Page 8 of However Long the Wait (Sweet Treat Novellas #4)

“Her letters were not the kind one would write to a sweetheart,” Grant said. “She spoke of no tender feelings. They were nothing but questions, none of which were the least bit personal.”

“Questions about your business concerns?” She seemed to already know the answer.

“Yes.”

“Matters about which you had written to her but with which she had no experience and, thus, no real understanding? Thing that were part of your life, your future, your concerns, all of which she felt connected to and, thus, would wish to better understand?”

Doubt began to bubble.

“She asked you questions that showed a deep interest in all you were doing. And for that, you concluded she was . . . disinterested?” She ended on a withering tone, one that communicated her feelings on the matter quite clearly.

“But there was a change,” Grant insisted. “Her earliest letters spoke of longing and tenderness.”

“She told me yours did as well, but that they quickly became nothing beyond terse answers to her questions and little else.”

He leaned back in his chair, mind swirling. Her letters had changed. Hers. Not his. How was her explanation to Miss Chadwick the absolute opposite of that?

“Did you write her with any questions of your own?” Miss Chadwick asked.

“Did you inquire after her life and concerns? Did you ask what weighed on her heart and mind? Or did you decide her devotion was waning simply because her letters did not flatter you with a sufficient number of tender sentiments and promises of unending loyalty?”

Grant didn’t know how to answer. He thought her feelings had cooled in his absence because her tone had indicated as much. What else was he to have thought?

“When you began to suspect a distance growing between you, what did you do? Did you return to Rafton? Did you rush back to see and hear for yourself the state of things?”

“I could not,” he said. “My time was not my own. I was given no leeway for journeys, even short ones.” It had been a hectic and exhausting time.

He’d struggled to do all that was expected of him.

He’d slept little and eaten poorly, not for want of a comfortable bed and ample food, but for want of time.

He could not have returned. It was not possible.

“Surely you wrote to her of your concerns,” Miss Chadwick said. “Surely you told her how much you loved her and that you feared those sentiments were not easily expressed through letters.”

He had not. To do so when her heart had ventured elsewhere seemed a foolish endeavor. But what if . . . What if . . . “She still loved me,” Grant whispered.

“She did.”

He looked at Miss Chadwick once more, an ache growing inside. “Did?”

“I have no authoritative answer to the question I suspect you are asking,” she said. “But I will tell you this: when she looks at you, what I see most clearly is not affection and tenderness, but pain and apprehension.”

He had seen that in her eyes as well.

“You told me yesterday morning at your mill that you are not an ogre,” Miss Chadwick said. “Is that true in matters of the heart as well?”

“I thought so. Now I’m not entirely sure.”

She took a leisurely bite of her scone, watching him with no appearance of earnestness or impatience. The unhurried scrutiny only added to his growing feelings of guilt. He had not afforded the woman he loved the patience he was being shown now.

Grant needed time to think, to sort all of this out. Yet he’d not come on this matter, neither could he leave without addressing the actual reason for his visit.

“You said something last night that weighs on me. You mentioned Mr. Baskon.”

She nodded but did not speak.

“I knew a Mr. Baskon during my years in Rafton. I have come on the hope, the prayer, that the man you spoke of, who has been given the Herricks’ blessing in pursuing their daughter’s hand, is not the same Mr. Baskon I remember.”

“And if he is?”

He leaned forward, pleading. “You must do all you can to convince her not to accept him. He is the worst sort of person—terrible in a way that defies polite explanation. I cannot imagine she does not know some aspect of this.”

Miss Chadwick took a slow sip of tea. By all appearances, she did not intend to answer his inquiry.

“Please. If you have any influence with her, please attempt to turn her from this course. I cannot bear to think of the misery that awaits her if she goes through with this.”

“She has passed through a great deal of misery already.”

Grant was beginning to realize how true that was, and how much of that misery could be laid at his feet. Yet this matter went beyond him and his regrets. “Mr. Baskon will destroy her spirit, Miss Chadwick. He will drain the very life from her. And hers is a life worth saving.”

“What of treasuring, Mr. Ambrose? Is hers a life worth treasuring?”

The question bordered on the absurd. “Of course it is. She is wonderful and dear and kind and clever and so many other glorious things. How could anyone not treasure her?”

She nodded slowly. “Ponder on that, Mr. Ambrose. Ponder.”

He was dismissed on that declaration, which he carried with him the remainder of the day. How could anyone not treasure her? Yet he had not cherished her as he ought. And he had lost her.

Though he’d come to terms with that years earlier, Grant found the pain of it pricking at him anew. She’d slipped away, not because she’d lost interest, but because he had misunderstood and had been unwilling to risk rejection in order to know, for certain, her feelings.

Did any of her tenderness for him yet remain? And did he have the courage to find out?