Chapter Four

T he cottage Vanessa had purchased was in Cartmel, near the lake district. She chose the location for its beauty and because it was a solid three days away from London, but mainly because she would be near to Mrs. Lydia Compton, a campaign-forged friend, the most pragmatic woman she had ever known.

Lydia was a war widow twice over. Her third husband, Corporal Compton, had not died, thankfully, but lost an eye and an arm in one day’s battle, injury enough to see him sent home. And Lydia—who had taken each new young soldier’s wife under her wing and taught her how to survive come what may, how to prevent pregnancy, sometimes successfully and sometimes not, how to supplement her husband’s meager rations, cook over an open flame, clean and mend his clothes and her own, bandage his wounds, and eventually search for his body among the dead—Lydia, too, had been ready to retire from the fight. Fortunately, Corporal Compton had a brother, a bootmaker in Cartmel, who welcomed them into his household. Lydia wrote that Brother Jon had put them both to work, and she had never been happier. If Vanessa ever found herself in need…

Vanessa couldn’t see herself a bootmaker. She had not wanted to live in Cartmel, only near it. But her attorney friend found her the perfect cottage on the outskirts of the village. It was small: one story, four rooms, a bit of a garden. A twenty-minute walk would bring her to church, forty and she would be at Lydia’s door. The previous owner had died six months earlier. Vanessa suspected Will had reserved the property then, anticipating her need, but to accuse him of that would serve no purpose. It was perfect, and he knew it, and that was that.

On this unseasonably warm February day, she knelt on a split log in her garden, examining the tangled mess of brown stems and rotten vegetables that had grown as volunteers and then died on the vine. The garden had not been properly tended in a long while, though it was difficult to say how long since Vanessa had never tended a garden before. Her neighbor, Mrs. Charlotte Gowe, had given her a few pointers, peering over the fence. They were becoming friends. Charlotte was acquainted with Lydia, who corroborated Vanessa’s story, that of a war widow with just enough means to purchase a cottage and live quietly. Even now, she leaned on Henry . No one need know she was the daughter of Frederick Culpepper. No one need know she had been the mistress of a lord who was now an earl.

Vanessa turned at the scuff of boots coming up the road, an uncommon sound so far from the village center. Will Collingswood was walking toward her cottage as if her thoughts had summoned him. She stood up, fighting the urge to wring her hands. What in God’s name could bring him all the way out here?

She met him at the gate.

“Mrs. Wardrip, good afternoon,” he said, removing his hat and tucking it under his arm. His sandy hair was already thinning. He would soon be as bald as his father.

“Good afternoon.” She studied him nervously. “Why are you here? Is something wrong?”

He frowned. “Must something be wrong? I told you I would check on you after you had a few weeks to settle in.”

“I thought you would write. It’s a long way to come.” His concern felt condescending. “I’m sorry, but you know I can’t ask you in.”

“Of course not,” he said, his scowl deepening.

She had nothing to fear from Will. He had always treated her respectfully, even though she was no longer respectable. But she could not bring a man into her house. Already villagers regarded her differently because she was young and without a male guardian or female companion. She should have realized people in a small town would be even more suspicious and narrow minded than those in London. She had to be very careful. Still, she could not be rude to Will.

“Are you thirsty? Hungry? I can bring something out.”

“No. There’s no need.”

She wiped her hands on her apron. “And you’ve come all this way. Thank you. I-I’m doing well. Truly, I am. This house is perfect. And Lydia has been so very welcoming. I’ve met a few people.” She trailed off. He looked disturbed. “What is it?”

“I brought you something. I don’t know that I should have. I hesitated to put it in the post with no explanation.”

He pulled a folded paper from his pocket. She recognized the seal and winced.

“Will—”

“I told him nothing. That’s why he asked me to bring this.” He held it out. “He had no other way to reach you.”

“Because I don’t want to be reached.”

He let his hand fall. “Should I give it back to him? Tell him you refused it?”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake.” It seemed inordinately cruel to subject Jasper to that humiliation. “No, give it here.”

She took the letter and tucked it into the waistband of her apron.

“Is there something else?” Will’s pained expression suggested there was.

“Iversley wanted to set up a fund for you to draw from. I refused on your behalf. And I’ve been worried that I shouldn’t have.”

“You did right.”

“Vanessa.” His voice was a groan. “It would make things easier for you. You could hire a companion. You really should have one.”

She laughed, more irritated than amused. “I’m not sure I can purchase respectability with my ex-lover’s money.”

“Don’t talk like that. You deserve better.”

“Will, there is no question of deserving. None at all.”

“But to punish yourself—”

“Punish? This?” She gestured to her home. “I have more than I need. This is heaven on earth.”

He had never seen a soldiers’ camp. He had never slept on wet ground after walking an entire day wearing shredded boots that did not fit, stripped from a corpse. He had never marched two days straight with half a bread crust for sustenance. He had not… He had not. Vanessa had. Lydia had. The others, too. They’d borne all that and worse.

“All right,” Will said, holding up a hand. “If you’re content, that’s all that matters. I delivered the letter. Answer him or don’t. But I won’t serve as a go-between.”

“I would not ask it of you.”

He nodded, holding himself very stiffly. “But he did. If he asks again, I will tell him no.”

“Thank you.”

He gave her a doubtful look, then said, “Keep me informed of any changes.”

“Changes? What changes?”

Could he think she would go back to Jasper? Did he think the letter was a request to come back? Oh, Lord. Was it? Could Jasper imagine she would return?

“ Any changes. I’m still your solicitor, Vanessa. I have an obligation to my clients.”

“Yes, of course.” If he wanted her to believe that was all he meant, she would. “But you are aware that it is not good for me to be seen talking at length with a stranger.”

He glanced down the long, empty road to the Gowes’ cottage, then nodded.

“Goodbye then.” He sounded annoyed, having come all this way for such a poor welcome, but what did he expect her to do?

She watched him walk down the street until he looked very small. Then she went inside. She paused a moment to drink in the space. The white walls were scrubbed clean, devoid of ornamentation; no memories there. The parlor had a rag rug, but elsewhere the floors were bare wood, worn smooth. With the shutters open, a breeze swept through, and the home had a comforting scent of clean English air. She would be happy here. She would .

For this escape, she had saved, and Will had invested for her nearly every penny of her pin money, as well as the proceeds of the sale of a particularly lovely bracelet that Jasper had given her as an apology for an offense she no longer remembered. No one could say she had not been preparing all along.

She went all the way to the back, into her small kitchen. She pulled the letter from her waistband and laid it on the table in the middle of the room. Then she untied her apron and draped it over the back of a chair. She stared at the letter. If the stove had been lit, she would have fed it into the fire. But the stove was cold.

Jasper, why?

It had been two months since she had returned his last letter unopened. She supposed they had both had sufficient time to reflect. She had, in her heart, forgiven him for failing to tell her he intended to court Lady Georgiana. She understood his decision to do so had only been half-made when he rushed off to attend to his dying father. She recognized as well that it was time for him to find a suitable lady to wed. The truth was, prepared though she may have been, she hadn’t been ready.

What could he have written?

He was thinking of her still. That shouldn’t please her, but it did, since she thought of him constantly. How could she not? They had been lovers for four years. Three years longer than she had been married to Henry, and she still thought of him often.

Of course, she had known Henry her whole life. And it was a different kind of knowing once they were wed—she could never forget that. She had been surprised by the act of love. Surprised that she could share such sweetly intimate joys with someone as awkward and familiar to her as Henry. Maybe if he had lived, that would have been enough.

Lord Taverston had been neither awkward nor familiar. They were strangers, thrust together by circumstance, both caught off guard by what happened between them. She could not have anticipated her body’s capacity for pleasure so intense. Or that over the course of four years, she would grow to love him with a strength even greater than their passion.

Vanessa swallowed a sob.

And now he wanted to pay her off. Clear his conscience. That was surely what the letter was about. Will had implied as much, hadn’t he?

Or was he writing to inform her of his betrothal?

She picked up the letter. She should not read it. He must know that she would not respond. Nevertheless, she broke the seal.

I love you. Always. C J.T.

She traced her fingers over the letters.

Oh, Jasper. Why?

He’d had four years to say the words and had been very careful not to.

She shoved the letter into the cold stove. She would burn it later.