December 1830
Madelyn stood at the edge of the rear grounds. The narrow lake lay half-stilled beneath the breath of winter, its water lapping faintly at her ankles. It was cold, but she did not care. She had grown accustomed to it. In Wiltshire, December did not arrive gently. Frost clung to the bare branches of the oaks, the hedgerows were stiff with ice, and the greens had dulled to a muted, lifeless brown. Even the air had become thinner and lonely.
She missed him dearly. Not the cold, hate-filled man he had become, but the ardent lover, the patient man he was. The man who listened to her stories. Who smiled rarely, but sincerely, and in whose presence she had felt safe.
She exhaled slowly, her breath escaping in a soft plume of mist, her eyes staring absently at the bare lands.
