“No, to keep by my side, to cherish forever. Although the unwrapping part does sound lovely.” His fingers gently touched the edge of her gown’s neckline, skimming the creamy flesh that rose above.
Jenna’s hands were on his neck, his shoulders, his well-muscled chest. “And I wished to get to know you better the first time you smiled at me.”
“Do you believe in love at first sight, then?”
“I do now.”
“What about wishes? Do you believe that if you wish for something, perhaps on a lucky coin, it can come true?”
“Why not? There must be magic in the world, or I never would have found you.”
“I am beginning to believe that, too. So much that I wished for has happened. You love me, and your uncle will give us his blessings, Standings is saved, and we will have friends surrounding us, as well as my grateful tenants. And you love me,” he repeated. “Surely I am the luckiest man who ever lived.”
Hearing his name, the dog wagged his tail again, thumping it on the hearth.
“I even have a good dog, although your uncle hinted he might like to take Lucky back to town with him, so he does not miss you too much. The dog certainly seems content and well fed here, and Beasdale would be lonely.”
“That is one of the reasons I love you so, because you are always thinking of others, even my uncle.”
“How can I not be generous, when all my wishes have come true, except for one?”
“Which one is that? I’ll speak to my uncle. My dowry . . .”
He touched a finger to her lips that were rosy from his kisses. “No, there is nothing money can purchase. What I really wanted, what I kept wishing, was that I were worthy of your love.” He gave a rueful chuckle. “Nothing ever happened.”
“Of course not, my foolish love. For you always were worthy. You always will be, good luck or bad, for the rest of our lives. I only wish we live long enough to see our children’s children grow up.”
And they did, and gave each one a lucky coin at Christmas.
Following Yonder Star
by Emma Jensen
Portsmouth, 10 December, 1807
Dear Alice,
Forgive my tardiness in replying to your most recent letter. I have little excuse other than to say I had not imagined the preparations that would be necessary for my ship’s departure. My mind and time have been wholly occupied with a beckoning sea.
No, Alice, that is not entirely true, and we have always been so open, so honest, you and I. Near ten years of acquaintance and affection has made lying to you an unpleasant, perhaps impossible act. I shall not begin now. I have a greater excuse for not writing. I have been for these weeks debating how to reply. Your letters have been so cheerful, so informative of the happenings in our little corner of Kildare. You succeed so well at bringing me right into Mrs. Logan’s parlor, full of lace doilies and invasive cat hair, into your grandfather’s study and its smell of gunpowder. Such news as the safe delivery of a fine colt to David Doon’s prize mare and a finer boy to his wife on the very same day made me smile, and I do agree that David’s celebrating was probably equally divided between the two new lives.
I digress here. I could happily recount all the news you’ve written to me, anything to keep from having to say what needs to be said. I sail out within the sennight for the Mediterranean and points beyond. I will serve in His Majesty’s navy until such time as I am no longer needed. After that, only God knows. With luck, I will see the world. There is no need at all for me in Kilcullen. Arthur will succeed our father someday; he will marry and have a son and I will be one more fortunate step from the title and its responsibilities.
I wish my departure could have been different. No doubt I should wish that I could be different. I cannot. Our characters are formed long before we have the will or ability to forge them. Forgive me, Alice. I will not be returning to Kilcannon for the holidays. I do not know when or if I will return at all.
Yours ever,
Gareth
1
Kilcullen, County Kildare, 1815
Alice Ashe, like the tree from which some diminutive and distant ancestor had taken his surname, had grown up to be flexible. At the moment, she was crouched atop a ladder in the corner of the drawing room, one hand gripping the plaster ivy garland that ringed the molding, the other a garland of very real, very prickly holly.
She had suggested that perhaps this was a task for one of the house’s very able footmen. The suggestion, sensible as it was, had not been well received.
“Honestly, Alice,” Lady Kilcullen had scolded from her spot on the overstuffed sofa, “there are simply some matters one cannot leave to the servants.”