Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(56)

“I didn’t realize it was going to be better for you and worse for me!”

“If the worst thing that could ever happen to you is living with my mother—and I rather doubt that—you should love me enough to accept it.”

They had parted company without making up, each of them refusing to listen to the other’s side. “You’re changing,” Perry had complained. “Day by day you’re becoming a different person. Why can’t you be the sweet, happy girl I fell in love with?”

Sara hadn’t been able to answer. She knew better than he what the problem was. He wanted a wife who would never question his decisions. He wanted her to make difficult sacrifices in order to make his life pleasant. And she had been willing to do that for years, for the sake of love and companionship. But now…sometimes…love didn’t seem worth the price he demanded from her.

He’s right, I have changed, she thought unhappily. The fault was with her, not him. Not long ago she had been the kind of woman who would have been able to make Perry happy. We should have married years ago, she thought. Why didn’t I stay in the village and earn money some other way than writing? Why did I have to go to London?

During the evenings when she sat at her desk and labored over her novel, she sometimes found herself gripping the pen handle so tightly that her fingers ached with the strain. She would look down to find splotches of ink across the paper. It was difficult to summon Derek Craven’s face clearly now, but there were reminders of him everywhere. The timbre of someone’s voice, or the greenish color of someone’s eyes, sometimes gave her a jolt of recognition that reached to her very foundations. Whenever she was with Perry, she struggled to keep from comparing the two men, for it would be unfair to both of them. Besides, Perry wanted her as his wife, while Derek Craven had made it clear that he had no desire to be a candidate for her affections. “I will forget you,” he had assured her. She was certain that he had wiped his memory clean of her, and oh, how the thought stung…for she longed to do the same.

Pushing all negative thoughts aside, she tried to envision the home she would share with Perry. They would spend quiet evenings before the fire, and on Sundays they would attend church with friends and family. During the week Sara would linger over the produce at the marketplace, exchanging light gossip with friends, sharing small jokes about married life. It would be pleasant. Overall, Perry had the makings of a good husband. There was affection between them, and the comfort of common interests and shared beliefs. They might even have the kind of marriage her parents had.

The thought should have brought her comfort. But inexplicably, Sara could find little joy in the prospect of what awaited her.

The Christmas season passed in the same warm spirit it always did in Greenwood Corners. Sara enjoyed the caroling, the gathering of old friends, the exchanging of gifts, and all the rituals she remembered from childhood. She was busy with wreath-making, holiday baking, and the task of helping to sew costumes for the children’s pageant. There wasn’t much time to see Perry, but during the few hours they did spend with each other, they made a concerted effort to avoid arguing. On Christmas Eve, she gave Perry a box of six fine handkerchiefs she had embroidered with his initials, and he gave her a delicate gilt brooch engraved with the pattern of tiny birds. Sitting together before the fire, they linked hands and talked about fondly remembered moments of their pasts. No mention was made of Martha, or of Sara’s writing. In fact, neither of them dared to speak of the future at all, as if it were some dangerous and forbidden topic. Only later did Sara allow herself to think that it was very odd for a betrothed couple, this inability to talk about their plans for the life that awaited them.

On a bright day in January when the air was dry and the ground hard-frozen, Katie and Isaac took the horse and cart to purchase supplies at the village market. Afterward they would pay a visit to Reverend Crawford and engage in a sociable chat. Remaining at home to do chores, Sara stood at the lead-lined kitchen sink and cleaned a large pewter pot. Energetically she scrubbed with a muslin bag filled with powdered whiting, until the dull pewter surface took on a new brightness. She paused in the middle of the task as she heard someone knocking at the front door.

Wiping her hands on the large cloth knotted around her waist, Sara went to greet the caller. Her eyes widened as she opened the door and saw the woman standing there. “Tabitha!” she exclaimed. A driver and one of the unmarked carriages used by Craven’s employees waited at the side of the road. Sara’s heart twisted painfully in her chest at the reminders of the gambling club.

It was difficult to recognize the house wench, who was now dressed like a simple country maid. Gone were the gaudy spangled skirts and low-cut bodice she had always worn at Craven’s. Instead she was clad in a demure lavender gown not unlike those that Sara owned. The usual wanton disorder of her hair was tamed into a neat coif and topped off with a modest bonnet. The faint resemblance between them was more marked than usual, except that Tabitha’s face was still etched with the coarseness that betrayed her profession. Her mouth curled in an engaging grin, but there was a hesitancy in her posture, as if she feared Sara would turn her away. “Miss Fielding, I came to say ’ello. I’m on the way to stay with my family a week or so. They lives in ’Ampshire, y’see.”

Sara gathered her scattered wits. “Tabitha, what a pleasant surprise it is to see you! Please come inside. I’ll make some tea. Perhaps the driver would like to sit in the kitchen—”