Page 37

“Mrs Merriam! Merry, darling? Are you hurt?”

Georgette looked up from her position beneath the carriage, to see Viscount Amberson gazing down at her.

She blinked up at him, wondering if she had hit her head as well as every other part of her when she had fallen to the ground.

Surely she was imagining things, for he could not have just called her darling!

―Excerpt of His Grace and Disfavour, by an anonymous author.

Pip stared out of his study window as more snow fell, fragile and silent, making the entire world seem quiet.

Certainly, the house was quiet, as was his daughter.

Though he had sworn to Tilly he had not reneged on his promise, that he would still bring Harry home to her again in the New Year, he wondered now if he ought to have made such a rash promise.

He could not know what was in Genevieve Hamilton’s heart or, if now she had been restored to her family, she wished to put the past behind her.

He thought she might at least have written to Tilly, but then the snow had caused such havoc with the post and just getting into the village was difficult, so perhaps he was being too hard on her.

Yet his own heart felt raw and vulnerable, and how could he help but wonder if he had been a fool to reveal so much of what he felt in a letter?

As it was, he had not told her all of it, yet he had shared enough that he could not bear the idea she might pity him now for feelings she did not, could not, reciprocate.

He turned at the sound of his study door opening to see his mother’s lovely face smiling at him.

He had returned home, weary and heartsick, and woken the next morning to her arrival in a carriage filled with Christmas presents, bearing all the seasonal cheer he’d been lacking.

She and his father seemed determined that Pip and Tilly would not endure the coming holiday alone.

His father would not tell him precisely what had become of Wendover, suffice to say that he was taking an extended voyage overseas and would not be seen in the country again if he knew what was good for him.

Pip did not know whether to wish the bastard drowned or succumbed to some fatal disease during the journey, or if he ought to thank the devil for his villainy.

Without Wendover, Pip might never have known the woman whom he now understood was the one he had been searching for all along.

What a damned fool he was, and what a waste of bloody time.

All these years they could have been happy, they could have been a family, had he only realised what was right beneath his nose.

And yet that wasn’t true, was it? For he did not know if that was what she would have wanted, or if it was what she wanted now.

“We’re having tea and Welsh cakes,” his mother exclaimed cheerfully. “Mrs Morgan taught Tilly how to make them, so you must come and exclaim over how they are the best ones you’ve ever tasted, for she has sworn her pops to secrecy, and she thinks I don’t know.”

Pip smiled and nodded. “Of course I shall come,” he said, walking to where she stood.

She stopped him when he would have moved past her, however, and reached up to press her palm against his cheek.

“She’ll come back,” she said, and with such confidence he wanted to rage her.

She could not possibly know that! Instead, his jaw tightened, and she smiled at him, giving a little sigh.

“She will , though I know you will not believe me. But I am right, because I always am, and because she is in love with you. I know I am your mother, and quite biased, but I also know a little something about being a woman in love, and one who must hide her feelings from the world, and most especially from the object of her devotion.”

Pip shook his head. “Then why have I heard nothing? Surely she could have written a note, a letter—”

“Love, look at the weather out there,” she said reasonably. “If I had not arrived when I did, I dread to think what might have happened, but I doubt I would have made it here at all.”

“Yes, fine, I suppose you’re right,” he said, though he could not fill the words with the certainty his mother wanted to hear. “I just—”

“Yes?”

“I wish I had stayed, that I had demanded to see her there and then. I could have forced my way upstairs and—”

“Oh, yes, very romantic that would have been, waking the poor girl when she was likely half dead with exhaustion,” his mother said in amusement.

Pip scowled. “Then I ought to have stayed put, stayed at the inn until she was ready to see me.”

“Oh, even better, make her feel like she must decide about the rest of her life in the days after her ordeal, because you cannot find the patience to wait for her to know her own mind. Yes, that would have been nicely done,” she remarked, folding her arms and giving him a look of fond exasperation.

“Damn it, Mother!” he protested. “What the devil am I to do?”

“You are to wait until the new year, and then you will travel to Cawston Hall with a beautiful ring and the right words, and you will sweep that lovely young woman off her feet with your romantic proposal. That is what you will do,” she said firmly.

“I’ll go mad,” he growled.

“Good,” she said with a smile, proving to Pip what he had always suspected: his mother had a streak of steel in her spine and could be utterly ruthless.

“Good?” he repeated reproachfully.

“Yes. It’s about time you know what it’s like to pine for the one you love. It will do you a deal of good, I think,” she said briskly. “Think of all those poor girls who have broken their hearts over you these past years. A little retribution is good for the soul.”

“I thought you’d come here to be kind to me,” Pip said, glowering at her.

“Sometimes one needs to be cruel to be kind. Now, do stop moping, darling. All will be well, I promise.”

With a sigh, Pip had to admit when he was beaten, and went with her to be stuffed with Welsh Cakes until Tilly was certain he really meant they were the very best he had ever eaten.

“No more!” he protested, when his daughter reached for the fifth to put on his plate. “But I think Pops could eat another,” he added with a smile.

Montagu gave him a reproving look before shaking his head.

“No,” he said with certainty. “Not another crumb.”

“Oh, but, Pops…!” Tilly protested, as Pip got to his feet and walked to the window again.

Memories of looking out and seeing his daughter and Mrs Harris build a snowman and indulge in a surprisingly wild snowball fight returned to him.

Had it begun then, this slow, invisible siege to capture his heart, or had it been even earlier than that?

Had she any clue what she was doing, or had she been as oblivious of what was growing between them as he had been?

The longing to have her here, to ask her such questions himself, made his chest sore and he stifled a sigh, not wanting his parents to think him entirely foolish.

The snow had left off, just a few desultory flakes drifting here and there, but the landscape was entirely white, pristine and hushed by the thick, fleecy covering.

Except—and Pip squinted against the white glare—he felt certain something was moving in the distance.

At first he saw nothing, and wondered if perhaps he had glimpsed a deer, but by slow degrees it revealed itself to be a rider.

Who on earth could be calling at this hour, for it was late in the afternoon?

Pip hoped they were local, for they’d have a dreadful job returning home before nightfall otherwise.

Cursing the prospect of an uninvited guest, he realised they could well be forced to stay here indefinitely, for the snow was powdery and soft now, but might well freeze if the temperature kept dropping.

But the rider seemed to know exactly where he was going, guiding his horse along the safest path.

Was it a boy? The fellow seemed too slight to be a man.

Pip’s breath caught as something about the rider called to him, his heart jolting even though his mind told him he was being ridiculous.

Miss Hamilton would not be out riding towards Goshen Court, because she was tucked up safely at Cawston Hall with her uncle miles away in Norfolk.

Except, except the rider was a woman, that was a side-saddle, and—

He ran from the room.

Pip heard his parents and Tilly exclaiming, demanding to know where he was going, but he did not stop.

Almost knocking poor Kerridge down as he ran for the front door, he yanked it open and flew outside.

Skidding and sliding on the steps in shoes not suitable for such weather, he righted himself and ran through the snow as the rider grew nearer. Was it? Was it her? Surely—

“Harry!” he called, certain now as she urged the horse into a canter. “Harry!”

Lord, but he was going to look a perfect arse if she had come to tell him she did not love him, but he didn’t care. She was here, that had to mean something. Why would she be here, and how had she even made it in this appalling weather?

He stood in the middle of his front lawn, the snow up past his ankles as he watched her grow closer and closer until she was there, right before him.

The horse stamped and blew, shaking its head as Pip stared up, half convinced he was imagining the entire scene, that his yearning to see her had produced a waking dream.

“Good afternoon, Lord Ashburton,” she said, the face he had so longed to see flushed from the cold.

“Harry?” he said, drinking in the sight of her, so familiar and yet so changed, dressed in the finery of a lady of quality. He hardly dared breathe lest he blink and she disappeared, and then she launched herself at him, throwing herself into his arms and sending him sprawling in the snow.