Authors: Elizabeth Johns
She took a seat and opened the letter.
Dearest Miss Lambert,
Do you miss me yet? I wrote this letter before I left, for I hope you will miss me dreadfully and long to have something to remember my unparalleled wit by. I am sure I am at this moment toiling away in the humid heat of Washington, dreadfully sunburnt and wrinkled. I will have by now rebuilt one wing of the house single-handedly, having felled each tree and hand-crafted each board with master craftsmanship. I will also perform the task of smithy and forge the nails with my bare hands. I would that I had your skill with paint and brush that I could capture my own work of art, for I am certain you imagine I exaggerate.
Yours,
Andrew Abbott
“I'm surprised he doesn't claim that as well. Silly man,” she said out loud, laughing. She penned a reply to send with the Dowager today.
Dear Mr. Abbott,
For shame. I never knew what I was missing before you upturned my world. Now I expect you to arrive my doorstep any moment with a grandiose plan for the day. Instead, I am ill-content to do my chores, if you can imagine. Caring for my mother is the only unburdensome part of my day, I cannot bring myself to jest of her. I fear she is weakening in mind and body and there is nothing to be done. I hope your hands have not become rough and calloused, but I confess I admire such a skilled man. In fact, there are many needs around here I will happily compile a list for your edification that you may complete upon your return. Do make haste.
Affectionately,
Miss Gwendolyn Lambert
She folded the note and readied it to send with the Dowager. Then she hurried with anticipation of painting a small portrait of Mr. Abbott. He had left six canvases of varying sizes, and she would use them sparingly to make them last. However, she could not help wanting to capture his likeness. She would likely not see him for a very long time—if ever again—and wanted something to remember him by when she was old and grey. She scoffed at herself: already an old maid!
She walked to one of her old favourite spots. One of the few places she had not been with Mr. Abbott. She trekked all the way down to the Avon and found a shady tree in the park where she set up her painting things. She had always adored water. Watching it run and sparkle had always been soothing to her. Another of Earth's majesties that many took for granted.
She quickly began to apply the paint lovingly over the charcoal sketch she had made of Mr. Abbott as soon as he had left. The likeness was remarkable, and made her heart clinch with aching as it longed for him. She must try to find a way to cease her thoughts and fantasies, for she knew nothing could come of them. She would hold onto that week with him fondly for the remainder of her days. Even if his offer was not a proper one, he had given her a momentary escape from the tedium of chores and invalidism. If only her heart had remained unaffected, the week would have been perfect.
She studied the blue eyes that held their signature twinkle, surrounded by long lashes and a few small scars he must have received in the wars. His nose was not perfect, but had a minor bend to it, and his mouth held a slight upturn to one side indicating his ready humour.
How she needed that humour right now. “Oh, Andrew,” she whispered his name intimately as she thought of him to herself, “I shall never look at life the same way again.” How she longed for his comforting presence, his strength.
Somehow, everything had felt right when he was near, that it would all turn out right. She brushed back an errant tear and tried to not allow the desolation she felt overcome her.
She wished she had painted the picture larger, for the miniature hardly did him justice. She shook her head. A larger picture would only make everything worse. She chided herself. She had no right to have painted him without his permission, but she was not ready to confess such to him. Perhaps when he returned she would give it to him as a gift. Or perhaps not.
***
She hurriedly packed up her things and headed back to her home. The tea-tray had already been set out and her mother looked up at her with sadness in her eyes.
“What's the matter, Mama?”
“I will let Cousin Henrietta tell you herself.”
Gwendolyn looked at the Dowager with concern.
“I am sorry to tell you that I will be leaving for a while.”
“Oh, no! Is something amiss?”
“My youngest granddaughter, Andrew's sister, Elinor, is having a difficult confinement. Their sister, Sarah, is also having some difficulties. Sir Charles and I are leaving in the morning to offer our assistance.”
“I am sorry to hear it. Will they be all right?”
“I think so.” She took a sip of her tea. “Gwendolyn, I want you to keep me abreast of all the happenings here in Bath.” She looked at Gwen meaningfully. “There will still be someone at the house who will post your letters for you to me, or elsewhere.” She winked at her.
“I must be off now to finish packing.” She walked over and gave Gwen’s mother a kiss on the cheek and a reassuring squeeze of the hand. “I shall return soon, Cousin.”
Her mother nodded, but tears were streaming down her face. She was shaking and had that look of terror in her eyes again. Gwen was not feeling confident about the Dowager leaving herself. Genuine fear washed over her. She was now left to deal with things on her own. Would she be able to manage?
“Gwen?”
“Yes, Mama?”
“I need to write a letter. Would you please bring me a quill and…”
“Yes, I will bring the things to you.” She set up the quill, ink and paper. “Shall I write it for you?”
“No, I would like to do this myself.”
Her mother had not written in years, but she would not argue if she wished to try.
“Very well.”
Chapter Six
Andrew was miserable. He suffered seasickness, and he suffered sickness of the heart. He had not wanted to leave Miss Lambert. He’d had that gnawing feeling inside that something was wrong. He had never felt this level of attraction to anyone before—and he had been around long enough to know his own feelings. But he could not read hers. She never seemed to think he was being serious. But he had been in earnest, and she had ignored his amorous overtures. He’d not planned to blurt out for her to join him. He knew it was impossible with her mother’s condition.
The triplets had been beautiful and amusing, but they had never been more than a passing fancy for him. It might have turned into something more had the stars aligned in the right way, but they had not. He would describe it more akin to a shooting star—a flash of brilliance that burnt out in the blink of an eye. With Miss Lambert, he felt strongly enough that he would fight for her and make her see that she belonged with him when the time was right, whenever that might be.
Now he had weeks with nowhere to go but to his lonely cabin, with his lonely thoughts of a stunning redhead. He wished he could have remained to alleviate some of her burdens, but he had already given his word. Hopefully her mother would survive until he returned, for the thought of her on her own...he shuddered. No, the world was not kind to beautiful, destitute, females. And one whose family had fallen from grace at that. She had few choices open to her. He felt an unhealthy measure of protectiveness, but she had no one. He had asked his father and his grandmother to look after her, and he trusted that they would. And he would have to make sure that his time away from her was short. How hard could it be to find a steward and a carpenter? He would literally rebuild the house himself if that was what was necessary in order to return to Miss Lambert. It might be only be a one-roomed house....
He still had work to do to convince her he was in earnest. He pulled out his pen and paper. He would write to her as often as possible, or as long as his ink and paper supply lasted. He would not allow her to forget him or to second-guess his feelings for her. Perhaps they would pass some returning ships and he could send his letters sooner. He wished he could have seen her smile when she’d read his first letter. He could just hear her laughing, attributing a name to him such as ridiculous or impossible, and her kissable dimples would wink at him.
Miss Lambert,
I am happy to report that I have survived an entire day aboard ship. That leaves an unthinkable number of days until I arrive. I sought passage on the fastest ship I could find, but the captain tells me it will take at least three weeks regardless, even if the winds are favourable. Heaven help me, for the sea makes me green. I know it dampens your ardour to hear thus of me. But please pray for calm seas, though enough wind to push the sails at record pace...
I have become very well acquainted with the side rails and deck. They do not speak much except to mock me. Until I may write again.
Your obedient servant,
Andrew Abbott
He arrived after four weeks at sea. He thanked the captain, the heavens, and kissed the dirty American landing when he set foot on it. He'd heard horror stories of folk taking several months to reach the Americas, and was grateful for his miserably short trip. He immediately hired a horse and set off southward for River’s Bend, instead of finding a small boat to row onto the property. If he never saw a boat again it would be too soon. He thought he remembered the direction. If nothing else, he would follow the river.
It was a warm day, and the smells in the air were sweet from the fragrant foliage of honeysuckle and jasmine which wafted to his nose from the breeze. It felt magnificent to be on horseback again. He dreaded the return, but he would not dwell on that until it was time. By then, he would gladly suffer the sea to be with Miss Lambert again.
It was a short ride, one that his father and sister had made almost daily. He pulled through the gates after the refreshing gallop, but he wasn't prepared for the sight before him. The entire façade of the house was demolished. Some rebuilding had taken place, and some of the structure held a framework for future repairs to come, but most of the house looked uninhabitable. He felt sick and disgusted. This had been done out of an act of retaliation because of the anger towards the British after they burnt Washington. There were so many barbaric acts that came after battles—few of them resulted from rational thought. He had seen them time and again, whether from soldiers scuffling in the barracks, seeking out women and drink, or worse as had happened after the battle at Cuidad Rodrigo.
He dismounted and tied his horse to the tree. The workers must all be in the fields, for there was no sign of life in the ruin of the house. He was thankful Elly was not here to see this. She had suffered enough. He could not believe the damage done, and it had been three years. Three years, and it appeared little to no work had been done.
He stepped gingerly into the entryway, where beams stood to hold up the rear wing of the house which had not fallen. The front half of the house was only a frame. It looked as though some care had been taken to clean away the ashes and soot, and a portion of the house appeared to be partially intact, at least. He stopped, and thought better of exploring on his own without finding Abe. He had no idea what parts of the mansion were safe to wander through.
His hopes sank. This was going to require more work than he had imagined. He wondered if there would be a place for him to live, or if he would have to pitch a tent like he had when in the Army. He set out to look for Abe, when all he wanted to do was have a bath and a drink.
Miss Lambert,
I have finally arrived. Summer here is hotter than I ever imagined it could be and survive it. It is similar to the heat in the Mediterranean, but more humid.
Thankfully, the workers here do not mind if you roll up your shirt sleeves and loosen your cravat. Abe has continued to manage the fields beautifully, but the house is in need of much repair. How I wish I had brought a female to see to the decorations, for carpets, window hangings and upholstery, for colour coordination is not in my repertoire. However, my father put me in charge so he will have to be content with my choices....
Social life is different here, though not so different. There are many British and Americans with marriageable daughters, eager to welcome me to their table for their sakes. Should I tell them I have no title and do not own River’s Bend? Most Americans are transplanted from England or the Continent. People are in general very open-mannered and friendly—an interesting but amusing change from English society.
I have already begun interviewing stewards to oversee the running of the estate, and have hired carpenters to finish rebuilding the manor house which was devastated by the fires. I am spending my spare time hunting or fishing, riding the fields, or looking at blueprints, anxious to have this settled so I may return. I have placed your painting over the mantle in the wing of the house that is habitable. I envision your portrait of River’s Bend hanging there one day. For now, I content myself with glorious Bath stone.
The view this evening is serene, as I sit on the porch drinking a glass of cold lemonade, recalling the last time I drank it in your delightful company. I do wish you were here to enjoy the picturesque view. I will attempt to paint it with words, but will hardly do it justice.