“Here we are, my lord!” Mrs. Claridge bustled back into the shop, a small box in her hands. “May I show it to you?”
Oliver’s gaze roamed over Dinah’s face before he turned to Mrs. Claridge. “Yes, of course.”
“Suitable for a boy or a girl, just as you asked.”
Mrs. Claridge placed the rectangular box carefully on the glass counter, and Dinah and Oliver leaned over to inspect it. “Oh, it’s perfect,” Dinah breathed, clasping her hands.
It truly was.
It wasn’t as ornate as some of the other boxes in the shop—just a simple dark wood polished to a high gloss, set on four miniature brass feet. One might easily overlook it in favor of its more flamboyant neighbors, unless they paused long enough to study the painting on the lid. It depicted two children, a boy and a girl standing in a garden, surrounded by birds and flowers. The brushwork was exquisite, the flower petals and birds’ plumage accentuated by glimmering pieces of mother-of-pearl.
Oliver carefully raised the lid. On the inside in neat script were the words, From your loving uncle Oliver Angel. Christmas, 1812. “Just as I asked. I couldn’t be more pleased, Mrs. Claridge.”
Mrs. Claridge flushed with pleasure. “I don’t mind saying it’s one of my favorites, my lord. So simple and elegant!”
“Tell me about this box here, Mrs. Claridge. It’s very pretty.” Oliver nodded at the round porcelain box with the cornflowers. “I notice you have it set to one side. Has it already been purchased?”
“Yes…well, no. You see, I made that box for my first grandchild, but I’ve no use for it now.” Mrs. Claridge noticed Dinah’s stricken expression and hastened to clarify. “Oh, no, Miss Bishop. It’s nothing like that. It’s only I was so certain the child would be a girl, but my Sarah gave birth to a healthy, strapping boy.” Mrs. Claridge’s face glowed with pride. “This dainty little box won’t do for a boy, so I’ll find him another.”
Dinah frowned as a shadow passed over Mrs. Claridge’s face. “How old is your grandson, Mrs. Claridge?”
The older woman’s shoulders drooped. “Just five days old. I thought I’d be with my daughter’s family this Christmas, but poor Mr. Edwards—that’s my son-in-law—was taken with the gout in his foot, and he isn’t fit to come and fetch me. So, I’m obliged to spend my Christmas here in Rochester.”
Alone.
Mrs. Claridge didn’t say it, but it was clear enough from her desolate expression.
“Can’t you take the stagecoach?” Oliver asked.
“Oh heavens, no. I’m too old for that nonsense, my lord. The stagecoach isn’t safe for such a one as me, what with the way they crowd the people in these days. Why, some poor older gentleman was thrown off and trampled to death just last week!” Mrs. Claridge shook her head. “I don’t mind telling you I’m heartbroken to miss my grandson’s first Christmas, but I’d just as soon live to see him grow up, you understand.”
“Where does your daughter live, Mrs. Claridge?” Dinah’s stomach was fluttering. Perhaps her luck was turning at last.
“A few miles west of Canvey Island. Too far for an old lady like me to travel alone.”
“Canvey Island? That’s north of here, somewhere between Grays and Southend-on-Sea, I think?”
“Yes, just off the coast.”
Dinah’s breath left her lungs in a rush. “Why, what a happy coincidence! Lord Oliver and Gr—that is, my brother, Mr. Bishop and I are headed north as well, to Brightlingsea. We’d be pleased to take you to Canvey Island in our carriage. Wouldn’t we, my lord?”
Oliver quirked an eyebrow at her. “We’d agreed on a southern route, I believe, Miss Bishop, toward Sittingbourne.”
“Did we agree? The way I remember it, I reminded you we promised Lady Archer we’d arrive at Cliff’s Edge this evening, and you said your errand in Sittingbourne could wait for another day.”
Oliver shook his head, but one corner of his lip was twitching. “Is that how you remember it? How curious.”
Dinah ignored this and turned a bright smile on Mrs. Claridge. “Really, you must allow us to take you. I can’t bear to think of you here in Rochester alone when your daughter must yearn to have you with her. Why, I can’t think of anything more heartbreaking. Can you, my lord?”
Oliver glanced from Dinah to Mrs. Claridge, who’s hands were clasped against her chest, her eyes shining with hope. “Certainly not. It would be our pleasure to take you to Canvey Island, Mrs. Claridge.”
“That’s wonderful, my lord!” Dinah gushed, offering him her brightest smile. Oh, she was a wicked, sneaky thing to take such shameless advantage of Oliver’s good nature, but it was better this way. There was no sense in prolonging a doomed courtship.
Oliver snorted out a laugh. “Wonderful, yes. How clever you are, Miss Bishop. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”
By the time they rejoined Grim and Ferris the horses had been seen to and the puppy had exhausted his mischievous tendencies with a romp in the snow. Dinah was well pleased with her triumph, and Mrs. Claridge was nearly bursting with joy.
Oliver, who cared only for seeing a smile on Dinah’s face was reconciled to their change of plans and as cheerful as he could be, given his heart was as battered as his face.
Battered, but not broken, and not despairing.
He hadn’t enjoyed hearing words of rejection from Dinah any more than any gentleman would from the lips of the lady he loved, but he hadn’t expected he’d have her for the asking.
He was, however, still hopeful she’d be his in the end. He’d seen the glimmer of raw emotion in her face when he told her he loved her, the anguish in her blue eyes when she’d refused his suit. He’d felt the desire shivering through her when he kissed her, the tenderness of her fingers stroking his cheek.
Dinah was far from indifferent to him.
So, Oliver was as easy as a man wildly in love could be as they set out for Canvey Island. He settled himself comfortably in his seat and stroked the pup’s head, listening with half an ear to Dinah and Mrs. Claridge’s chatter.
Dinah was his. She simply hadn’t realized it yet.
“Ye’d best keep yer wits about ye when you get near Canvey Island, Mr. Grimsley. Why, I’d just as soon be dead as go anywhere near that place.”
Dead? Grim gulped.
“I go wherever Lord Oliver bids me to go,” Grim declared, mustering every bit of bravado he could, but a tremor rolled through him at Ferris’s forbidding tone.
Ferris sniffed. “Well, he shouldn’t tell ye to go there. The place is haunted, right enough. Can’t stir a step in Canvey Island without stumbling over some ghost or other.”
“Haunted?” A feeble whimper escaped from Grim’s throat. “Ghost? What sort of ghost?”
“The haunted sort, and not just one of them, neither. Canvey Island’s filthy with poor, undead souls, and anyone who knows a thing about ghosts knows it.”
“Mayhap they’ll keep to themselves, it being nearly Twelfth Night?” They were thirty miles or more from Canvey Island, but Grim wasn’t keen on disembodied spirits, and his teeth were already chattering.