Then, before the driver can do more than squawk an objection, William is throwing open the rear door and shoving his head and shoulders inside.
“Finally,” he says. “I have been waiting hours. You really should have let me meet you at the station.” He peers at me. “You aren’t dressed for the weather at all. It’s a wonder you didn’t freeze on the way.”
“Hello, William. So lovely to see you.”
He grumbles and shoves a thick car blanket into the rear seat, bundles me into it and then glances at the driver.
“That will be all.” He hands her a bill. A large one, given the way her eyes saucer. “I appreciate you conveying my wife safely from the station. Please deposit her bags at the end of the drive, and I will retrieve them later.”
“I can carry—” I begin.
“I’ve got it, miss,” the driver says. “You ought not be carrying anything in your condition anyway.”
I’m not even halfway out of the car before I’m scooped up, the blanket wrapped around me.
“I’m pregnant, William,” I say. “Not an invalid. I can walk—”
“Yes, you can. No, you will not. It’s cold and it’s slippery, and you’ve come halfway around the world in a single day, while six-months pregnant. You must be exhausted.”
Exhausted is one way of putting it. Bone-dead and beat-down is another. I’ve spent the last two weeks cranked up to double speed, frantically finishing my end-of-term work so I could catch the first possible plane to William.
I’d told myself I’d sleep on the flight. I did not, even though someone found a way to secretly upgrade me to first-class, and I had no excuse for not stretching out in my little pod and spending the seven-hour flight sound asleep. No excuse beyond the fact that I was on my way to see William for the first time in two months, and I was so excited I could barely stay in my seat.
No sleep on the flight. No sleep on the train. Definitely no sleep in the car, and I can blame my chatty driver, but by that point, as William and Thorne Manor drew ever closer, it’d taken Herculean effort not to leap out of the car and run the rest of the way.
Now I am here, and it’s as if my strings have been cut, every bit of energy evaporating. So yes, I am tired. Exhausted. But my journey is at an end, and I will now crawl into bed and not leave for three days straight. Okay, maybe there won’t be much rest tonight—I’ll definitely find the energy for a proper reunion—but afterward, I’m zonking out.
William fusses with my blanket, making sure I’m swaddled like an infant. I don’t argue. I’m in the mood for a little coddling. Also it gives me time to look at him, just look at him, a sight even more welcome than the lights of High Thornesbury.
It’s always disconcerting to see William in twenty-first century clothes. That’s my hang-up. He had no such concerns. He’d been more than happy to shed his suits and ties for jeans and sweaters. This is a man who’s never more comfortable than when working in his stable or riding out on his land. Modern clothes suit his lifestyle much better, even if he does look very fine in an old-fashioned suit.
Today, he’s wearing a cable-knit sweater under his jacket. I roll my eyes at that, wondering which local knit him the sweater. When he’d first “arrived” as my fiancé, the villagers had been skeptical. Yes, he was obviously a Thorne—his face bears the strong features that grace a dozen portraits in town—but they didn’t know him. They’d taken me in—that wee thing who used to trot about town, that poor girl who saw her uncle die, that quiet widow who came to reopen Thorne Manor at last.
William might be a Thorne, but clearly he was up to no good. Wooing me in hopes of regaining Thorne Manor. Their suspicion lasted about five minutes, and the next thing I know, he’s bringing home the best scones from the bakery and the finest cuts from the butcher.
High Thornesbury is very proud of its history, with a million tales of the eccentric and good-hearted family who once inhabited the manor house. The Thornes were a rare example of popular landowners, and William carries the mantle of that legacy with ease. He is as popular in modern High Thornesbury as he is in his own version of it, and I have no doubt someone knitted him that sweater . . . and no doubt that he has already found a way to repay their kindness.
The sweater does look very good on him. Even by modern standards, William is a big man, over six feet tall and broad shouldered. Like me, he’s thirty-nine, our birthdays being a mere month—well, a month and a hundred-and-fifty-odd years—apart. His tousled black hair is unfashionably long in his own time, but suits him well here. He has a square face, bright blue eyes and a solid jaw without even a hint of five-o’clock shadow, meaning he shaved for me this evening. Not that I care—he looks very nice with beard shadow, too—but he will always be the Victorian gentleman who must show his lady that she’s worth the effort of a late-day shave.
I take off one glove and run a finger along his clean-shaven jaw. His gaze slants toward the road, being sure the driver is gone. Then his hand goes behind my head as he pulls me into a deep and hungry kiss.
“Now that’s a far better hello,” I say as he lifts his head.
“It seemed rather improper to deliver it while you were in the backseat of a cab, shivering to death in the cold.”
I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t shivering, William. But yes, it wasn’t the best place for a welcome-home kiss.”
I snuggle into his arms and let him continue carrying me up the walk. As we reach the porch, I twist, wanting to see Thorne Manor lit up in her holiday finest . . .
The only lights are ones illuminating the porch. The yard is snow-covered and otherwise empty.
William pushes open the door, which lacks so much as a wreath. Once we’re through, I discreetly try to look about for a tree or maybe a sprig of mistletoe, even cards on the fireplace mantle.
Nothing. There’s nothing.
“Yes, yes,” he says. “Stop squirming. I’ll put you down soon enough.”
A clomp-clomp as he kicks snow from his boots. Then he walks into the parlor and deposits me on the sofa, amidst a nest of piled blankets. Across the room, a fire blazes. A tantalizing odor makes my mouth water, and he disappears into the kitchen, only to return with a basket of warm scones.
“Freya’s?” I say.
“Of course. You didn’t think she’d let you arrive without sending up a bushel basket of scones. That’s the appetizer. Mrs. Shaw left a cold supper on the other side. We’ll cross over when you’re ready.”
A cold supper isn’t . . . quite what I’d hoped for. Especially not one served in a nineteenth-century house on a midwinter night. I’d rather stay here and pop something into the microwave oven, enjoy my late dinner with central heating and electric lighting.
Really, Bronwyn? Really? Mrs. Shaw made dinner for you. Freya made these scones for you. William got this fire going for you and came out to meet you with blankets. And you’re complaining?
No, the truth is just that I’m disappointed by the lack of, well . . . My gaze slides around the room, which looks exactly as I left it after October’s Thanksgiving break.
I’m disappointed by the lack of Christmas. Which is equally shameful. I know William hasn’t celebrated the holidays in years. Did I expect him to ready the house for me? He’s waiting so we can decorate it together. It’s hardly Christmas eve. There’s plenty of time.