Dare To Love by Trisha Fuentes

she saw Thomas
again, was quite affectionate…and female. Thomas mentioned once or
twice that his horse was a girl, had he not? With all that bare
skin of his distracting her senseless she wondered how she was able
to articulate two words much less listen to the rascal. Cherish was
very friendly, in fact, she constantly wanted to be petted;
sniffing the blanket, nibbling Gwendolyn’s writing paper, her
skirt…her hair. The horse would not stay put, so Gwendolyn had to
repeatedly walk it out to the meadow and force her to eat the tall
green grass, but Cherish kept trotting over to Gwendolyn relaxing
by the pond nonetheless. Gwendolyn rolled her eyes and scolded
herself for not following previous instructions; serves her right
for not listening to Thomas in the first place, Gwendolyn had fed
her sugar.
     
    She wrote Charles an extensive letter,
explaining to him about current events and her length of stay.
Gwendolyn had already explained to her fiancé about Mary’s father,
but did not go into detail. Only offering that her husband was lost
at sea, leaving her a widow at such a young age. It was a
treasured, special memory she had not wished to share. No one
needed to know her pain, her misery, or why she chose to stay
unmarried for ten winters.
     
    Odd, how the things you took for granted were
so sorely missed once they disappear. Like his smile from one of
your jokes, or the comfort of his arms around your shoulders when
you skinned your knee. The way they were so inseparable, even when
apart; always thinking the same thing, finishing each other’s
thoughts. She oftentimes cried herself to sleep at night, missing
him so. She could not wait for Mary to be born. The miracle inside
her womb was her refuge; singing lullaby’s, reading children’s
stories, talking to her unborn child when she felt lonely. But then
one night in June, Lady Mary Elizabeth Drummond Hollinger came into
this world. She did not even mind the ache of birth; she could not
wait to hold his child in her arms. And when her Great-Aunt handed
her the baby, Gwendolyn cradled the infant and cried into her
little body for hours upon hours. Kissing her tiny head surrounded
in black wavy curls. It was like Thomas was still with her, a
chance to live again, to communicate to her through his
descendant.
     
    Oh, she could have remarried. Could have
married Viscount Tapps of Moxley and had more children. Her
Great-Aunt took her back to London when she was eighteen, she even
went on a picnic with the comely Viscount, and he seemed
interesting enough. Having known him since Gwendolyn was ten, her
Great-Aunt thought they would have alike empathy, but Gwendolyn was
not responsive; she chose not to know him.
     
    At nineteen, Gwendolyn was then introduced to
a widower, fifteen years her senior. Baron Switzer had two small
daughters, both around the same age as Mary. The girls all got
along so well, playing, laughing, but Gwendolyn did not like the
way the Baron showed his affection towards his children. Under
intense suspicion, Gwendolyn knew the youngsters might be surrogate
companions to the man until he found himself a suitable wife; he
was constantly cuddling the girls significantly. Gwendolyn did not
want to subject Mary to any future harm if her intuition was
correct.
     
    Then, at twenty, her Great-Aunt wrote to a
friend in Bedfordshire. Her acquaintance had a son who could not
seem to find a bride. Untitled, but wealthy, Patrick Smead was a
timid chap who doted on his mother relentlessly; running to her
side as soon as the woman tapped her teacup. After watching him
scurry around the large, overbearing woman several times during her
visit to their estate, Gwendolyn simply stood up and walked out the
door never to return again.
     
    Men did not equate…no one compared.
     
    For many winters, Gwendolyn and her daughter
were a team. Gwendolyn was oftentimes in awe of her child, her
spirit and curiosity. She loved to hug her, and her daughter loved
to be held.