Created with VellumDedicated to the men and women who are still searching for their true love. It's never too late to believe.
Day 1
December 1817
London, England
Philomena Wallace, Countess of Lipscomb, was sitting at her writing desk in the front parlor of her London townhouse when the butler entered with a fantastic array of roses.
“These just arrived for you, my lady.”
Mena, as she was known to most, removed her spectacles and narrowed her eyes curiously on the lovely arrangement. “Indeed?” Standing, she smoothed down her simple frock and walked forward. Twelve, perfect blossoms in a rainbow of colors greeted her gaze. Touching one soft petal, she bent down and sniffed a fragrant bloom.
It was rare to find such healthy flowers this late in the year, so they must have come from a hothouse. But who would put forth such an effort for a widow approaching forty-two years of age? She had long passed the time when she would have entertained the idea of a suitor, especially now that she had two grown children — although her son, God rest his soul, had died two years ago in the battle of Waterloo. Then again, it was probably just a kind gesture from her recently married daughter, Marigold.
Thankfully, there was a card. After reading it once, she blinked, and then read it three more times. Each time she read the sender’s words, it just became more confusing. Not only that, but the writing wasn’t in her daughter’s hand, but rather a fine, masculine script.
Twelve gifts will arrive before the beginning of Christmastide.
Welcome to day one, my love.
“Mama?”
Mena quickly hid the card behind her back as her daughter walked into the room.
“There you are. I daresay it’s freezing outside—” She broke off mid-sentence as she noticed the bouquet sitting on the table. “Ooh! Who are these from?”
Mena shrugged. “I have no idea.”
As her daughter smelled the roses with a pleased sigh, she said, “Surely you have some sort of clue?”
With a defeated sigh, knowing her tenacious daughter would not cease and desist until she gained the information she wanted, Mena handed over the card.
It only took a moment before her daughter’s blue eyes were lighting up with interest. “You have a secret admirer!” she nearly squealed.
Mena rolled her eyes and snatched the card away, only to shove it in the pocket of her skirts. “I daresay it was probably a wrong delivery. Once the mistake has been noted, I’m sure the messenger will return.” As she turned away, Mena could practically feel her daughter’s sigh. Pulling the rope near the door, Mena ordered tea before sitting down on the settee. Only then did she face her daughter’s firm glare.
“Why is it so hard to believe that you might be the object of someone’s affections? You’re not in your dotage yet, Mama.”
Mena clasped her hands together before she spoke in a calm and rational tone. “Don’t be ridiculous. True, I’m not yet a grandmother, but I hope that will change very soon.”
Marigold instantly blushed, and as hoped, Mena had deftly turned the subject away from herself.
“Robbie and I have only been married for six months. I wouldn’t expect too much just yet. Besides…” She shrugged and then took a seat across from her mother. “It’s nice being able to focus on each other.”
Mena couldn’t argue with that. “I suppose you’re right. Laurence and I were married two years before Jacob was born.”
The teacart arrived at that moment. It wasn’t until the maid poured their tea and departed, that Marigold asked softly, “Did you love Papa?”
“Of course.” Mena didn’t hesitate. “He was my husband for nearly twenty-one years, after all.”
Marigold stirred her cup slowly, keeping her gaze on her task. “I know that, but he was quite a bit older than you.”
“He was a mature gentleman, but that didn’t mean respect and compassion wasn’t part of our union.” Mena smiled gently. “He gave me two, precious children and a comfortable life. That’s all I could have ever asked for.” She frowned suddenly. “Don’t tell me that something is wrong—“
“Oh, no! Not at all.” Marigold reassured her. “I was just wondering…”
As her voice trailed off uncertainly, Mena prompted, “Yes?”
In the end, her daughter blew out a heavy breath. “Did you feel passion?”
Surprise sent Mena’s brows rising toward her hairline. While she tried to adopt a perfectly natural pose, her heart began beating with another time, another place. Another man. Someone she hadn’t allowed herself to think of in more than twenty years. “What’s all this about, Mari?” she asked curiously.
“Does it fade over time?” Marigold returned abruptly. “The passion?” She set aside her cup and touched her forehead anxiously. “I guess now that the wedding is over I’m looking to the future, and I’m afraid that what Robbie and I share will begin to break apart.”
Mena chose her words carefully. “I don’t believe that true love ever falters. While initial attraction may wane over time, it will never disappear completely. Trust me, that man would move heaven and earth to try and please you, so I wouldn’t worry about what tomorrow holds, for as we both know, it is rather uncertain.”
Her voice must have trembled a bit, for Marigold jumped up and rushed to her side. “Oh, Mama. I’m so sorry! First I bring up Papa, and I’m sure that only makes you think of Jacob.”
Mena swallowed over the lump in her throat, but once she assured herself that she could speak, she said, “I will always mourn your brother’s death. There is a gaping hole in my chest that is missing, but it gives me comfort to know that he did not die in vain. It was in the service of his country and there are many more ways to perish that aren’t nearly as honorable.”
A single tear trickled down Marigold’s cheek. “I didn’t call to upset you. Truly, I didn’t.” She sighed heavily, and Mena stroked the side of her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“With the death of Princess Charlotte last month, along with that of her stillborn child, the entire country has been in perpetual mourning. Not to mention the unrest with the East India Company in Mahidpur. It only stands to reason that we should feel the same ill effects. As far as something being wrong—” She forced Marigold to look at her. “—are you quite sure that you aren’t increasing? I had very similar symptoms at the onset.” Her daughter’s blue eyes instantly widened, and Mena smiled gently. “Make an appointment to see a physician. I think you’ll find that things are perfectly fine once you do.”
Mari threw her arms around Mena’s neck. “Thank you, Mama.”
