Charlotte then rose to her feet, crossed to the wall hook for her cloak and then re-laced her sturdy boots. “Until tomorrow, dearest.” And she hastened from the schoolroom.
Just wait until she caught up with that Duke of Shawdale.
MARCUS CURSEDlow as the bench he and Charlotte used to sit upon many years ago was occupied by a slender middle-aged gentleman. A notebook lay in his lap, pencil poised.
Once outside, Marcus had realised the snow was not so deep for the most part, and the sun had decided to make an appearance, turning the landscape to a glistening creation of ice and wonder.
Not one trace had been found of Charlotte, not a single boot print in the snow, and he concluded she’d likely returned home, that they’d somehow missed one another.
But just in case…
“Sir? Forgive me. But could I ask you? Have you seen a lady up here? Auburn hair?”
The chap peered up. Long nosed and dark haired, he looked vaguely familiar. “Not I. Solely has nature revealed herself to me this day.”
Marcus smiled. “And ’tis at its best, there is no doubt.”
In accord with his words, Marcus turned and lifted his eyes to take in the vast landscape before them – the fells swaddled insnow, Ambleside nestled within its embrace, the glittering lakes like a cracked shifting mirror to the sky above.
He breathed – crisp and clean.
This land was in his very soul and blood, a part of himself he’d forgotten in the urgent need to refill the estate coffers and regain the Shawdale pride. And how he’d missed the sheer pleasure of stomping along deserted paths, admiring the beauty of nature. It filled one with such a sense of harmony and yet…complete insignificance also.
The fells would be here for all time.
But his time here was short.
And if he worked himself into an early grave, he would miss this essence of life – the beauty, hope and…love.
Marcus twisted. “May I?” And at the gentleman’s nod, he sat on the bench, removing his beaver hat and gloves. “I’d forgotten how…beautiful this can be.”
“Glad to see a younger man who enjoys it,” grumbled the fellow aside him. “Too many wish to cover our countryside with industry. I know progress is essential but I fear a way of life is disappearing.”
Marcus winced and peered at the gent’s notebook. “Are you a writer, Sir?”
“I am. Although on a day such as this, the glory of nature overwhelms me and I find my pencil has stilled.” He turned. “And you are seeking a lady up here, yes? A…friend, perhaps?”
“Er. No. Yes.” He shook his head. “But a fool’s errand as I fear…”
“Hmm?”
“It’s naught.”
“I have known much loss and much love, thus far in life, and never is it naught.” The gent nudged Marcus’ shoulder with his own. “Why not tell me what you fear? Doubt you’ll see me again.”
Marcus debated, drumming his fingers on his hat brim. The gentleman appeared not to know him, and perhaps it would be good to talk to a stranger.
“I…” Marcus breathed deep. “I…I am in love with this lady I seek with all that I am. Yesterday, today and tomorrow. But I fear she does not feel the same. I fear she loved the young man I was, when we grew up together. I fear she cannot love what I am now. I fear she considers me a…friend.”
A man of business might say those fears were absurd. That his most pressing fear ought to be that of bankruptcy. Or falling prey to swindlers once more. Perhaps he should fear losing out on the canal deal.
Yet at this moment, all of those paled in comparison with the fear that Charlotte would never love him.
“What are fears, eh?” the gent declared. “But voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not–”
“I suppose you’re–”
“Don’t interrupt. I dislike it when people interrupt.” He cleared his throat. “What are fears? But voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not and deluding the wary till the fatal bolt is shot.”
