Margery left for Dewbury within the hour. A necessity, she knew, for the more time she thought about returning to Aaron’s childhood home the more chance she had of reversing her course. The ferry trip and carriage ride there, five hours on a good day, would do enough damage to her resolve.
Something that was proven as the carriage approached the turn into the small hamlet.
Dewbury, just outside of Ampleforth, was something out of a fairy tale. Small stone cottages with trim little gardens, a wide main avenue, ancient trees that shaded a neat green. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, the light of day quickly fading, yet there was still life about, men and women returning home from a day of work, small children running at their mothers’ calls, eager for their dinners.
Margery’s heart lurched in her chest at the sight of it. It was all so very dear to her, so very familiar. She had spent much of her childhood on Synne with her grandmother. But the majority of those halcyon days had been spent at Epping Manor, or running wild here in Dewbury. Here was where she had met and struck up a friendship with the blacksmith’s son, where they had played. Where they had fallen in love.
She bit her lip to keep from crying. She had not been back here since leaving with Aaron, beginning what she had thought was to be a long and happy life together.
How very wrong she had been.
The carriage pulled up before the small inn. Before she could compose herself, Gran’s groom opened the door and held out a hand for her. Swallowing hard, Margery descended to the street and entered the building.
She had known this visit would be difficult. But seeing Mrs. Manning behind the desk, so very familiar, made her realize just how difficult it would be.
The woman’s eyes widened as large as saucers from behind her spectacles when she spied Margery. “As I live and breathe. Miss Ladbrook, is that you? Ah,” she said, pity saturating her features. “I mean Mrs. Kitteridge. I was so very sorry to hear of Aaron’s death, my dear. He was such a good boy. All of us in Dewbury miss him terribly.”
It wasn’t the pity that struck Margery so forcefully. It was the sugary words of affection for a man the village had reviled in his final days here. Margery had been the local nobleman’s daughter, who had married so far beneath her that her own father had cast her out. The scandal had been well known in Dewbury. And suddenly Margery remembered the ridicule that Aaron had dealt with in marrying her. While she had been pitied for marrying down, Aaron had been despised for daring to marry so far above his station. It had pained him, she knew, having these people who he had grown up around turn their backs on him.
And now that he was gone, they would think of him fondly?
Without a word, unable to speak for the grief and anger closing her throat, Margery spun about and stormed out of the inn. And ran right into a large male with arms the size of tree trunks.
“My God,” the man exclaimed in awe. “Margery? Could it truly be you?”
At the sight of Aaron’s father, still strong and broad though decidedly older, his tanned face made ruddy and lined from a thousand fires—as well as the grief of losing his only son—Margery’s hold on her composure slipped completely. The fury of moments ago vanished, leaving only a bone-deep grief in its place. Hot tears spilled over then, tracking in rivers down her cheek, and she could do naught but stare at this man who held remnants of Aaron in his gentle eyes.
“Ah, my girl,” he murmured. Placing a burly arm about her shoulders, he guided her down the street. “Come along, and we’ll get you a bracing cup of tea. No worries, my good man,” he continued, presumably to Gran’s groom. “I’m the lady’s father-in-law; I’ll make certain she’s safe.”
Their walk to his house was a haze for Margery. The only things she was aware of were the comfort of his arm about her, and his soothing, rough baritone murmuring in her ear. Soon they were tucked in his small kitchen, Margery gently pressed into a sturdy wooden chair. He worked slowly as he boiled water, and Margery, her shock receding at this comforting familiarity, saw what she had missed before: shoulders still broad but stooped now, hands stiffer than they had been, the knuckles knotted. He winced and fumbled as he grabbed the wooden handle of the kettle.
Margery was on her feet in an instant. “Let me get that for you,” she said with a gentle smile.
An embarrassed flush stained his cheeks but he nodded his thanks and sat at the table with a weary sigh. “These hands aren’t what they used to be, I’m afraid,” he said, his voice gruff.
Margery cast him a worried look as she filled a pair of plain stoneware cups and carried them to the table. “Are you able to work?”
“Haven’t for a year now. My youngest daughter’s husband has taken over the business.” His chest, still wide, puffed up, a light returning to his eyes. “He’s got a talent, that one. My Joan was lucky to snap Bill up. And they have a wee one now, too. They’re out for the time being but should be back soon. They’ll be so very happy to see you.”
Margery smiled, remembering Aaron’s sister, a dark-haired imp who had followed them about, causing chaos with her high spirits and mischievous ways. Fetching the milk and sugar, she placed them on the table before taking a seat herself across from Aaron’s father. And so Joan had wed Bill? It was hard to imagine the girl married, and a mother. It made Margery realize just how much time had passed since she’d left.
Her smile slipped then. She wrapped her hands about the sturdy, lovingly cared-for cup, willing the warmth of it into her suddenly chilled fingers. “I’m sorry I haven’t written much since Aaron died. There’s no excuse for it.”
“Ah, no worries, my girl,” he said, patting her arm. “It couldn’t have been easy on you. I’m just thankful you had your family to get you through it all.” He paused then, taking a slow sip, eyeing her carefully over the rim. “Did you come to see your father?”
She frowned, looking into the opaque depths of her tea. “Nothing has changed between us. I came to see you, and you alone.”
Mr. Kitteridge let out a sad sigh. “I’m sorry to hear it, my girl. Not that you’ve come to see me, of course,” he clarified when she glanced up at him in hurt. “Goodness, but it does my heart good to see you. I’ve missed you something terrible, and having you back makes me feel I’ve got a bit of my boy back with you.”
Tears burned Margery’s eyes again at the admission. But the man’s expression resumed its serious mien as he continued to gaze at her.
“I do wish you could put your hurt behind you. There’s no room for bad blood between a parent and child. And if you only knew what he’s suffered since.”
Margery gaped at him. “You cannot mean to tell me you pity him. After all he’s done? How unworthy he made Aaron feel?”
But there was no nod of agreement. Instead he only seemed to grow more pained, more frustrated. As if something inside him ached to be let loose. Just as she was about to question him on it, however, there was a commotion at the front door. And suddenly Joan burst into the room.
The girl—ah, no, she was a girl no longer, but a woman grown now—was, as ever, a whirlwind of energy as she dropped her packages in the corner and swung off her cloak to hang up on a peg. “Papa,” she said as she grabbed her apron and began to busily secure the back, “I’ve bought that handsome fabric you were admiring in town the other day, and shall make you a fine new suit with it—”
Her voice cut off abruptly as she turned and spied Margery sitting at the table with her father. Her jaw dropped, her eyes widening.
Margery smiled wanly. “Hello, Joan.”
The squeal that burst from Aaron’s younger sister was deafening. She rushed forward, throwing her arms about Margery. “We never knew you were coming. Oh goodness, how wonderful to see you. Bill!” she called out, her voice echoing in the small space. “You must come quick, and bring the baby. Oh, Margery,” she said, “we’ve missed you so. Why have you not come before now? But never mind, for you’re here now. Oh! But here is my handsome husband,” she said with a grin as Bill entered the room with a dark-haired baby cradled in his arms. “I went and snatched him up, as you can see. Not that he had a chance of refusing once I set my sights on him. Bill, darling, you remember Margery, Aaron’s wife? Oh, and you’ve never met Wesley. But what do you think of my son? Isn’t he as handsome as his father?”
Margery couldn’t help but laugh. Joan had always been boisterous, almost larger than life, and Margery had forgotten how exhausting it could be—and how much she’d missed it.
“Bill,” she said with a smile, stepping forward to take his free hand, as the other was busy cradling the baby. “How good it is to see you again. Congratulations on your son. He’s beautiful.”
Bill beamed, his teeth flashing in his dark face as he passed Wesley over to Margery. “Thank you. But don’t let his calm demeanor fool you; he’s as spirited as his mother.”
“And how lucky you are,” Joan quipped, sending her husband an arch look. “But sit while I prepare dinner. I’ve some mutton stew I need only reheat, and so I won’t miss a minute of anything.”
The familiarity of the scene tugged at her heart. Granted, Joan and Bill were married now, and with a baby. Mr. Kitteridge was more frail and had stepped back to allow his son-in-law to take over his business.
But that same camaraderie that had called to her when she’d been a young child visiting her dear friend’s home was still there. The same welcome and acceptance was still present that she’d found solace in when newly married and cast from her father’s life. And so she hugged Wesley closer to her and sat again at the table.
The child gazed back at her with wide, curious eyes. She smiled down at him. “Do you love to torment your poor papa?” she teased. “I daresay he has enough to deal with in your mama.”
The baby gurgled merrily, flailing his fists in the air.
Joan, from her place at the stove, laughed. “He does like you, Margery. Not that I had any doubt he would. You love your Aunt Margery, don’t you, my darling?”
Aunt Margery. The title struck her mute. Not that she was unused to being an aunt, especially with Lenora and Clara recently adding to that particular blessing. But knowing she was still connected to the Kitteridge family, that she would always belong no matter where life took her, touched something deep in her, something she thought she’d lost.
The rest of the evening passed with a swiftness that stunned her. How lovely it was to be reminded of Aaron in these warm, welcoming people. How wonderful to forget for a time her pain over the revelation about her husband and to remember who he had been.
And so when supper was over, and she finished helping Joan clear the dishes and clean up the kitchen, she didn’t even consider refusing when they insisted she stay the night.
“I’ll locate your carriage and fetch your things,” Bill said. Then, kissing his wife and smoothing his son’s dark hair, he was off.
“Papa,” Joan said, rocking a sleepy Wesley in her arms, “I’ll put the baby down. Why don’t you get Margery settled?”
Margery followed Mr. Kitteridge up the narrow flight of stairs. It wasn’t until they reached a familiar door, however, that she realized just where she would be sleeping.
The breath left her as the door swung wide. Aaron’s room was just as it had been all those years ago. There was the narrow bed they had shared in the early days of their marriage before leaving for London, the dark blue quilt his late mother had made for him when he was a child still smoothed over the top. She spied the small wooden box that contained his battalion of lead soldiers, the framed watercolor of Margery that Lenora had painted, the collection of shells she had brought back for him after each of her summers spent on Synne.
Mr. Kitteridge cleared his throat. “I haven’t changed a thing,” he said gruffly. “Couldn’t bring myself to. I hope you don’t mind spending the night in this room.”
“Of course not,” Margery managed, though it was the furthest thing from the truth. She had come here with the hope of remembering Aaron and all they’d had. But would it break her, staying in this place where she had loved Aaron? Would it destroy her, being surrounded by reminders of him?
Especially knowing what she now knew.
“Well, then. We’ll bring up your bag when Bill returns with it.” He gave her a pained smile. “Good night, my girl.”
He turned to go. “Wait,” Margery called out.
When he turned back to face her there were tears in his eyes. She swallowed down her own.
“Thank you.”
She meant it as so much more than having her to dinner, inviting her to stay the night. She meant it also for welcoming her in, as they always had, for making her feel connected again to Aaron, for helping her to remember the good times before he’d gone off to war, before Waterloo, before the desertion.
He nodded, beyond words, closing the door softly behind him.
Margery stood numb in the middle of the room for a moment, feeling lost. Memories were flashing through her mind, faster than she could react to them, each one centered around Aaron, until she couldn’t breathe.
With a gasp she made her way to the bed, curled up on the quilt, dragged the pillow to her chest. Only then did the tears come. And they were a torrent.
She felt as if she were being emptied out, all the grief, all the pain of the past years without him. When she thought there could be nothing left and she must surely be wrung dry, however, the tears started up again. Only this time they had the flavor of anger to them. And not anger at herself for falling in love with another. No, this anger was focused on Aaron alone.
Her entire being shied away from such a devastating emotion. She had done everything she could to honor Aaron, to protect his memory. But she realized in that moment she had forgotten things in the process, like how much she’d hurt when he’d insisted on going off to war, how she’d felt abandoned when he’d left her though she’d known from the beginning that it was what he’d always wanted.
And then the newer anger at being blackmailed, and the betrayal of learning what the blackmailer had claimed was true. She let it all come, washing over her like a waterfall. Finally accepting that she was not without blame. She had put her late husband up on a pedestal, refusing to think badly of him, determined that no one else should, either. But she was human. And Aaron had been human as well, with all the messiness that came with it. And she realized in that moment that no matter what might have happened at Waterloo, it didn’t define Aaron. She knew who her husband had been.
Just as she knew who she was. She was no longer that fierce girl with stars in her eyes. She was a fierce woman who had seen her share of pain and had come out the other end of it stronger; who had loved a good man and lost him, and who now loved another good man who continued to suffer for a horrible, random tragedy. And, despite coming to Dewbury with the purpose of remembering Aaron and what he had been to her, and in the process burying her love for Daniel, she saw now that would never happen. Just as she would love Aaron all her days, she would love Daniel as well, and the loving of one did not diminish the love for the other.
But she would not think of Daniel just then. She couldn’t. There was still too much to resolve in her heart for that, too many things to fight before she could think of any possible future.
She prayed, by this time tomorrow, she might know what to do about it.