“Another Christmas Alone,” She Thought — Until a Duke’s Carriage Broke Down at Her Gate
Chapter 20
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Julian left shortly after noon. Rosamond stood at the gate while Peters settled the horses. The damaged latch had been repaired; Julian had insisted upon seeing the work completed. It was, Rosamond thought, a rather touching form of stubbornness.Daniel climbed into his place; Peters gathered the reins. Julian remained beside Rosamond. The winter sun shone weakly through the clouds."I shall write," he said."You had better."He smiled. "And visit.""I believe we have established that.""Provided you do not change your mind."Rosamond looked at him. "I do not often change my mind without good reason.""Then I shall endeavor not to provide one."She laughed. Julian took her gloved hand. For a moment, he simply held it. Then he bowed and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. It was a perfectly proper gesture, yet Rosamond felt its warmth long after he released her."Until we meet again," he said."Until then, Julian."He climbed into the carriage. The horses began to move. Rosamond watched until the vehicle disappeared beyond the bend.Then she turned toward the cottage. Pickles stood beside the door, waiting."Well," she told him, "that was an interesting Christmas."The terrier wagged his tail."Yes," she added softly. "I rather think it was."The first letter arrived four days later. Rosamond was sitting beside the fire when the village post boy delivered it: the envelope was thick, the handwriting elegant, and the seal bore the Ravensworth crest.She opened it with fingers that were not quite steady.
My dear Rosamond, I am pleased to report that I have reached home without damaging a single gate, frightening any respectable dog, or attempting to prepare breakfast. I trust you will recognize this as evidence of considerable personal improvement. My mother was disappointed by my absence from her Christmas gathering. I informed her that circumstances beyond my control had prevented my arrival. She asked whether those circumstances were serious; I told her they had been unexpectedly delightful.
Rosamond laughed. She read on.Julian wrote about his estate, the winter weather, and the difficulties of persuading his steward that a particular barn roof required immediate attention. He asked whether the robin called Captain had survived the snow; he inquired after Pickles; and he wanted to know whether Rosamond had finished the book he had given her.At the bottom of the final page, he had added:
I find that I miss Willowmere most in the evenings. It is a curious thing to possess several drawing rooms and discover that none of them contains the conversation one most wishes to hear. Yours sincerely, Julian
Rosamond read the final sentence three times. Then she fetched her writing paper: