When Mother had died, he hadn’t shared his grief with Lottie or shown concern for her own grieving process. In many ways she’d lost everyone that day. The old pain tried to surface, but instead of letting it take over, Lottie tried to imagine waking up to Ethan every day for decades—as her parents had woken up to each other—then one day, having him gone. Never to return. The thought was inconceivable, and she’d awoken to him only once.
No wonder Father had retreated from reality. But then, so had she in some ways. Work had been her hiding place. For five years Stanwick had been her world, sun up till sun down.
Exactly how Ethan felt about Woodrest. Was he there yet? How bad was the fire? She glanced at the clock on the mantel. No, he had another hour of hard riding.
Tension knotted her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she counted. Inhale, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three. Like so many times before, to settle her nerves, she imagined the future she wanted.
Soon, she’d have her own lands. Her own house. Would she and Ethan divide their time between the estates, as many others did? In those instances, the wife wasn’t usually a manager of a different property, so the family traveled together. One more thing to figure out.
Last night he’d said he’d invested heavily in the brewery. Was that on fire too? What if he lost everything? Then they’d need her dowry to survive. To rebuild.
Lord, that letter from Father needed to arrive soon. Putting pen to paper, she scratched out a response to Rogers’s letter.
While waiting for the ink to dry, Lottie stretched in the desk chair, pausing when her neck protested the position she’d held while writing and a tender area in her nether regions throbbed against the seat. Last night’s delicious activities meant sore muscles today. A ride on Dancer would help work out the kinks. Besides, pounding hooves on turf and feeling the wind whip her face were excellent stress relievers. Nothing said she couldn’t go out on her own later, but riding had become one of those activities she associated with Ethan. Yet another sign that she’d inadvertently stumbled into becoming part of a “we.”
A glance at the clock showed he might be arriving at Woodrest in about a half hour. The view out the window revealed no surprises. Late October meant gray weather. Ezra was a solid mount, and Ethan a brilliant rider. No need for her to worry. He’d get there in time. He had to. Thankfully, Connor was more than capable as a manager, steward, or whatever other title Ethan might call him. Connor would have handled the situation before now.
What had Connor called her? A distraction. She crossed her arms and tapped out a rhythm on her forearm with her fingers. Before Ethan left, he’d said something on his way out the door. I should have been there. What did he mean? Their engagement ball was last night. They’d agreed he’d stay in London until they heard from Father.
Or were they the words of a man who felt responsible—guilty that he hadn’t been there when tragedy struck home? The tapping of her fingers slowed, then stopped. Were they the words of a man who knew he’d failed his people because he’d prioritized her? Focused on their relationship, had they somehow become just like her parents and ignored the needs of the people who depended on him? Ethan had mentioned that Connor’s letters were full of calls to come home and deal with the brewery construction, reminding him of the need to be present for the large business enterprise he’d invested in. The feeling of being torn was real for Ethan, yet he’d chosen her. Over and over. Oh God, why hadn’t she seen it?
Tenant cottages could be burning right now—tenants like the Thatchers. Their livestock might suffer, crops from this harvest could go up in smoke, and if their lord hadn’t been in London chasing her, he might have been there to stop it. Or he could have caught it earlier.
Dread bloomed, shortening her breath. Connor had tried to warn her, but she hadn’t listened. All she’d cared about were those depressingly dark blue walls in that breakfast room.
Agatha’s voice cut into her spiraling thoughts. “Are you done, my dear? Madame Bouvier is expecting us soon. At this time of day traffic might be a snarl.”
“The modiste? I thought we were discussing wedding plans today.” Plans she really didn’t want to pursue given her worry over Ethan and Woodrest.
“We are. You can’t get married without a dress. Not just any dress will do. Your gown is the most important part of the wedding.”
“I’d think the bride and groom were the most important part.”
Agatha would not be deterred. “Your gown will set the standard for this Season’s weddings. We leave in ten minutes. Please try to keep up, love.” The subtle scent of expensive perfume lingered behind after her godmother.
“A dress. Thus, it begins.” Heaving a sigh, she tried to shove down the panic and concern over Ethan, Connor’s warning, and her father. Agatha wanted a gown, so they’d buy a gown. At least Madame Bouvier would offer tea for her trouble.
An hour later, Lottie wished for something stronger to drink than tea. They sat in the same parlor-style fitting room she’d entered months before, upon her arrival in London. Back then she’d worn a dress destined for the rag bin. Today Lottie was a beautiful example of a well-turned-out woman, dressed head to toe in Madame Bouvier’s designs. Her wedding gown would be a work of art.
“Beaded chiffon overlay or a lace overskirt? What do you think, Lottie?” Agatha held the two fabrics.
