She wrinkled her nose and pushed away the sour feeling in her gut, focusing instead on spacing out the ornaments already on the tree. She had no right to be jealous of her sisters when she was married as well, her absent husband granting her the freedom to run her stables as she pleased. Her life was filled to the brim with her sisters and nephews, her horses and the men who worked on her farm.
What need did she have for love?
“Did you put this back?”
Lily’s gaze snapped to Rose; she had found the ornament Lily had hidden away and was holding it by the hook. Lily schooled her expression. “I did. We have so many ornaments there’s no need to crowd the tree with this one.”
Marigold edged closer with her eyes narrowed, as though she were deciding if she would accept her sister’s nonchalance. “Did you hear anything more from Whit?”
“Not since the letter in September.” Lily’s mouth was unpleasantly dry, and she wished she’d held on to her champagne.
“What did it say?” Rose asked.
Her sisters leaned in, and heat climbed her throat. “I don’t remember.”
She hoped they couldn’t detect the lie, as she remembered every word, having read the letter so many times the paper had turned soft beneath her hands, the folds in danger of disintegrating from use.
I hope to speak to you.
I’ve wasted too many years away from you.
There’s something I haven’t told you, something important…
She should have thrown it into the fireplace—no, the fireplace would be too dignified for a letter from the dishonorable Earl of Whitby. She should have tossed it in the manure pile, let it fester and rot amongst the flies, alongside every promise he’d made, every dream she’d held of a happily married life together.
But she’d held it close, tucked it inside her pillowcase like a lovesick ninny. Even now, the blasted letter was folded in a flattened square and shoved in the bottom of her riding boot.
And holding onto the letter wasn’t even the most shameful part. There had been more letters, one every week from September until two weeks before. Each one she’d studied like a scholar with a medieval text, each word picked apart for a deeper meaning, for some indication of what she should do, what she should say, if she did respond.
But even if she found the words, she had no way for him to receive them. No direction, no information on his whereabouts now, or for the past eight years.
“Lills…” Marigold’s touch on Lily’s forearm jerked her from her thoughts.
With a choked laugh, Lily shook her head and ignored the tight expressions of concern from the people she loved most. “It was odd, that’s all. To hear from him after so long, and then…”
Nothing. No letter that week, or the week before. She’d been desperate enough to beg her housekeeper to telegram her if a letter arrived at the estate in Lancashire, and sheloathedherself for it. Lily hadn’t chosen to be abandoned, to be deprived of the pleasures and companionship her sisters enjoyed. She may be lonely, but she’d done a damn good job of building a life that was a close approximation of what she lacked.
She fixed her attention back on the ornaments in front of her, turning the hooks so they all faced the same direction. “I’m not worried. Whit has always been distant, and—and I was surprised to hear from him. That’s all.”
“Distant? Oh, d-darling.” Marigold took Lily’s hands and squeezed them. Lily wanted to fold in on herself and hide. “Remember what you said to me about being lonely?”
She remembered that day in the early fall, when Marigold was newly divorced and finding her footing again after so many years of suffering. “I said being lonely is a choice.”
Her sister cupped her cheek. “I hope you’ll remember that.”
A crash sounded from the direction of the dining room, followed by an adolescent exchange assigning blame for the destruction, and Marigold gave a harsh sigh before pacing towards the source. “I should see what the boys have done now.”
A heavy knock sounded at the front door, and they all startled.
Callum shot a glance between Lily and the door, then took Violet’s arm. “We should help.”
Lily gaped as her sister and brother-in-law all but ran away from her, and the knocking sounded again. She huffed and shook her head. “I’ll get the door!” she called out to anyone who was listening, and marched through the entryway, pausing to look back at the Christmas tree while she pondered what Marigold had said.
Was she choosing loneliness? No, she certainly wasn’t. When her husband disappeared the morning after their wedding without a word, she’d never thought the wounds could heal. But she’d clawed her way back to a version of herself she could tolerate. Lily had surrounded herself with people she cared for, people she trusted.
Her heart had been wounded, shredded apart and left to die. She’d grown over the damage he’d caused, like a tree burying its trauma beneath new bark, sealing the pain away where it couldn’t be touched. But the scars remained, heavy and deep, shielding her from further injury but preventing anything—or anyone—from being close to her again.
If she hadn’t found someone to love her, to share her life with, so be it. She might be alone, but she wasn’t lonely.
