brows rising, he explained, “The others have yet to get through. Snow will only make them slower-make them easier targets.”
She sobered, closed her hand on his arm. “Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of that.” Then she frowned. “But there’s-what?-nine days to go? They should be here before then, surely?”
“I don’t know. Devil hasn’t heard anything about the others. We’ll have to wait until I see Wolverstone to ask.”
They stood silently for some minutes, he thinking about his colleagues, most likely still some way from home. “With luck Gareth will have landed in England by now.”
Deliah gave him another moment, then jabbed her elbow into his side. “Let’s go down. I haven’t thrown a snowball since I left Humberside.”
He chuckled. “All right-I challenge you to a snowball duel.” Ducking out from under the counterpane, he headed for his clothes.
Trailing the counterpane like a shawl, she went to the wardrobe. “What are the rules?”
“There aren’t any.” In his trousers and shirt, he slung his coat on. “I need a different coat. I’ll meet you in the front hall.”
Pulling out a red woolen gown, she nodded. “Five minutes.”
He left.
She rushed.
He’d only just reached the front door when she hurried down the stairs, buttoning her pelisse. Breathless, more with excitement and anticipation than exertion, she let her momentum carry her to the door.
Del pulled back the heavy bolts, then reached for the doorknob. He swung the door open, waved Deliah through, then followed her into a world turned white.
Into a world of long-ago childhoods and innocent delights.
The carriage drive had disappeared beneath the tide. The lawns were a blanket of glistening purity, punctured by the skeletal trees, their branches limned with a thick coating of snow.
Shutting the door, he walked forward to join Deliah at the edge of the porch steps. White crust crunched beneath his boots. Their breaths fogged before their faces.
She was testing the snow piled on the steps with the toe of her red halfboot. “Too soft to walk in, and it looks to be more than knee-deep.”
He watched as she crouched, then reached out to brush her hand over the snow. She’d put on a pair of knitted gloves. After brushing the surface, she plunged her fingers in. The snow was dry and as yet uncompacted.
She drew out a handful, let it sift through her fingers. Marveled.
He watched her, saw the light in her eyes, the expressions flitting over her face, and felt each resonate within him. “Our snow’s usually heavier.”
She nodded. “This is so fine. It’ll be gone in a few days.”
“Not like our weeks of white.”
Home for them lay north of the Humber, in the Wolds. Snow often closed them in, blanketing the ground for weeks at a time.
“It’s strange how a sight like this-one unseen for years-suddenly takes one back.” Looking down, she started gathering snow.
“It reinforces that we’re home-that we really
She beat him to it. Her first attempt hit him squarely on the side of his head. It broke in a shower of dry, ice- cold white, dusting his shoulders.
He swung to face her, pelted the ball he’d fashioned at her.
She yelped, dodged, and the ball struck the wall behind her.
Laughing, she bent and quickly gathered more snow for another ball.
Muttering mock-direfully, he did the same.
For the next ten minutes, they were children again, in the snow again, at home again. They shied loose balls of white at each other, laughing, calling insults both adult and childish. There was no one about to hear or see.
Only each other.
By the time she waved and, breathless, called a halt, they were both holding their sides from laughing so much. He looked into her bright eyes, noted the flush on her cheeks, sensed the sheer exuberance that filled her.
Felt the same coursing through him. “Pax,” he agreed. The cold was starting to reach through their clothes.
They shook and dusted the powdery snow from their coats, stamped their feet, then headed for the door.
In the front hall, Webster was supervising the rebuilding of the fire in the huge fireplace. Seeing them, he bowed. “Miss Duncannon. Colonel. If you care to go through to the breakfast parlor, we’ll be ready to serve you shortly.”
Relaxed, still smiling, they ambled down the corridor Webster had indicated. The breakfast parlor proved to be a large room with a series of windows looking south over a terrace, currently lightly covered in snow. A long sideboard hugged the opposite wall, with countless covered chafing dishes lined up along it. A parade of footmen were ferrying hot dishes up from the kitchen to lay beneath the domed covers.
The long table was set. They took seats along one side, facing the view. Coffeepot and teapot appeared before them all but instantly.
Webster brought a rack of fresh toast himself, and extolled the wonders of the offerings on the sideboard, exhorting them to make their selections.
He didn’t have to exhort twice. Their impromptu snowball fight had stirred their appetites. Returning to the table, a quite astonishing mound of food on her plate, Deliah suspected their late-night activities had also contributed.
They sat, ate, and shared-long moments of reflective silence as well as comments, most of which centered on their earlier lives in Humberside, but which, in the retelling, highlighted elements each clearly hoped to experience again.
Now they were heading home again.
Now they were close enough to imagine being there.
Now that they were looking their futures in the eyes.
It was apparent neither had any definite vision of what their respective futures would be like.
“You said you wanted to invest in manufacturing.” Deliah raised her brows at Del. “Do you have any preferences as to what?”
“I’m not yet sure, but I had thought to look at some of the woolen mills in the West Riding, and perhaps a flour mill in Hull-something along those lines. There’s new advances on the horizon which should make great improvements, and it seems somehow fitting that a fortune I-born and raised in Humberside-made protecting our overseas trade should be invested in activities that create jobs in Humberside.”
Deliah inclined her head. “A worthy ambition.”
“You mentioned the cotton trade.”
She nodded. “I think I’ll approach the weaving guilds, and see whether there’s any interest. Initially I assume I’ll remain an absentee grower and importer, supplying the mills rather than investing in them directly. But eventually I may look at investing in the mills, too.”
Del seized the moment to ask, “I take it you intend returning to live with your parents at Holme on the Wolds?”
“At first. But I doubt I’ll remain there for long.”
“Oh? Why?”
She seemed to search for words, then offered, “Consider it along the lines of a clash of personalities. My parents have always expected me to conform to a rigid…I suppose you could say mold. A pattern of behavior that allows only the most strictly conservative, prim and proper conduct in all things.” She slanted a glance at him. “That mold didn’t fit years ago, and while I thought, perhaps, after my years away I might have grown closer to their ideal, sadly…” She shook her head and looked down at her plate. “I fear I was fooling myself. So I’ll go home, and the instant I do anything outside their expectations-start looking into investments, or, heaven help me, telling them
