Deciding to head back, she kicked at a rock with the toe of her walking boot. She certainly didn’t feel married. It had been two extremely busy and exhausting months since she’d left Blackwell House in London. Busy because of all she’d accomplished, and exhausting because of the sleepless, lonely nights.
Northwalk Abbey seemed immense and empty, even after she’d requisitioned Walters and Tallow from Ben More to help, and installed Gemma with Walters in the kitchens. In truth, she’d thought that might anger Dorian enough to come after her and reclaim his staff for Ben More. But he didn’t. According to Murdoch, he remained in London, becoming such a recluse, people feared him a prisoner of his own home.
More like a prisoner of his own mind, Farah thought.
“When do ye think we should go back to London?” Murdoch had asked at the end of that first dreary month.
“Probably the first week of never,” Farah had retorted, hating the bitterness in her voice. It covered a wound she felt like she’d never be rid of.
“My lady…” Murdoch had begun, but in the end, hadn’t been able to think of anything to say.
“I mean it. I’m not going back to him. Northwalk is my home now. He can sit in his bloody castle and brood his life away.” She couldn’t believe how angry the subject made her. How utterly disappointed and frustrated. Farah had always considered herself a calm and reasonable woman, prone to curiosities and independence, but not fits of temper and ranting. “We were given a second chance at life—at happiness—and I’m going to grasp it. Whether he does or not.”
Farah would have regretted those initial words to Murdoch except they’d seemed to galvanize him, somehow. And he’d, in turn, taken his second chance with Tallow.
The footman, now turned butler, smiled more these days, and stuttered less. Though he and Murdoch kept their relationship very much to themselves, Farah didn’t miss the way they protected or encouraged each other, the light brushes of one’s hand against the other’s shoulder as they passed, or the fact that Tallow’s room hadn’t been slept in for ages.
It had taken her another month to admit that she wasn’t happy. Not even close. A desperate loneliness haunted her quiet moments, and had begun to stalk her regardless of how many people she surrounded herself with.
Picking her way through the gardens, Farah veered for the kitchen doors as she smelled Walter’s baking. Perhaps he’d prepared some spring fruit and cream. Or, if she were lucky, followed through on his threat to make an olive oil cake with preserved cherry compote that he’d read about in an Italian cookbook. They’d just received a shipment of dark Spanish chocolate. He’d probably worked wonders with that.
Stomach rumbling with anticipation of what she might find, she swung open the door to the entry and was rendered speechless by the scene that greeted her.
A towering Frank held Gemma in his embrace from behind, his chin resting on the curve where her neck met her shoulder as he watched her fold confectioner’s sugar into some kind of concoction.
Farah observed them from the doorway, neither of them having noticed her yet. Ingredients splayed across the wooden island in disarray, and Farah knew that this was Gemma’s doing, as Frank tended to be fastidious to the point of compulsive with the cleanliness of his kitchens.
The basins, sinks, stove, ovens, and cutlery of Northwalk Abbey had all been his own requisitions and they eerily resembled those at Ben More.
Gemma hadn’t so much transformed in two months as adapted. Her dresses were newer, her skin and hair more luminous, but she maintained her stubborn sense of self and wielded her bawdy personality like a weapon.
Yet, as Farah watched her with Frank, she spied an expression on the woman’s face she’d never before imagined. A vulnerable insecurity.
“You whisk it too rough,” he guided gently, engulfing her stirring hand with his gigantic one. “Slow. Like this.”
“I told you I ain’t no good at this,” Gemma protested churlishly. “I can roast the bloody hell out of a bird, but baking gives me a fever.”
Frank turned his head and kissed her jaw. “You’re good at this,” he said with absolute conviction. “You’re good at lots of things.”
“Get on with you,” Gemma chided. But the woman smiled down at their joined hands, and relaxed into his arms.
Farah glided backward until she was certain they wouldn’t notice her and pulled the door shut as quietly as she could.
Gemma and Frank? Frowning, she made her pensive way to the front entrance. She’d been too wrapped up in ignoring her own problems to notice their attachment. Or perhaps she just hadn’t wanted to see the affection and hope blooming here at Northwalk. Everyone was seizing their second chances at life. And love. Murdoch and Tallow, and now Gemma and Frank.
Farah was happy for them. If any man would treat Gemma with kindness and infinite patience, it was Frank. And the former prostitute likely wouldn’t mind his slow speech or simple ways. A gentle giant like Frank Walters would allow her freedom, protection, and would more often than not defer to her for all decision making. Gemma would finally have control over her life, and the pure kind of love only a man like Frank could give.
Farah couldn’t pretend that all of this romance didn’t make her solitude that much more pernicious. She didn’t want to be bitter. Didn’t want to resent the good fortune of those she cared about. Such tendencies were beneath her.
And yet …