By September, the drawing rooms of Mayfair were buzzing with a peculiar, irritating mystery: Lord Ashbourne had vanished.
The man who usually anchored the cynical edge of every prominent dinner party had not been seen in London for months. Worse, his servants reported that his trunks had been shipped not to his grand estate in Cornwall, but to a miserable, nameless hunting lodge in the frozen wastes of Yorkshire.
Belinda Cooper sat in her opulent parlor, tapping a fan aggressively against her knee. Across from her sat Lord Pendleton's cousin, a weak-chinned man named Frederick, who spent his life trading gossip for invitations.
"Yorkshire," Belinda repeated, her voice dripping with disdain. "What on earth is in Yorkshire? It's nothing but sheep and mud."
"And the Farrow widow," Frederick offered, taking a delicate sip of his sherry. "I heard from my solicitor, who heard from Ashbourne's valet, that Abraham spends every waking hour at Harrogate. Apparently, he's taken up farming or carpentry. The details are frightfully muddled, but the implication is quite clear."
Belinda stopped tapping her fan. Her eyes narrowed into sharp, glittering slits.
Abraham doing manual labor for Carolina Farrow? It was impossible. Carolina Farrow was a bankrupt failure. She was supposed to be a cautionary tale, a pathetic creature serving as a reminder of what happens when women have no resources.
The idea that she had somehow ensnared the wealthiest, most elusive bachelor in the ton was a personal insult to Belinda.
"She must be desperate," Belinda decided, a cruel smile curving her painted lips. "She's likely living in absolute squalor and has manipulated him into paying her debts. He always had a tragic flaw for wounded animals."
"Perhaps," Frederick agreed easily. "Though I cannot fathom why he stays."
"We shall go see for ourselves," Belinda announced, snapping her fan shut. "The hunting season begins soon anyway. We will organize a party. The Duke of Westmorland has an estate 20 mi from Oakhaven. We will impose upon him, and then we shall take a day trip to Harrogate. I simply must see the ruin she has made of herself."
Two weeks later, Carolina stood in the center of the glasshouse, holding a woven basket overflowing with dark purple figs.
The air inside the conservatory was thick and sweet with the smell of ripening fruit and damp earth. The autumn sun slanted through the glass ceiling, catching the dust motes and turning them into suspended gold.
Abraham was on a ladder a few yards away, carefully tying back the heavy, fruit-laden vines of a grape trellis. He wore no coat, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
"The York carter arrives tomorrow," Carolina called out, setting the basket down on a stone bench. "We should have 20 baskets of figs and at least three dozen lemons ready. If the market holds, that will cover the winter coal delivery."
Abraham tied off the twine and climbed down the ladder. He walked over to her, plucking a small fig from the top of the basket. He wiped it on his shirt and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully.
"Excellent," he declared, offering the other half to her.
Carolina leaned forward and took it from his fingers, a smile playing on her lips. They had fallen into a rhythm so natural it felt entirely unbreakable.
Their evenings were spent entirely together, poring over ledgers, reading by the fire, or simply sitting in the quiet, comforting presence of one another. The frantic desperation that had characterized Carolina's early days at Harrogate had been replaced by a deep, vibrating contentment.
"Martha says the front gates are sticking again," Carolina noted, wiping a drop of fig juice from her chin. "The iron hinges are rusting through."
"I'll look at them this afternoon," Abraham promised, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of dirt-smudged hair behind her ear. "Though I rather like the idea of locking the gates permanently, keeping the rest of the world out."
Carolina leaned into his touch, her eyes closing for a brief second. "The world doesn't care about us, Abraham. They forgot about me the moment I left London."
A sudden, frantic knocking at the glasshouse door shattered the quiet.
Martha stood there, her face flushed, her apron askew. She looked utterly terrified.
"Ma'am!" Martha gasped, pushing the heavy glass door open. "Ma'am, you need to come to the front of the house."
Carolina's heart dropped. "Is it a fire? Did the scaffolding in the east wing collapse?"
"No," Martha said, swallowing hard. She looked at Abraham, then back to Carolina. "It's a carriage, ma'am. A massive one, with a crest on the door. And there are four horses, and... and people are getting out."
Abraham's hand dropped from Carolina's face. His expression hardened instantly, the soft affection vanishing, replaced by the cold, aristocratic mask he wore in London.
Carolina looked down at herself. She was wearing a faded cotton gown, entirely stained with soil and sap. Her hands were black with dirt. Her hair was falling out of its pins.
"Who is it?" Abraham asked, his voice tight.
"A lady, my lord," Martha whispered. "Dressed in silk. She's demanding to see the widow Farrow."
Carolina looked at Abraham. The outside world had found them, and judging by the description, it had arrived with its claws fully extended.
She took a slow, deep breath, tasting the rich, earthy air of her conservatory. She squared her shoulders. She was not the terrified, bankrupt girl in Penhaligan's office anymore. She was the master of Harrogate.
"Let them wait on the gravel, Martha," Carolina said calmly, picking up a rag to wipe the worst of the mud from her hands. "I will be out in a moment."
Gravel crunched under the heavy, iron-banded wheels of the London carriage. It was an ostentatious vehicle painted a deep, lacquered burgundy, totally unsuited for the rutted roads of Yorkshire.
The matched team of four gray horses stamped their hooves, their breath pluming in the crisp autumn air.
Carolina walked around the corner of the manor, her heavy leather work boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. She hadn't bothered to wash her face, nor had she changed her dress. She refused to play their game.
To clean herself up would be an apology for her life, and Carolina was entirely done apologizing.
Belinda Cooper stood by the carriage door, holding a scented lace handkerchief to her nose. She wore a traveling gown of slate blue silk, perfectly tailored, utterly spotless.