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Saint Stephen’s Day was the perfect occasion to call upon a lady of quality. It was a day of charitable observance, when the doors of respectable households opened to the community. William intended to take full advantage of the festive traditions to aid Caroline.

He was committed to her healing, as she had been committed to his. She had comforted him in his darkest hour, untethered him from his torment over Hougoumont, and reminded him how to breathe again. He could not let her suffer in silence. She deserved peace. She deserved joy.

Eventually, he hoped she would forgive his clumsy intrusion into her privacy—if he succeeded in his purpose.

William washed with haste but took great care with his attire. He donned a pristine white shirt, followed by his finest stockings and best breeches—the pair reserved for Sundays and significant occasions. Then he polished his buckled shoes, grimacing at the thought of wearing them, but boots were impossible with a bound ankle. Besides, the shoes were more elegant.

He tied his cravat with precision, shrugged into his navy wool tailcoat, and retrieved his hat and walking cane from the stand.

He cast one last glance around the cottage, suddenly aware of how different it looked with hope stirring in his chest. It was imperative that he be well received where he was going. As much as he disliked formal dress, he would do whatever it took to restore Caroline’s spirits.

Caroline worked on the walking dress she had spent so many months perfecting, but it brought no solace. Her magical holiday interlude was over. Nothing remained but a memory to hold dear. She feared she had greatly disappointed the blacksmith—and the more she thought on it, the less sense it made to have walked away.

But then, he had so abruptly changed his mind and allowed her to go. Perhaps he had reflected on her faults and lost interest in pursuing her further.

Annie entered from sweeping the front. Fetching her needles and some floss, she came to take a seat beside Caroline at the worktable.

“You do not appear to be in good spirits, Mrs. Brown?”

“I am sad that Christmas is over,” she offered by way of explanation.

Annie twisted her mouth in perplexity. “Christmastide is not over. It only ends on Twelfth Night. There are many celebrations ahead.”

Caroline’s hand froze mid-stitch, struck by the simplicity of the child’s logic. Children often cut through the fog of emotion with a single, unadorned truth. Why was she here, pining, when William had accepted her, flaws and all, and offered a future she had never dared to imagine?

Had fear driven her decision? Was it still driving her now?

It was not too late. Perhaps she could take a chance on herself. After all, punishing herself indefinitely might not be the noblest course—not when a man as generous and steadfast as William wished to share his life with her.

But if she were to allow his courtship, she would need to confess how she had come to own her shop. Her stomach twisted at the thought. How had she omitted that detail when laying bare her past? Could she bring herself to tell him that Lord Saunton had loaned her the funds as an act of reparation? Would William view it as a business arrangement—or see her as a kept woman?

Why not visit him and see where the conversation takes you?

She dithered, staring down at her needlework. “I have an errand to run. Can you mind the shop for an hour, or should I close it?”

Annie raised her eyebrows in surprise but asked no questions. “I can mind the shop.”

Caroline set aside her work, hung the gown reverently in its place of honor, and donned the cloak William had once teased her about. If he proved understanding, perhaps she would wear this very gown on her wedding day.

She exited from the back and hurried down the alleyway, reaching the block where William’s cottage stood—only to find the streets were too crowded. She could not approach his home unseen. If Mrs. Heeley had returned from Bath, Caroline would be spotted for certain.

Loitering in hesitation, she realized she had lingered too long. Someone would soon take notice. She turned up the cross street to re-enter Market Street, striving for a solution.

Perhaps the smithy. He had hoped Dr. Hadley would clear him for work. He might be there now.

She headed toward the bellowing chimneys, drawing her cloak tight as the wind sliced through her sleeves. Perhaps William was right about the garment’s shortcomings. She could make a warmer one for days such as this—and keep this pretty, impractical thing for milder weather.

As she neared the smithy, it was clear the forge was in full operation. Shutters stood wide to release the heat, and the cacophony of hammers rang out over the clanging of metal.

She entered through the customer door, stopping at the counter that divided the waiting area from the work floor. Though it was her first visit to the smithy, the operation spoke of precision and prosperity. Three forges blazed with fire, giant bellows suspended behind them. Men used tongs to manipulate glowing iron, heating it to a cherry red.

Apprentices swept coal shards, stoked the flames, and worked bellows with strong arms and quick coordination. Several journeymen labored at anvils, hammering with unrelenting rhythm. The sound was deafening. Caroline raised her fingers to her ears.

On the counter lay catalogues of locks and tools. The wall behind displayed a selection of wares—everything neatly organized, efficient, professional. A section dedicated to steel held especially fine work, likely the smithy’s highest earners. A boy of about fifteen spotted her and hurried over, wiping his hands on a leather apron. She removed her fingers from her ears.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“I was looking for Mr. Jackson. Is he here today?”