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For the first time in months, Sylvia woke up in her old room. She had come to Hawthorne Cottage yesterday on Georgiana’s orders after the sample chapters for Mrs. Crawford’s memoirs had been sent off to the publisher.
“Take some time for yourself,” the viscountess had suggested.
Sylvia tried to protest, but even Mrs. Crawford insisted. “We’ll be waiting for you whenever you decide to return, my dear.”
None of them needed to voice the obvious: that she might decide not to return at all. The income generated from her small inheritance was just enough for Hawthorne Cottage’s upkeep if Sylvia economized, which wouldn’t be an issue. That had been her plan anyway until Lionel had ripped it away from her. But now so many things had changed.
Sylviahad changed.
Though working for Mrs. Crawford had its challenges, she no longer felt the need to stay hidden away for the rest of her life. And without the constant threat of exposure hanging over her, she was learning how to be Sylvia Wilcox again.
After washing and dressing, she headed downstairs to the kitchen, where Mrs. Thomasin, their old cook, was just pulling a fresh tray of golden biscuits out of the oven.
“Good morning, Miss Sylvia,” she said with her usual cheerfulness.
For the last few months Lionel had let Hawthorne Cottage to a retired professor who had absolutely no appreciation for Mrs. Thomasin’s talents in the kitchen and insisted on very bland food. When she learned that Sylvia was returning, she had pulled out all the stops and cooked a feast for her last night.
“Those smell wonderful, Mrs. Thomasin.” Sylvia moved to help, but the cook shooed her away.
“I remembered how much you loved them,” she said with a broad smile. “Now go sit yourself down in the dining room. I’ll bring them right in.”
Sylvia did as she was told and entered the sun-filled room. She was used to eating by herself here. Father had taken most of his meals in his study until he was too ill to leave his bedroom, and Lionel had rarely bothered to visit. But when her mother was alive, they always ate together. Sylvia took her usual seat and stared at the empty chair at the foot of the table, where Mama had once sat.
You’ve done well for yourself, my sparrow. But you still have miles to go.
Just as her eyes began to prickle, Mrs. Thomasin bustled into the room carrying a tray bearing the fruits of her morning’s labors, along with a fresh pot of tea, butter, and the honeypot. Sylvia immediately began taking plates off the tray.
The cook gave her an arch look, but Sylvia flashed her a smile. “You must let me help a little, Mrs. Thomasin. I’m a working woman, you know.”
Mrs. Thomasin clucked her tongue. “Pardon my impertinence, but it is a disgrace what your brother did. Turning you out of your home just so he could earn a little rent money. The whole village was horrified. And after all you did for your poor father.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t right. Thank the good Lord he came to his senses.”
Sylvia’s hand tensed on the handle of the teapot. “Yes. Thanks indeed.”
The hope that had briefly filled her last week had waned a little more as each day passed and Rafe didn’t appear. The role he had played in facilitating Lionel’s abrupt change of heart had ended. It seemed that Hawthorne Cottage was to be a parting gift, not a sign of things to come. Sylvia still planned to thank him for his generosity—it would be unthinkable not to—but it would have to be through the post. Not in person.
She thought she had already experienced the depths of her disappointment after they parted in Scotland, but this was much worse because it had followed on the heels of such hope. Mrs. Thomasin hurried back into the kitchen, already planning an elaborate lunch Sylvia would barely touch. She let out a sigh and turned toward the window that looked out onto the back garden. The remnants of an early-morning frost framed the panes. The leaves had long turned shades of brilliant red and gold. Now most had fallen away. She certainly could not spend winter here, alone with her thoughts and Mrs. Thomasin’s hearty cooking. No, she would tell Mrs. Crawford that she still wished to stay on and take their trip. Perhaps Georgiana would come with them now. That lifted her spirits slightly. Then she could decide what to do with Hawthorne Cottage. It was a house meant for a family, after all. Not an aging spinster.
Her chest ached at the thought. She had been honest with Rafe before. Sylvia had never dreamed of becoming someone’s wife. Never imagined having a gaggle of children to care for. Once she knew what her mother had sacrificed, it seemed important to take advantage of all the opportunities that had been closed to her. And for years her studies and her writing and her work had been enough. More than enough. But as Sylvia sat at a table built to accommodate eight, sipping her tea and eating her crumbling biscuit, the loneliness that had once been only a whisper in her heart grew louder and louder until it seemed to fill every corner and crevice of the room.
Sylvia abruptly stood up, splashing tea onto her mother’s favorite tablecloth and her lap. She let out a curse, reached for a small pitcher of water, and began dabbing furiously at the stain. Mrs. Thomasin must have heard her because she rushed into the dining room.
“I’m afraid I upset the tea, Mrs. Thomasin. But I think I’ve saved the tablecloth,” Sylvia explained as she looked up.
But the cook didn’t seem to notice. “I was just outside speaking to Mr. Meyer next door, and he says there’s a man in the village looking for you.”
Sylvia stilled her hand. “What?”
Mrs. Thomasin came closer, her brown eyes wide with interest. “Mr. Meyer went to the post office to see if a package from his sister in Portsmouth had arrived, and there was a fancy gentleman down from London asking which way to Hawthorne Cottage. Mr. Meyer assumed the fellow was looking for the old tenant and told him the man was gone. But the gentleman said he had come to see you.”
Sylvia straightened. “Oh.”
“And youknowhow suspicious Mr. Meyer can be when it comes to strangers, so he came straight here rather than help the gentleman find the place. In case you weren’t wanting to see him,” she added.
“Yes. Of course. How thoughtful,” Sylvia murmured. She dropped the damp napkin she had been twisting into a ball.
You don’t know it’s him.
It could be anyone.
