Page 49 of Christmas Spirits at Honeywell House (Ghosts of Rowan Vale #3)

AGNES

Christmas morning brought more snow, and scenes of chaos such as Harling Hall hadn’t seen for many a long year.

If Agnes had managed to get any sleep, Imogen’s excited cries at six o’clock that morning would surely have dragged her from her slumbers.

As it was, she hadn’t slept at all, as she was in such a state of nervous anticipation that she spent most of the night perched on the edge of her bed, gazing out of the window over the drive, her thoughts whirling faster than the snowflakes that had persisted, showing no signs of slowing.

Mr Wyndham had been a real gentleman, and with Clara’s kind permission had spent the night on the sofa at Honeywell House, as Agnes had been afraid that if he saw the bride on the morning of their wedding, they would have bad luck.

He had left the Hall straight after A Christmas Carol , which had been staged in the ballroom.

Callie, Lawrie and Immi had declared it to be thoroughly delightful and worthy of a West End run, which Agnes – having had the meaning of a West End run explained to her by Polly Herron – had thought was rather over-the-top praise for a play that had been mediocre, at best. Florence’s performance excepted, of course.

As her thoughts turned to Florence, she realised that her daughter was in a state of excitement, too, not only over her parents’ forthcoming nuptials but the fact that it was Christmas morning.

Callie had bought her a DVD player and a whole bundle of DVDs of programmes she and Immi thought Florence would enjoy.

Not only that, but after the wedding, they were to be joined for Christmas luncheon by the Milsoms. Since Clara could hardly be expected to cook for her family this Christmas, and since Jack was apparently a terrible cook, Callie had invited them all over to the Hall, and Florence – who had taken a real shine to the boys – had been thrilled.

Agnes was happy about it, too. She rather liked the Milsoms. And, of course, Clara had been so kind and forgiving towards her that Agnes was perfectly content to welcome them to her home.

They were, after all, Mr Wyndham’s family, and she was pleased and relieved that Clara had evidently inherited her grandpa’s kindly nature and seemed to carry no traces of the despicable Janie, Thomas, Elspeth or James.

She smiled softly, remembering how overcome Mr Wyndham had been when Clara called him Grandpa. It had moved him almost as much as when Florence announced that, in future, she would call him Poppa. Almost, but not quite.

That Mr Wyndham had a deep affection for his newfound family, Agnes had no doubt. But equally, she knew for certain now that they would never replace her or Florence in his heart. He was, first and foremost, a husband and a father.

She shivered in delight. Husband! Soon, very soon, she would be able to say that he truly was her husband. She had never believed the day would come, but here it was, and she couldn’t wait.

She turned, her eyes roving over the bed she’d slept in night after night, alone for so many years.

Tonight, she would share it with the man she loved.

Tonight, he would hold her with a tenderness she had never experienced before.

She knew it would be nothing like it had been with Cyril Ashcroft and felt no fear.

She would spend the rest of eternity making Aubrey Wyndham happy, and he would do the same for her.

She had never felt so blessed.

‘Merry Christmas, Agnes,’ she whispered to herself. A merry Christmas indeed.