Page 6 of However Long the Wait (Sweet Treat Novellas #4)

B reakfast was a quiet affair the next day.

Mrs. Jones informed Carina that Aunt Chadwick did not generally rise before midmorning.

So Carina indulged in a quiet walk through one of the gardens, during which she practiced putting Grant Ambrose out of her thoughts once more.

His behavior toward her the night before baffled her.

He had not admitted to being from Rafton.

Nothing in his interaction with her even hinted at a previous acquaintance.

Her heart ached recalling the coldness of his glances.

Had he not hurt her enough five years earlier? Was doing so again truly necessary?

Too many uncertainties flowed through her mind for any degree of peace or contentment despite the beauty of her surroundings. She would try not to think on him, but trying and doing were different things.

She returned to the house no less burdened than when she’d left. Her aunt had arisen and taken a seat in the sitting room. Carina joined her there, determined to pass her day with more pleasant pursuits than torturing herself with thoughts of Grant Ambrose.

“Good morning,” she greeted as she sat near her aunt.

“How long have you and Mr. Ambrose known each other?” Aunt Chadwick asked without preamble. “And do not think to brush me aside with protestations: the tension between the two of you last evening could have securely suspended a bridge.”

Had it been so obvious? Her heart sank, weighed down by humiliation. Had everyone at the dinner noticed?

“The Ambrose family moved to Rafton seven years ago,” Carina said, resigning herself to the retelling.

Aunt Chadwick’s sharp gaze grew more pointed. “He, then, is not from Preston as he said.”

“He moved to Preston five years ago to be a partner in his uncle’s business ventures. So he was being honest, if not detailed.”

Aunt Chadwick shook her head, apparently dissatisfied with that. “He went to great pains not to reveal any connection between the two of you. There must be a reason.”

Carina had been trying very hard not to ponder that reason. If he had merely grown indifferent toward her over the years, as she had told herself he had, then he would have acknowledged their acquaintance and perhaps shrugged it off. To make no mention of it at all spoke of something else entirely.

“Were you sweethearts?” Aunt Chadwick asked.

With a small sigh, Carina nodded. “When he left for Preston, it was with the understanding that he would visit regularly and write to me—his sister allowed our notes to each other to be included in her correspondence with him—and that once he was established as a partner and had secured his own lodgings, he would—” She could not force the remainder of the sentence to form.

Her aunt seemed to understand what was left unspoken. “Did he write to you?”

“He wrote for a time. His earliest letters were long and detailed, delineating all he was learning and doing, the people he was meeting. He told me he missed me and longed for my company. I wrote back, sharing my thoughts and feelings, asking questions about matters of business I did not fully understand but wished to. At first, his responses were eager, allowing me to be part of all aspects of his life. They changed, though. They grew shorter, less personal. He seldom spoke of loneliness as he once had or of wishing I were with him. In time, his letters stopped entirely.”

She did not dare look at her aunt. She’d spent far enough time seeing pity in the eyes of those who knew of her dashed hopes and aching heart. Last evening’s painful encounter had left her even more vulnerable to it.

“Did he ever visit you?” Aunt Chadwick asked.

Carina swallowed down a lump forming in her throat. “Not even once. It seems he grew indifferent very quickly.”

Aunt Chadwick snorted—actually snorted. “What I saw on young Mr. Ambrose’s face last night was anything but indifference.”

She had to admit that was true. “There was too much coldness for true apathy.”

“And too much coldness for true coldness.” Aunt Chadwick learned back in her chair, her wrinkled face pulled in thought. “I found myself wondering again and again last night and this morning just what he is feeling.”

“I am not certain I wish to know,” Carina admitted quietly. “I have long since come to terms with his disinterest. I do not know that I could abide anything else.”

“Then let us not dwell on him.” Aunt Chadwick’s hand swished the air. “We will spend this summer, instead, discovering who you are and what it is you want.”

“My father sent me here for precisely that same reason.”

Aunt Chadwick laughed softly. “Heavens, child. I know perfectly well his motivation. Do you think you are the only one of my nieces to be sent here as a warning against the perils of spinsterhood?” Again, she laughed, not bitterly or humorlessly.

She seemed to truly find it amusing. “You are the fourth resigned to this fate. Two have gone on to marry wonderful gentlemen and build beautiful lives. The third did not choose to marry, but has built a beautiful life as well—one filled with work that brings her satisfaction and many, many people who consider her as close as family, whose lives she has touched. My relatives send their daughters here on the assumption that they will be miserable. I receive them on the assumption that, here, they will finally learn to be joyous.”

Oh, how Carina liked the sound of that. She had not felt truly joyous in far too long.

“I have often felt these last five years as though joy hovered just out of my reach,” Carina said. “I haven’t any idea how to grasp it.”

Aunt Chadwick nodded firmly. “Then that is our goal for this summer. We will go out amongst Society, attend meetings for charitable societies, explore various pastimes. We will find what brings you happiness, and you will embrace it—all of it.”

“And what of Mr. Ambrose?” She worried his presence in Wilkington would be a source of tremendous misery for her.

“We will sort him out in the midst of it. Never you fear. We will sort him out.”

***

By the end of her first week in Wilkington, Carina was exhausted.

How her aunt maintained such a whirl of activity, she did not know.

They had called upon any number of local ladies, taken tea at a small tea shop in the company of a Mrs. Garold, with whom Aunt Chadwick appeared to have a friendly rivalry, and spent five of the seven nights at various events around town: soirees, musicales, and the like.

Carina could hardly keep pace with her hostess.

“Where are we bound this morning?” she asked as the carriage rolled down the cobbled streets toward the far end of the city.

“A meeting of the Ladies’ Aid Society, of which I am an original member.”

This, then, was not a social appointment. “What does your society do?”

“We advocate for the less fortunate here in Wilkington, be they orphans or widows or poverty-stricken workers.”

“And this is the kind of work your niece took up after leaving here?”

Aunt Chadwick nodded. “She saw that women can do a great deal of good in this world.”

“What of your other nieces, those who married? Are they doing good in the world as well?”

“Of course they are,” Aunt Chadwick said. “Their influence is felt in different ways, but it is real just the same.”

“You are not nearly as grumpy as my father led me to believe,” Carina said with a smile.

Aunt Chadwick’s eyes twinkled. “Wouldn’t he be disappointed to hear that.”

“He likely would have simply locked me in my room until I agreed to marry Mr. Baskon rather than send me here.”

The admission brought a return of Aunt Chadwick’s searching expression. “This is a complication I wasn’t aware of. Who is Mr. Baskon and what is your objection to him?”

“He lives in Rafton on an admittedly grand estate. He is nearly twenty years older than my father, recently buried his third wife, and wishes for me to be the fourth. My objection—”

“What you just told me is objection enough,” Aunt Chadwick said.

“There is more,” Carina told her. “He is cruel, cold, and unkind. His most recent wife was an acquaintance of mine. I watched her wither in absolute misery after their marriage. It was more than a loss of happiness in her expression. She became increasingly hermitic and quiet. She physically changed as well, dwindling to little more than a shell of a person. The fact that no one in town was surprised told me his earlier wives endured similar agony in their life with him. I choose not to tread that particular path.”

“I should think not.” Aunt Chadwick appeared appropriately horrified—something Carina’s own parents had never managed.

“Perhaps at the end of the summer, you could explain that to my father, as I do not think he will have changed his mind.”

Aunt Chadwick leaned closer. “It is your mind and not his that matters, my dear. Until you fully embrace that, you will not know how strong you truly are.”

Carina had never thought of herself in those terms. Ladies did not have a great deal of say in their own lives, after all. She had steadfastly refused Mr. Baskon’s advances and her parents’ seeming acceptance of them. Such, though, was an act of desperation more than true strength.

“Ah, here we are.” Aunt Chadwick motioned to the carriage window, outside of which rose a tall stone wall cast in shadow.

Carina had been too distracted to note where precisely they were. She still did not know. The local workhouse, perhaps. A dock building. The poor and destitute were to be found everywhere.

The coachman, whistling as always, handed them out. A great deal of noise emanated from within the walls of the yet-unidentified building. People moved about in the distance, crossing a shadowed courtyard from one building to another.

Carina followed her aunt through a narrow door and down a pokey corridor. They passed several small offices in which people were bent over desks, making notes in large bound books. This appeared to be a place of business.

They were ushered into an office. Mrs. Garold sat inside, along with two ladies Carina did not know. Aunt Chadwick took the nearest seat, then launched into an animated discussion with the other ladies on a topic that, by the sound of it, involved a previous undertaking of the Ladies’ Aid Society.

Carina moved to take the only vacant seat other than the one behind the large desk. She stopped, however, at the sound of heavy footfalls directly behind her. Spinning around, she came face-to-face with the last person she expected to see.

“Mr. Ambrose,” she whispered.

His brow pulled low. Apparently, he’d not anticipated her presence either. His eyes darted to Aunt Chadwick, and a look of wearied understanding filled his features. “Please be seated,” he said as he walked past her to his desk.

She lowered herself into the armless chair. In the next instant, he sat as well.

“What can I do for you ladies?” he asked, eying everyone except Carina.

“It has come to our understanding that a few families working here in your mill have fallen upon difficult times,” Mrs. Garold said. She, like Aunt Chadwick, preferred to get straight to the point.

Carina had never known women quite like them before. Hers was a more quiet nature, though she found their directness inspiring. Perhaps more backbone would do her some good.

“We’ve come to ask your help in assisting them,” Aunt Chadwick said. “We realize there’s not much financial benefit to you, and your mill would likely be more profitable if you simply cut loose workers who—”

Grant raised his hand and stopped her. “Not all men of business are ogres. Tell me what it is you know, and we can begin discussing what is to be done.”

“As easy as that?” Mrs. Garold clearly hadn’t expected such easy capitulation.

His answering smile transported Carina to their meeting place all those years ago, when he would tell her something that amused him and his lips would turn up in just that way. She dropped her gaze, unprepared to face those memories.

“If I am in a position to be of help, to ease suffering,” he said, “you will not have to convince me to do so.”

“Well, this is an unfamiliar situation,” Aunt Chadwick muttered.

“We’d best move forward before the gentleman comes to his senses,” Mrs. Garold said.

“Do you often have difficulty securing aid in these matters?” Grant asked.

“In our experience,” Aunt Chadwick said, “men of business are more motivated by profit than compassion.”

“That is more often true than it should be,” Grant said. “Tell me about these families who are struggling.”

The ladies gave a detailed account of illnesses and loss, need and near desperation. Carina’s gaze rose to Grant as the discussion continued. He took copious notes, asking questions, and listening to the ladies’ suggestions while making a few of his own.

He had obviously forgotten her, which was something of a relief.

She was not enduring his looks of displeasure or dismissal, but watched him unnoticed.

Here, again, was his kind and tender nature, his compassion.

He smiled as he once had. He clearly cared about the people he oversaw.

This was how she’d imagined him in the role of businessman, the role in which she had pictured herself assisting him.

This was the Grant Ambrose she had once loved.

And he abandoned me. Do not forget that, Carina, or you will simply be hurt again.

The meeting came to a close, several approaches having been decided upon. They all rose. Grant thanked the ladies for coming, offering friendly bows and smiles. Then he turned to Carina. His expression emptied. His bow was quickly executed without meeting her eye.

“Miss Herrick. A good day to you,” he said, his tone flat and insincere.

She simply watched him, not returning the pleasantry. Aunt Chadwick was right; this was not indifference. He actively disliked her.

He had hurt her almost beyond bearing five years earlier. Why must he continue to do so?

“Miss Herrick?” Her silence, apparently, confused him enough to bring his eyes to hers at last.

She hadn’t the energy to argue, nor could she explain all that was weighing on her. In the end, she released her pent-up breath and whispered, “You never used to be hurtful.”

She turned and follow her aunt out of the office, promising herself that, for the remainder of her time in Wilkington, she would do her utmost not to cross paths with him again. She simply couldn’t bear it.