Chapter Thirty-Two

1911

Laurie was pleased his scheme had appeared to work so far. He had watched until he’d seen Fabian pass the note to Viola, and then had slipped away. The last he’d seen of her had been her fair head bent down, as she’d scanned the letter.

Perhaps he should have written something a little more creative and poetical, but once he’d decided on his course of action, he’d felt as if he’d just needed to — do it. To grab the moment and go with his heart.

And if it all fell flat . . . well, they could easily avoid one another tomorrow and he was sure she’d head back to America at some point anyway.

So maybe it would cause an awkward moment or two, but they’d both get over it eventually.

But he really didn’t want to get over it. He had, for the first time in his life, found someone who he wanted to get to know a whole lot better, and the only way for that to happen was for him to try this. Despite her protestations, he was hopeful that she would accept a grand gesture from him and this was the best he could come up with.

He took a deep breath and sped up. He needed to get to Rose’s garden and get there before midnight . . .

* * *

The carriage lurched along and Viola felt the horse go quicker. The snow wasn’t enough to stop the wheels from ploughing through it, but she figured that, if it got much deeper, a sleigh would be the best way to travel and that was dreadfully exciting . . .

But for now, she was in a carriage and just up ahead, she could see Pencradoc House, lit up and welcoming everyone back from church. How very odd — was Rose’s garden here, then?

‘Oh!’ She suddenly remembered that a previous duchess had been called Rose. Elsie’s real father’s first wife. Rose had almost been eradicated from Pencradoc history, but her lasting legacy was the gothic rose garden on the estate.

That, then, was where they were heading!

The carriage veered off to the right, off the main driveway, and Viola peered out of the window, rubbing the condensation off the glass. Gosh, it was cold . But the sight that greeted her made her gasp in delight and forget the chill. The pathway to the garden was lit by a string of those jam-jar lights — and, up ahead, was a pool of light — the garden itself was a shimmering winter wonderland and her heart began to pound again.

The carriage drew to a halt and there was more movement as the driver apparently got down. There was a rap on the door and she jumped as his silhouette filled the small windowpane, and then the door opened . . .

And there, standing in just his shirt sleeves, was a very cold and pink-nosed person she recognised so very, very well.