Simply Love

There had been heavy rains for several weeks, making travel on the main roads slow and hazardous, even impossible at times. Sydnam had been watching with some impatience for the arrival of a letter from the Duke of Bewcastle and his solicitors, the final formality to be gone through before he could call T*** Gwyn officially his own.

He was delighted when it finally arrived and opened it before he looked at the rest of the mail, though he could see that there was a letter from his mother at the top of the pile.

He stood in the middle of his office looking down at the official papers and tried to feel the expected euphoria over knowing that his dream had finally come true. He was a landowner in his own right. He owned a home and land in Wales, a country he had come to love deeply. He now belonged. He fully belonged. He must call on Tudor Rhys later so that they could celebrate together.

But euphoria was difficult to conjure these days.

He was having the hall and the morning room of Ty Gwyn redecorated, since the sale had been all but final for longer than a month. But he had not been there to supervise or check on the work. He had not been there at all for almost two months. Not since…

Well, not since then, in fact.

He could not bring himself to go. He would have to pass through the gate-and drive past the stile. He would have to walk past the rose arbor. He would have to step inside the empty house-empty of all except workmen.

And memories.

He had not yet faced the absurd possibility that he would never actually take up residence in Ty Gwyn but would remain indefinitely in the cottage near Glandwr, using the excuse that he was comfortable there and closer to his work.

He picked up the letter from his mother and flicked through the rest of the post. It all related to business- except for one slim letter written in an elegant hand that looked feminine. It was not Lauren’s writing. He set down his mother’s letter unopened, picked it up, and saw immediately that it had come from Bath.

He stared at it for a few moments while his mouth grew dry. He had stopped looking for it weeks ago and had now been taken quite unawares. Though he did not know what the contents were, of course-or even for certain who the writer was.

But who else would be writing to him from Bath?

And what else would she write about?

He broke the seal with his thumb and opened out the single sheet of paper.

His eye went to the signature first.

Ah. He had not been mistaken.

He read the words she had written, and his mind deciphered them-individually and in small phrases. Their full meaning would not seem to crash through to his heart.

She was with child. She had promised to inform him of that fact. She sent him her kind regards. All expressed in brief, formal sentences.

She was with child.

His child.

His and Anne’s.

She was with child, but she was unwed.

Finally full awareness dawned.

She was unwed.

He must go to her. There must not be a moment’s delay. His life had suddenly become of infinite and precarious value. Only it stood between Anne Jewell and terrible ruin-between their child and terrible ruin. He must not delay.

He folded the letter and put it into his pocket before hurrying from the room and dashing up to his bedchamber and ringing the bell for his valet. Poor Anne-there was no time to lose.

But, of course, as he realized even before his valet arrived on the scene, surprised to be summoned in the middle of an afternoon, going to her rescue was not such a simple thing as donning his riding boots and coat, mounting the closest available horse, and galloping off in the direction of England and Bath.

The letter, he could see as soon as he took it from his pocket and spread it out on his bed to read again, was dated well over a week ago. It had taken twice as long to arrive as it normally would. Of course-the roads! He had known they were virtually impassable. And they would still be bad. Heavy showers were still pouring down on them almost every day. Anyway, he was not his own master. He was Bewcastle’s steward, with responsibilities and duties to perform. He was going to have to complete a few urgent tasks before he could go anywhere, and he was going to have to make arrangements with the man who usually stood in for him when he had to leave Glandwr for any length of time.

“We will be leaving for England within the next couple of days,” he told his valet when he had intended to say that they would be leaving within the hour. “Have my bags all ready to go, will you, Armstead, so that we may leave as soon as possible?”

But by the time two days had passed and he was ready to go at last, Sydnam had realized that he could not even go straight to Bath and to Anne’s rescue. He had to go to London first.

The weather had not improved during those two days. The muddy, slippery roads, their potholes often filled with water that made them look like village ponds, slowed his journey to London quite considerably. And even when he was finally there, he discovered that the wheels of officialdom moved with agonizing slowness.

Three weeks had gone by since Anne had posted her letter before Sydnam, feeling decidedly nervous, presented himself at Miss Martin’s school on Daniel Street in the middle of one afternoon.

An elderly porter opened the door, half recoiled at the sight of him and looked as if he were about to close it again, then appeared to notice that the visitor was dressed like a gentleman, and finally stood squarely in the doorway, squinting at him with undisguised suspicion and hostility, and asked what he could do for him.

“I wish to speak with Miss Jewell,” Sydnam said. “I believe she is expecting me.”

“She is teaching,” the porter told him, “and is not to be disturbed.”

“Then I will wait until she has finished teaching,” Sydnam told him firmly. “Inform her that Sydnam Butler wishes to speak with her.”

The porter pursed his lips, looked as if he would dearly like to shut the door in the visitor’s face, gentleman or no gentleman, then turned without a word and led the way to a visitors’ parlor on the left side of the hall, his boot heels squeaking the whole way. Sydnam was admitted to the room and shut firmly inside. He almost expected to hear a key turning in the lock.

He stood in the middle of the room, noting both its neat refinement and its slight shabbiness and listening to the distant sounds of girls chanting something in unison, an occasional burst of laughter, and someone playing rather ploddingly on a pianoforte.

He had no idea when classes ended for the day. And it might well be that the elderly porter would forget that he was here or deliberately neglect to tell Anne Jewell that she had a visitor.

At some point he might have to sally forth in search of her.

But the door opened again after he had been there for fifteen minutes or so, and a lady stepped inside. She looked vaguely familiar, and Sydnam assumed she was the famous-or infamous-Miss Martin herself. He had met her no more than a time or two while she was Freyja’s governess, but the story of how she had left Lindsey Hall, figuratively thumbing her nose at Bewcastle, was legend. His father had met her marching down a country road, carrying her heavy portmanteau, and had stopped his carriage and persuaded her to accept a ride to the nearest stagecoach stop.

She was a handsome woman in a straight-backed, tight-lipped sort of way.

Sydnam bowed to her while she stood looking at him, her hands clasped at her waist. To do her justice, she controlled her reactions well at the sight of him. Or perhaps Anne had warned her what to expect.

“Miss Martin?” he said. “Sydnam Butler, ma’am. I have come to speak with Miss Jewell.”

“She will be here in a moment,” she said. “I have sent Keeble to inform her that you are here. Miss Walton will conduct the rest of her mathematics lesson.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Sydnam inclined his head again.