Miss Devoted by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes [Burrowes, Grace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781956975383
Publisher: Grace Burrowes
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The Yorkshire Dales had an astonishing ability to change seasons overnight. A pretty autumn day ended. The next morning, the hills were covered in a forbidding mantle of white, and the fresh breeze had become a bitter wind.

As Michael walked London’s dark, frigid streets, he recalled that so too could spring appear in Yorkshire without overt warning. One day, the Dales brooded beneath a leaden, wintry sky, then a sullen rain came through. The next day, the hills were clad in the richest, most vibrant green under heavens of soul-reviving blue. Daffodils bobbed genially beside rivulets that the day before had trickled beneath a crust of ice.

Birds flitted from budding branches that a week previously had appeared all but dead.

The seasons, of course, did not change that quickly. The farmers had known what signs to watch. Snowdrops peeked forth from the southern side of a particular boulder. A certain venerable ewe dropped her lamb. The plow horses began to shed more quickly.

Then, on some glorious, anointed day, the signs would converge in a spectacular display of nature’s benevolence, and spring would arrive.

Michael paused at the back door of the house on Circle Lane and fished in his breast pocket for the key.

Kissing Psyche Fremont was like… like spring arriving to Michael’s heart. He and she had remained on the sofa, talking, touching, kissing, and simply resting in each other’s embrace for the remainder of the evening. Psyche hadn’t invited him to spend the night, and he would have declined in any case. She hadn’t even bothered to push the coach on him.

He was too happy to merely sit, snug and toasty, in a vehicle while his mind whirled with joy. He’d left Psyche frowning at her canvas, a pencil in hand as she’d sketched the rest of the image she’d soon render in oils.

He could have remained with her, could have dozed off in a cozy corner, but this new intimacy was too rich to be rushed, too precious to be consumed all at once.

Michael let himself into the back door and climbed the stairs to the nursery floor. To his surprise, Finster was dozing in a chair by the hearth. He touched her shoulder.

“It’s only me,” he said. “What’s amiss?”

Finster knuckled her eyes. “A nightmare, sir. Our Bea dreams you are gone and never coming back. Mrs. Harris says I’m not to tell you that, but it happens nigh once a week lately.”

Michael sat on the edge of the cot where Bea slumbered. “We went through this last year. She was left at the vicarage right about this time, though who knows how many well-meaning neighbors took a turn with her first and tried to spare her that fate.”

“Was she crawling when you took her in?”

“Trying to, though she lacked the wonderful roundness babies are supposed to have, and the wet nurse said Bea was noticeably underfed. We added porridge and peas almost immediately, and Bea seemed to come right.”

“Papa?” The child’s voice was little more than a whisper in the dark.

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