left Wilton a few weeks before her accident, taking her shattered heart with him, but even if he’d returned she was certain he wouldn’t want her now. She’d been whole and unscarred when he’d left and now she would never be either of those things again, not much of a prize for a man who could have taken his pick of any of Wiltshire’s single ladies.
Lieutenant Duncan Fitzjames had been good-looking, clever and kind and doubtless still was, and it would have come as no surprise to learn he’d secured a wife almost immediately after duty and circumstance had forced her to turn him down.
‘That was at Christmastime, too,’ she murmured aloud to the empty room. ‘Between the loss of him and Auntie, I don’t think I’ll feel merry at this time of year ever again.’
Her great-aunt wouldn’t have wanted her to bow to self-pity.One mustn’t wallow, she almost heard Deborah saying, the thought bringing a brittle smile to her lips. The old lady had possessed spirit, although of course it was far easier to show fortitude when one wasn’t facing the bleak expectation of a lifetime without love.
As much as she had tried to forget about Duncan, her recollections of him had never faded, his anguished face the last time she’d seen him indelibly imprinted on her mind, and she’d lost count of the number of times she’d wondered where he would be now. If things had been different, she would have been his wife, settled and happy and perhaps raising a family of her own—but instead she was none of those things, only a sad, quiet shadow of the person she’d been before his abortive proposal and the accident had joined forces to knock her off her feet, and she hadn’t known real peace since.
The front doorbell clanged.
For a moment she stood very still, dismayed as the chime echoed down the hall. Who on earth would come calling on the day of the funeral? The few of Deborah’s acquaintances that had managed to brave the snow had already paid their respects at the church, Jane receiving their condolences through a numb haze while Cousin Franklin stood by, indifferent and detached. There was no reason for anyone to come to the house, and her dismay deepened at the notion of having to play hostess while her innards felt as though they had been hollowed out.
She waited. Ellen would answer the summons; a few days before, it would have been a different maid who opened the door, but of course Cousin Franklin had wanted most of his mother’s servants dismissed. As it was now he who was in charge, Jane hadn’t been able to argue, although as the ringing echo died away without prompting any response she had to wonder whether he had made a mistake.
Another few seconds elapsed with no sign of movement out in the corridor. Ellen must have been either too busy to answer or hadn’t heard the bell, and with only a brief pause to gather herself, Jane retrieved her bonnet from its perch on the mantel.
The absolute last thing she wanted at that moment was to speak to anyone, but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to ignore whoever stood outside in the cold. The low winter sun was beginning to set and the temperature dropping along with it, and she knew that Great-Aunt Deborah would never have entertained the idea of letting a guest freeze.
With practised speed, she pulled on the bonnet and veil. Usually, when visitors came she would wear a wide-hemmed cap and sit at a careful angle to conceal the injured side of her face, but as time was of the essence her black lace would have to do. The full veil would hide the redness of her eyes as well as the scarring that made people stare, and as she had no idea who could possibly be intruding on her at such an awful time, she was glad of as much protection as she could get.
With deep unwillingness, she left the parlour and hurried into the hall. Still no servant appeared; the only other person present was her unwanted caller, a dark shape just visible through the stained-glass panels of the front door. Whoever was waiting for her was tall, their large silhouette backlit by the dying sun, and despite the far more important things crowding her mind, she was struck by a vague and niggling thought that she’d seen it somewhere before.
Duncan’s heart felt far too loud beneath his shirt as he watched a blurry figure approach the green-painted door.
What am I doing here? This is a mistake.
The fact that he knew it was a servant who was coming to open it didn’t make any difference to the stranglehold that apprehension currently had on his throat. There was mercifully little chance he’d catch sight of Miss Stockwell, hidden away as she must be in her private grief, and yet every nerve was still wound tight to find himself on her doorstep once more. Three years ago he’d left Maybury Place with no intention of ever entering it again and even standing outside brought him closer to the house—and the painful memories it stirred—than he liked.
With grim determination, he tried to rein himself in. He would hand over the note his mother had sent him to deliver, pass on his own condolences to whichever maid appeared in the doorway and then leave at once. If he lingered too long there might be a possibility of snatching a glimpse of Jane, and as he had no intention of seeing her during his brief visit to Wilton it would be best if he made himself scarce.
The indistinct shape of the servant reached the door and he forced his cold face to surrender its grimace.
Just because he had nointentionof seeing her, however, didn’t mean he didn’twantto. In truth, there was nothing he wanted more, the image of her smile still as fresh in his mind as if he’d last seen it only yesterday rather than years before, but the gut-wrenching disappointment of their final meeting cast a pall that couldn’t be erased. She had turned down his offer of marriage without telling him why, and just because some time had elapsed since then didn’t mean anything had changed—apart, perhaps, from the unblemished beauty of Jane’s heart-shaped face.
The usual surge of compassion and concern he always felt when thinking of what had befallen her was cut off by the inward swing of the door.
There was a pause that lasted for around half a second. Hejustmanaged to gather an impression of a figure swathed head to toe in black as it flashed in front of him, but then it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, the door abruptly shutting again with a resounding bang.
Duncan blinked, his mother’s note still in his gloved hand.
Why did that servant just slam the door in my face?
Confused, he hesitated to ring the bell again. Through the stained-glass panels, he could make out the person was still there, standing apparently frozen to the spot, and it was another few moments before he heard the handle turn.
The door opened much more slowly than it had the first time. The black-clad woman revealed herself with uncertainty he could sense even through her veil, and for one agonising beat he thought his heart had stopped.
He didn’t need to see her face to know it wasn’t a maid who stood before him. The way she held herself was instantly recognisable, her back straight and shoulders high and square, and the slim sweep of her waist in her mourning gown was one he’d have known even in the darkest night. She’d let him place his hands there years ago, during the time he’d thought they were destined to be happy together, and nothing would ever steal away the knowledge of that secret curve.
‘Jane?’
Her name fell from his lips as easily as breathing, something it seemed he’d almost forgotten how to do. He hadn’t expected to see her, and to find her suddenly in front of him was disorienting, the years falling away in the blink of an eye.
‘Duncan.’
Her voice was low and unsteady, although to him it was still the sweetest he’d ever heard. ‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me for closing the door. I was just… What are you doing here?’
