period-appropriate notions of miasmas, and for us, a little fresh air is simply preference.
The room is deliciously cozy, that chilly breeze like the welcome ripples of wind on a hot day. The sharp and crisp breeze perfectly counterpoints the perfume of the roaring fire and . . . Is that tea?
I lift up and follow my nose to a steaming cup resting on the nightstand, with two biscuits perched on the saucer.
God, I love my husband.
I love this bed, too, which is going to be my dearest friend for the next twenty-four hours. I’ll tell William that I need a little more sleep, and that he’s more than welcome to join me later, when we can continue our marital reunion.
I grin and reach for a biscuit. The door swings open, William giving it a kick as he walks in, breakfast tray in hand.
Enigma wends her way past his feet and hops onto the bed to curl up with me. Her mother—Pandora—follows at William’s heels like a loyal hound. It is a picture I have been dreaming about for two months, rising in this bed, seeing William, the cats, the fire, the smell of the moors through the window . . .
I am home, and here I will stay.
William sets the tray on the side table.
“You cooked breakfast?” I say.
“Cooked is a strong word. More like ‘warmed up.’ But I did put eggs in boiling water.”
“Impressive.”
“I knew you’d want to rest after your journey.”
I sigh in deepest contentment. “Thank you.”
As I dig into breakfast, he disappears and then returns with clothing heaped over one arm.
“I bought a few winter frocks for you,” he says. “I hope they’ll fit. Mary estimated for me, and she’ll adjust as needed.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
He sets the pile on a chair and lifts the pieces, one at a time. The first is a full rich burgundy skirt, floor length, with pleats for light crinolines. Then a blouse that’s obviously been tailored for my belly, simple and white with burgundy buttons. There’s also a long fitted jacket in hunter green and a matching winter bonnet. Together, they’ll form a simple but stunning holiday outfit.
“Gorgeous,” I say.
“I thought they’d be suitable for our day’s adventure.”
“We’re . . . going out?”
He’s lifting the gown and can’t see my expression.
“We are,” he says as he lowers it. “The Festival of the Penitent Rapscallions. I thought you were going to miss it. But you are not.”
“The Festival of the . . . what?”
He waves off my confusion. “I’ll explain later. We’ve time for you to eat breakfast and dress, but then we really do need to be on our way. There are rapscallions in need of pardons, whether they are penitent or not.”
“Uh . . .”
“Eat. Dress. Your festival awaits, my lady.”
Within an hour, I’m bundled into a sleigh. A proper Victorian one-horse open sleigh, complete with jingle bells. I’m nestled in a pile of furs, and then my husband is beside me, and soon we’re whipping down the hill to High Thornesbury.
I struggle to keep my eyes open. I swear I’m more tired now than when I arrived. Which, I suppose, may have something to do with the fact that I didn’t get much sleep last night. Entirely my own fault. William had been endlessly solicitous of my “condition,” and I’d waved off all his concern, avowing that I was only six-months pregnant and there’d come a point where sex would become unwieldy, and damned if I wasn’t getting my full share before that happened.
If I’d been more energetic than William expected, then he can be forgiven for not realizing exactly how tired I am post-journey. I could say something. I could even just yawn and lean onto his shoulder, and that would be enough to have him turning the sleigh around and bustling me back to bed.
Two things stop me from doing that. Two things that have me sitting upright in the sleigh, bright-eyed and beatific, smiling and tipping my chin to everyone as we enter the village.
One, I am Lady Thorne now, at a time when that really means something. William may employ minimal house staff, but he understands that it is his hereditary duty to oversee the well-being of “his” town. Many of these villagers farm on his land or tend sheep in his flocks or run shops in buildings he owns. There’s something uncomfortable about that for a twenty-first century dweller, but I still remember William’s shock when, as a child, I told him we did our