Page 49 of Snowbound Regency Christmas
Ellen lingered near the open front door, uneasily wringing her apron through her hands. ‘Please, ma’am, let me help you. You shouldn’t be doing that on your own.’
‘You have too much work to do already, thanks to Cousin Franklin. I won’t burden you further with mine.’
The maid looked as though she might have been thinking of arguing and Jane turned away quickly before anything more could be said. She didn’t have the energy to defend herself, not while grief closed in from all sides, being back in Great-Aunt Deborah’s house reminding her with vivid cruelty of everything she’d lost. There were ghosts in every corner, of love, laughter and hopes that were now no more than spectres of happier times, and if she stayed too long she feared she might not able to hold back her despair.
A glance out of the front door showed her carriage was yet to arrive. Almost nobody worked on Boxing Day and she’d had to lay out almost every penny she had left to persuade one of the local cabs to take her to the coaching inn on the other side of town. From there she would travel post to Bristol, only stopping to change horses along the way, and once back under her parents’ roof she could try to pick up the pieces of her smashed and scattered dreams.
I hope he won’t be late. The sooner I can leave here the better.
The walls felt as though they were drawing closer. Waiting was suffocating; it gave her time to dwell when what she really wanted was to think as little as possible. One thought in particular bothered her more than the rest—Has Duncan read my letter yet?passing through her mind so repeatedly it set her teeth on edge.
With bleak decisiveness, she reached for her bonnet and veil. If she had to wait for the carriage, it would be much better to do so outside. The fashionable road on which Maybury Place stood was unusually busy that morning, many of Great-Aunt Deborah’s former neighbours out walking off the excesses of their Christmas dinner from the previous day, but even enduring the sidelong stares of passersby was preferable to staying inside. The image of Duncan’s final smile might not be able to find her if she went out into the greying slush that had once been snow, her longing to see him one last time perhaps carried off by the chilly breeze.
‘I’m going to wait on the drive, Ellen. I’ll come back in for my things when my carriage arrives.’
Pulling on her bonnet, she swept her veil into place. Her red cloak was draped over one of her trunks and she swung it round her shoulders, trying to ignore a pang as she tied the ribbons at her throat. The last time she’d worn it had been the day Duncan kissed her as they lay in the snow and she flinched away from the memory, too raw and too recent to yet view with anything but regret.
The cold hit her the moment she stepped outside. It was at least just above freezing, however. The deep snowdrifts had been reduced to dirty piles pushed to the sides of the road, turned into slurry by cartwheels and horses’ hooves, and the people walking past the front gate weren’t dressed quite so much for arctic conditions as they might have been a few days before. More than one head turned in her direction as she emerged—a husband muttered to a wife while one nursemaid shepherding a gaggle of children traded significant looks with another, their scrutiny following her as she drifted down the front steps and onto the gravelled path.
She walked with little purpose, allowing herself to be carried along by unthinking steps. The front gate grew closer and she ran an ungloved hand over the iron scrolls she’d touched a thousand times or more, pretending not to notice the curious glances of a group of older gentlemen on the pavement beyond. Standing so close to the road gave anyone passing the house ample opportunity to gaze at her and she reflexively checked her veil was in place as she turned back, unwilling to let anyone see the unhappiness written across her face just as clearly as her scars.
She had almost reached the halfway point between the house and the end of the drive when she heard the front gate squeak open behind her.
‘The air is icy this morning. Why are you wandering around outside?’
The gravel beneath her boots crunched as she whirled round.
Duncan stood just inside the gate. He was slightly flushed, as though he’d been running, but she hardly noticed, the instant squeezing of a fist around her lungs coming as a sharp distraction.
‘What are you doing here?’
The words jolted out on instinct, the first thing that came to mind, but Duncan declined to answer.
‘I asked my question first. Why are you here, shivering in Deborah’s garden when you could be warm inside with me?’
Bewildered, Jane stared up at him. He’d taken a pace towards her and she saw a faint gleam of sweat below the brim of his hat, more proof that he’d run from his mother’s house to appear before her now. The real mystery waswhyhe’d come when her note had explained everything, his presence a bittersweet joy that would now force the painful goodbye she had hoped to avoid.
‘I… Didn’t you read my letter?’
Duncan dipped his chin. ‘I read it. My question still stands, however, or perhaps I should rephrase it.’
He paused. A carriage rolled past on the street beyond the gate, its wheels creaking and horses’ tack jingling as it went, although he didn’t seem to register the noise. His eyes were on the clouds gathering above them and it seemed for all the world as though he was hoping they might tell him what to say.
In the end he chose simplicity. ‘Is this really where you want to be?’ he asked frankly. ‘If you’re truly set on returning to Bristol I won’t try to stand in your way, only no letters this time. If you don’t want me, tell me so yourself—face to face, with nothing standing in between.’
The hand around her chest clenched tighter. He was looking at her now rather than the sky, so directly she felt she might as well not have been wearing the veil at all. Somehow, his eyes found hers even through the layer of lace and they held her steady, immobilised by weary longing and unable to speak anything but the truth.
‘It was never that I didn’t want you,’ she heard herself say in a voice she scarcely recognised as her own. ‘As I wrote in my letter, I wanted to accept your proposal more than I’d ever wanted anything in my entire life, but Icouldn’tleave my great-aunt. She was so ill and I knew Franklin would do nothing to care for her, and after all she’d done for me, I couldn’t let her suffer alone.’
She saw Duncan’s mouth move but her own hadn’t yet finished. ‘I couldn’t tell you why I’d refused,’ she continued, three years of secrets now flooding from her lips. ‘Auntie might have found out and I never wanted her to know. She’d have been devastated if she’d discovered I’d traded my happiness for hers and would have either insisted I leave or spent the last few years of her life living with the most horrific guilt. Franklin’s conduct had already made her so unhappy… I had to do what I could to make things better for her before she died.’
Heat had begun to build behind her eyes. She didn’t want to cry but having Duncan so close when she’d never thought to see him again was a blessed curse. He was so handsome in the morning sunshine, the light turning his dark gaze almost golden, and the desire to throw herself into his arms was like a knife thrust directly into her soul.
She gritted her teeth as he came closer. There was something in his face she couldn’t immediately unravel: compassion, definitely, but another emotion lying just beneath it that was much harder to name.
‘I understand all of that,’ he said with clearly determined patience. ‘I wish you’d told me at the time, but I understand. What baffles me is why, now there’s nothing to come between us, you still won’t let me make you happy.’
She swallowed agonisingly. ‘I explained why. In my letter—’
