George decided to remain in London and make certain Augustus didn’t turn up on their doorstep. “I hate to mention it, brother, but you’ve been wrong before,” he told Valentine.
In no time at all, the four of them were back in the coach and setting off on their impromptu journey.
As they traveled through London gradually the houses grew less and the fields and trees took over from the city, until they were in the countryside again.
Marissa closed her eyes, and let her thoughts drift. She remembered the list Valentine had asked her to make and spent some time thinking up dos and don’ts, but after a while it seemed silly to concern herself with what may never happen. Valentine wasn’t the professor and she wasn’t Eleanor. Just because she feared her life repeating itself did not mean it would happen.
Valentine might become distracted by his work, in fact she’d seen him just like that, but he would never neglect her. She was more precious to him than anything—he’d told her so. And she believed him. Marissa knew she must not confuse her future with memories of her childhood. Surely any doubts she had could be easily resolved? Valentine would listen to her; he’d already asked her numerous times what was wrong. It was her own fault she had refused to tell him.
Soon, feeling soothed by her own reasoning, she drifted into sleep. When she woke she was lying clasped in Valentine’s arms, her head resting upon his chest, her face buried in his coat.
She lifted her head, wincing at the stiffness of her neck, and saw that his eyes were closed, his mouth slack. A glance at the other occupants of the coach showed that they were also asleep, Lady Bethany snoring faintly from within the hood of her cloak, while Jasper twitched in the throes of a dream.
Sitting up, Marissa peered out of the dusty window. The world was beginning to lighten with dawn and she knew they must be close to home.
Home.
She smiled. The word had never meant much to her until now; the home of her childhood was not a warm and welcoming place. But Abbey Thorne Manor was different. Valentine had given her a wonderful gift when he made her a part of his family and his past, and she knew that awful sense of isolation, of not belonging anywhere, had finally gone.
She did not expect everything to be perfect and wonderful from this day forward—Marissa was too sensible to believe that. They would argue and they would find things to dislike about each other, they might even hate each other…briefly. But they would make it up, they would compromise, and in the end it would all go to making their relationship stronger.
That was love, the sort of love Marissa had been searching for all her life. And Valentine was her love.
At Abbey Thorne Manor the servants were only just waking up and beginning their daily household tasks. The coach had barely come to a stop when Valentine jumped out and ran across the inner courtyard into the manor through the back door. One of the housemaids stepped out of a side room, then shrieked when she saw him and leaped out of his way.
“M-my lord…” she wailed.
But Valentine didn’t have time to apologize or explain himself.
Something had come to him during his fitful sleep in the coach. He’d remembered a long forgotten moment from his childhood, when his mother was still alive. He’d gone running up to her room to tell her about the caterpillar he’d found in the marigolds, only to be scolded for waking her and “frightening me half to death with that disgusting grub.” Eyes filled with tears, biting his lip to prevent the unmanly moisture from falling, he dragged his feet back down the stairs to the kitchen.
“Poor little chap,” a kindly voice had said, handing him a biscuit still warm from the oven. “Never mind. Your caterpillar will be happier outside anyway. In a moment we will go and put him back in the marigolds, so he can find his way home.”
Valentine remembered the hurt dealt him by his mother fading, as they went off hand in hand to return his treasure to its home.
“I have a little boy just like you,” the kindly voice said. “He isn’t really mine. I am his nanny whenever he visits England. He is always finding creatures in the garden—he has quite a collection. He calls me Bo-bo, because he can’t say my name properly. What do you think of that, Master Valentine?”
Valentine pushed open the kitchen door.
Mrs. Beaumaris looked up from the oven, her face flushed from the heat. She was startled by his sudden entrance, but there was something else there, some expression in her eyes that told him that he was right.
“Master Valentine, you did give me a fright,” she declared, wiping her hands on her apron.
She came to stand before her scrubbed pine table. There were various ingredients laid out on its surface, ready to be put together and served for breakfast. Valentine could smell the mouthwatering aroma of bacon and sausage already sizzling. There was no doubt Mrs. Beaumaris was queen of her domain.
“We thought you’d be in London for a week or more. Is there something amiss?”
Her eyes held his, searching, making up her mind how she could throw him off the scent.
“It’s too late for that,” he said, and strode toward her. The table was between them and he rested his hands on it and leaned across eggs and cheese and milk, his gaze never leaving hers. “Where is he, Mrs. Bea
umaris? I know he’s here. He’s a danger to himself and others. You know that. Tell me where he is so that he can be returned to the safety of the sanatorium.”
“I don’t know what you’re—” she began automatically.
“Oh please, don’t play games with me,” he cut her short. “Give me some credit, Mrs. Beaumaris. I know the truth and I won’t be fobbed off with fairy stories.”
She wavered. He saw the indecision in her plump, good-natured face. And then she crumpled, dropping back into a chair as her legs seemed to give way, covering her face with her hands. “Oh, my poor boy,” she sobbed. “My poor lad. What will become of him, Master Valentine, without his Bo-bo?”