Marcus smiled. “Never a truer word said, Sir.”
“I know. I wrote it the other day. Although I think it needs some work. But what I’m trying to express is that we should not lose precious time imagining fears that may or not be valid, or they will drive us to Bedlam. You say you love this lady?”
“Yes,” he said simply. And Marcus closed his eyes.Always.He saw her in his mind’s eye – lips smiling, green eyes laughing.
“Well then,” said the gentleman, “you’d best tell her as it appears she is stomping up the path towards us with rather a perturbed expression.”
Marcus’ eyes snapped open and he scrabbled to his feet as Charlotte was indeed stomping the fell towards them, seemingly in a fit of pique, fists balled, head down and muttering.
His companion rose to his boots and slapped him on the back. “Remember this – serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light…”
Marcus nodded, felt the gentleman’s emotive words fill his soul. “You are a man of true poetry, Sir.”
“Some say so.” He plopped his hat upon his head. “Good tidings, Your Grace, and a merry Christmas to you.”
Marcus frowned.
“Good day, Mr Wordsworth,” hailed Charlotte.
“And to you, Miss Webster!” he hailed in return. “Do sit and admire it for a while.” And along with a jovial whistle, the esteemed poet Mr Wordsworth ambled off down the path.
With a groan, Marcus bowed to Charlotte. “I failed to recognise him.”
Auburn eyebrows raised in incredulity. “Where have you been, Marcus?”
He swallowed, let his eyes wander Charlotte’s features – her ruddy nose and red lips.
“Adrift for some while.”Without you.“Come, sit with me.”
CHAPTER TEN
“Poetry is a speaking picture… It at once refines the heart and elevates the soul.”
PRIVATEEDUCATION:APRACTICALPLAN FOR THESTUDIES OFYOUNGLADIES.
ELIZABETHAPPLETON. 1815.
Charlotte complied, the bench dry beneath the morning sun.
In years past, they’d sat here many a time to witness the seasons shift – spring in lush green finery, summer in looser hues, autumn in a coat of copper. And winter with her bequeathment of lucent snow, roofs white and fields swaddled tight.
Winter brought the harsh bite of cold yet also the beauty of sprinkled stardust.
“Why are you here, Marcus?” she asked as he lowered himself to the bench also. “Should you not be packing?”
“I was searching for you, Charlotte.” He fidgeted with the band on his beaver hat, eyes cast low. “I worried you might come to harm in this snow. I couldn’t believe you’d walked out in such weather.”
“Me?” She frowned. “But I was searching for you. I was worried that…”
She narrowed her eyes, recalled Dinah’s batting lashes.
The little so-and-so.
Yet she could not be angry: the scene of Ambleside below was one of splendour and furthermore, Marcus was sat at her side.
Yet he abruptly stood. Breathed deep. “I must…”
“You must go?”
