Summer Holiday

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “She said I left,” he remembered.

  “And?”

  “And—And I didn’t come back.”

  “Your explanation is that you drifted apart,” Miss Chadwick said. “Her experience was that you stopped caring.”

  Stopped caring? How could she possibly believe that? Even after years of silence, of enduring the heartache of losing her, he still cared. She, however, had grown more distant, a shift he’d felt long before the Beaumonts’ dinner party.

  “Her letters were not the kind one would write to a sweetheart,” Grant said. “She spoke of no tender feelings. They were nothing but questions, none of which were the least bit personal.”

  “Questions about your business concerns?” She seemed to already know the answer.

  “Yes.”

  “Matters about which you had written to her but with which she had no experience and, thus, no real understanding? Things that were part of your life, your future, your concerns, all of which she felt connected to and, thus, would wish to better understand?”

  Doubt began to bubble.

  “She asked you questions that showed a deep interest in all you were doing. And for that, you concluded she was . . . disinterested?” She ended on a withering tone, one that communicated her feelings on the matter quite clearly.

  “But there was a change,” Grant insisted. “Her earliest letters spoke of longing and tenderness.”

  “She told me yours did as well, but that they quickly became nothing beyond terse answers to her questions and little else.”

  He leaned back in his chair, mind swirling. Her letters had changed. Hers. Not his. How was her explanation to Miss Chadwick the absolute opposite of that?

  “Did you write her with any questions of your own?” Miss Chadwick asked. “Did you inquire after her life and concerns? Did you ask what weighed on her heart and mind? Or did you decide her devotion was waning simply because her letters did not flatter you with a sufficient number of tender sentiments and promises of unending loyalty?”

  Grant didn’t know how to answer. He thought her feelings had cooled in his absence because her tone had indicated as much. What else was he to have thought?

  “When you began to suspect a distance growing between you, what did you do? Did you return to Rafton? Did you rush back to see and hear for yourself the state of things?”

  “I could not,” he said. “My time was not my own. I was given no leeway for journeys, even short ones.” It had been a hectic and exhausting time. He’d struggled to do all that was expected of him. He’d slept little and eaten poorly, not for want of a comfortable bed and ample food, but for want of time. He could not have returned. It was not possible.

  “Surely you wrote to her of your concerns,” Miss Chadwick said. “Surely you told her how much you loved her and that you feared those sentiments were not easily expressed through letters.”

  He had not. To do so when her heart had ventured elsewhere seemed a foolish endeavor. But what if . . . What if . . . “She still loved me,” Grant whispered.

  “She did.”

  He looked at Miss Chadwick once more, an ache growing inside. “Did?”

  “I have no authoritative answer to the question I suspect you are asking,” she said. “But I will tell you this: when she looks at you, what I see most clearly is not affection and tenderness, but pain and apprehension.”

  He had seen that in her eyes as well.

  “You told me yesterday morning at your mill that you are not an ogre,” Miss Chadwick said. “Is that true in matters of the heart as well?”

  “I thought so. Now I’m not entirely sure.”

  She took a leisurely bite of her scone, watching him with no appearance of earnestness or impatience. The unhurried scrutiny only added to his growing feelings of guilt. He had not afforded the woman he loved the patience he was being shown now.

  Grant needed time to think, to sort all of this out. Yet he’d not come on this matter, neither could he leave without addressing the actual reason for his visit.

  “You said something last night that weighs on me. You mentioned Mr. Baskon.”

  She nodded but did not speak.

  “I knew a Mr. Baskon during my years in Rafton. I have come on the hope, the prayer, that the man you spoke of, who has been given the Herricks’ blessing in pursuing their daughter’s hand, is not the same Mr. Baskon I remember.”

  “And if he is?”

  He leaned forward, pleading. “You must do all you can to convince her not to accept him. He is the worst sort of person—terrible in a way that defies polite explanation. I cannot imagine she does not know some aspect of this.”

  Miss Chadwick took a slow sip of tea. By all appearances, she did not intend to answer his inquiry.

  “Please. If you have any influence with her, please attempt to turn her from this course. I cannot bear to think of the misery that awaits her if she goes through with this.”

  “She has passed through a great deal of misery already.”

  Grant was beginning to realize how true that was, and how much of that misery could be laid at his feet. Yet this matter went beyond him and his regrets. “Mr. Baskon will destroy her spirit, Miss Chadwick. He will drain the very life from her. And hers is a life worth saving.”

  “What of treasuring, Mr. Ambrose? Is hers a life worth treasuring?”

  The question bordered on the absurd. “Of course it is. She is wonderful and dear and kind and clever and so many other glorious things. How could anyone not treasure her?”

  She nodded slowly. “Ponder on that, sir. Ponder.”

  He was dismissed on that declaration, which he carried with him the remainder of the day. How could anyone not treasure her? Yet he had not cherished her as he ought. And he had lost her.

  Though he’d come to terms with that years earlier, Grant found the pain of it pricking at him anew. She’d slipped away, not because she’d lost interest, but because he had misunderstood and had been unwilling to risk rejection in order to know, for certain, her feelings.

  Did any of her tenderness for him yet remain? And did he have the courage to find out?

  Chapter Eight

  Carina eyed the gathering of people on the back lawn of the Garold home with growing trepidation. “The first time we met Mrs. Garold, I thought you didn’t like her.”

  “I don’t.” Her aunt’s dancing eyes told another story. “I’m keeping my enemies close, as they say. And, seeing Miss Beaumont ahead, I’m assuming you are adhering to the same adage.”

  “Miss Beaumont is not my enemy,” Carina said.

  “Isn’t she? I saw how adamant she was in preventing Mr. Ambrose from returning to our corner of their music room a few nights ago.”

  Carina had noticed that as well, but she had no claim on Grant’s attention. Truth be told, she wasn’t certain she would have wanted his company had she been given it.

  He’d been kind and generous that evening, and when her aunt hinted that Mr. Baskon had successfully petitioned for her hand, he’d shown genuine concern. Yet he still had not openly acknowledged their connection. He still treated her in many ways like a stranger. The Grant she once knew would not have done that.

  She didn’t know what to think of him anymore.

  Aunt Chadwick adjusted her parasol, shading herself from the late afternoon sun. “Would you care to place a wager on how long after Mr. Ambrose’s arrival”—she motioned just ahead of them to Grant’s approach—“Miss Beaumont will come claim him?”

  “Perhaps Mr. Ambrose is not actually intending to join us.”

  “Of course he is. And you might as well call him Grant. I know that is how you think of him.”

  She turned shocked eyes on her aunt and received a grin in return. The grumpy, disagreeable lady Carina had been told to expect had proven anything but.

  “Ladies.” Grant reached them in the next moment and offered a quick, eager bow. “Forgive me for the precipitous dive past the expected pleasantries, but ther
e is something I simply must show Car—Miss Herrick.”

  Aunt Chadwick hmphed. “The two of you. I am absolutely certain you’ll be the death of me.”

  Grant most certainly heard the comment, but he did not acknowledge it. His eyes had not left Carina. “Will you come with me?”

  Oh, the ache of hearing those five words five years too late. “To where, exactly?”

  “Not far. Just to the end of the lawn.”

  Aunt Chadwick shook her head. “I’ll stay here if it’s all the same to you. These old bones of mine don’t wander about for no reason.”

  “My young bones don’t either,” Carina said firmly.

  “There is a reason.” Grant still had not looked away. “I believe you will be happy to have made the short journey.”

  Heaven help her, she wanted to go. She did not yet fully trust him; she knew perfectly well how easily he could break her heart. Yet that same heart urged her to accept, to have one more walk with him, to enjoy a moment that echoed so many in which she’d been happy.

  “I suppose if it is only across the way.” She tried to hide the wariness she felt. “Provided, of course, my aunt sees nothing improper in the undertaking.”

  Aunt Chadwick waved off the concern. “I suspect he’ll behave himself with the entire garden party privy to his every movement.”

  “I would behave myself regardless,” Grant replied.

  They were motioned away. Grant offered his arm. With a quick intake of breath, Carina accepted it. How familiar the arrangement was. The passage of half a decade had not erased the memory.

  “Am I permitted to ask what I am to anticipate at the end of this walk?”

  “That would spoil the surprise, don’t you think?”

  Walking with him was rendering her tenser than she might have expected. Her heart beat out a rhythm of remembered hurt. “I am not so fond of surprises as I once was.”

  “But I suspect you are still fond of a breathtaking vista.”

  Though she did not want to admit it, he had piqued her curiosity.

  “I never knew anyone who loved trees and gardens and nature the way you did—do.” He glanced at her, clearly searching for the answer.

  “Yes,” she said. “I do still love nature.”

  “I am pleased to hear that.”

  “Why? Do you fear I have changed as much as you have?”

  “I have not changed as much as you think. And no, I am pleased because I always liked that about you and because the surprise I have planned would be a failure otherwise.”

  She searched the area ahead of them but could not figure out what he wanted her to see. The lawn and surrounding trees and shrubbery were lovely, but she saw that from where she had been standing. There had to be something else.

  “What is it?”

  He smiled at her. Heavens, he smiled at her. “Something special.”

  They reached the edge of the garden. He motioned ahead of them, beyond the shrubbery. Below them sprawled a valley. The town of Wilkington didn’t entirely fill it. At the edges were fields and clusters of trees.

  Carina pressed a hand to her heart. “It’s like our spot used to be.”

  “Yes. Precisely. The city being there changes it, but I thought of our spot the moment I saw the view.”

  She looked up at him. “You do remember it, then?”

  He met her gaze. “Of course I do. My happiest memories were made there.”

  She returned her attention to the view, hoping it would soothe the growing ache she felt. “One of my worst was made there.”

  “Carina, I—”

  “There you are, Mr. Ambrose.” Miss Beaumont arrived a little out of breath, as if she’d rushed over.

  Carina should have taken Aunt Chadwick’s wager.

  “The other guests are anxious for your company, Mr. Ambrose. It would not do to keep them waiting.”

  Carina returned her gaze to the valley below. It really was beautiful. She could stay there and enjoy it, allowing the serenity to lighten her heavy heart. That particular approach had worked before. It had seen her through Grant’s departure, the change in his letters, the realization that he would not be coming back. She’d also retreated to the comfort of nature when her parents lost patience with her, when Mr. Baskon focused his unwanted attention on her, and when she’d been sentenced to a summer spent with an aunt she expected to be a terror.

  But Carina was done hiding from difficulties and waiting for them to pass. Living with Aunt Chadwick the past two weeks had taught her to be stronger than that.

  She offered Grant and Miss Beaumont a quick dip of her head. “I, too, have acquaintances here today. I will go greet them and leave you two to do the same.”

  “Don’t go, Carina. Please.”

  Miss Beaumont’s eyes widened. “Carina? That is very . . . personal for a fortnight’s acquaintance.”

  Carina glanced at Grant. Would he continue to tiptoe around their history and the role she’d once played in his life?

  He didn’t hesitate. “We have known one another far longer than a fortnight. For seven years, in fact.”

  “Seven—?” Miss Beaumont’s amazed gaze darted between them.

  “Miss Herrick hails from Rafton,” Grant said.

  “Your Rafton?”

  His lips turned up in a small, subtle smile. “Her Rafton, where I was fortunate enough to live for a time.”

  “You did not mention this before.” Miss Beaumont’s attention was now fully on Grant.

  “At first I was too shocked to think clearly, then I was simply too thickheaded.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Carina silently excused herself, making her way toward the gathered guests and leaving Grant to make what further explanation he chose. But he didn’t remain behind long. He caught up to her before she’d reached the others.

  “You have abandoned Miss Beaumont?” she asked.

  “She abandoned me.”

  Carina looked back. Sure enough, Miss Beaumont was cutting her own path to the Garolds’ guests. Grant kept close to Carina’s side.

  “You told her that we knew each other,” Carina said. “Does that mean you are no longer ashamed of our one-time connection?”

  “I was never ashamed.”

  “I have a difficult time believing that.”

  His hand brushed against hers as they walked, though he made no move to claim hold of it. “Seeing you after so long was overwhelming and confusing.”

  “As was your silence five years ago.”

  When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, softer. “I thought your feelings for me had changed.”

  “Why would—Why would you think that? I wrote to you faithfully, eagerly.”

  “Impersonally,” he said. “Or so it seemed to me. I mistook your questions as an attempt to avoid more personal topics.”

  “I was meant to share your life with you. Asking about that life could not have been less impersonal.” Sharpness edged her words. “Despite the unfairness of your assumption, you never asked, never inquired, never spent the seconds required to simply ask if I loved you still, if my heart had changed. And you never came back. You simply gave up and tossed me aside.”

  “I was a coward.”

  She watched him closely, her mind spinning with his words.

  “I knew if I went back to Rafton and saw with my own eyes that you had grown indifferent, I would have to accept that it was true. I couldn’t face it.”

  No. Her heartbreak could not have hinged on something so minute, something so easily fixed as a misunderstanding. “So you left me to pick up the pieces, to endure the pity and amusement of an entire town who knew of my disappointment? You resigned me to that fate in order to save yourself discomfort?”

  “I do not expect or deserve your forgiveness,” he said firmly. “I simply thought you deserved to know the truth.”

  “I would have gone to Preston.” She made the admission without forethought, without any real understanding of why
she was confessing so much to him. “When your letters turned colder and you did not return home, I thought often about going there and seeing if I could sort out what had changed. As a young, unmarried lady, I hadn’t that freedom. Everything rested on you.”

  “And I let you down.” The sadness in his tone and expression surprised her. “I was a fool, Carina. An utter fool.”

  “And I learned not to be one.” She set her chin at a determined angle. “So I thank you for that life lesson, Mr. Ambrose. Our association taught me to be strong.”

  She turned and walked away, telling herself she had nothing more to say to him, that the demons of her past had been laid to rest. Yet she thought on the matter as the day wore on. In conversation with others, sitting beside her aunt, joining in the afternoon meal, she thought on it. Lying in her bed late that night, her mind returned again to Grant’s words, to why she had lost so much five years earlier. All for a misunderstanding made worse by fear and cowardice.

  Despite her show of strength and resolve, her mind was far from at ease, plagued by two words: What if?

  Chapter Nine

  Grant sat in his office two days after the Garolds’ garden party, attempting to focus on his work. Confessing to Carina what a mull he’d made of their courtship left his mind heavier instead of lighter.

  His thoughts swirled around a list of unanswerable questions. What if he had understood the tone of her letters all those years ago? What if, once he’d begun to worry that her affections waned, he had faced his uncertainties and returned to Rafton to see her again? What if he had simply written to her and asked?

  He wouldn’t have lost her.

  Harold Brown, a bookkeeper at the mill, poked his head inside the office. “Sir, you’ve a Miss Herrick here to see you.”

  Grant jerked to his feet, ramming his legs into the desk. The inkwell shifted precariously. Pen nibs spun about. His stack of papers slid across the desktop.

  “Should I show her in, sir?”

  Grant snatched at the items chaotically spread on the desk. “Yes. Of course.” He had only just put his desk to rights when she stepped through the doorway. “Carina.” He really ought not to use her Christian name. He had relinquished that right long ago. “Miss Herrick. What brings you here today?”