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Her aunt had lamented for the remaining hour about their woes, and it transpired there was still a good deal of doubt if they would ever be able to fully recoup their losses. Indeed, they might well have to sell their house and downsize to somewhere far smaller. Lizzie had felt guilty for feeling relieved at the close of their visit. As she had waved them off at the front doorstep, her aunt had mentioned something about inviting them for a return visit in a couple of months’ time.

‘See if you cannot delay that visit until the end of February,’ Benedict had recommended, as they closed their front door after them. ‘If you can’t spin it out until March.’

Looking about her now at the intricate interior of their new wagon, Lizzie sighed.

“It’s a lovely present, Benedict,” Lizzie sighed. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s not really your present,” he murmured as he kissed her again. “It’s just our travelling home away from home. There’s more personal gifts upstairs I’ll give you this evening.”

“You shouldn’t have,” she scolded him. “The thing I’ve got you is homemade and not anything fancy.”

“You’ve already given me everything I always wanted,” he reminded her as he lifted her down from the caravan.

Lizzie smiled to herself. Not yet, she thought, but soon. “You will win your championship next year, so there’s still plenty for you to look forward to,” she reminded him. The title match was scheduled for March. She would be showing by then, she thought ruefully, and there would be no chance of Benedict allowing her to watch him win. The baby would be coming along in June, so it would be a busy twelve months for their family.

“I look forward to every day with you,” he said, kissing the back of her hand.

“I received a Christmas card from the twins this morning, dearest,” Lizzie informed him as they walked back up the garden path. She had to practice throwing out casual endearments to him, for they did not come easily, though she was getting better at it.

Her latest stratagem was to write him small love notes which she concealed about his person, in his waistcoat pocket, or tucked in the brim of his hat for him to find at times when he was away from her. They had started out rather stilted and uninspired, but recently she was growing a good deal bolder.

The trouble was striking a balance, so he would be gratified but not so inflamed he turned on his heel and came straight home to her, leaving poor Mr. Edwards, his man of business, bewildered and a bunch of documents unsigned. Some days she did not get the balance entirely right which led to her being interrupted in some household duty and carried upstairs to the bedroom at very strange hours of the day.

“They are wintering at Brighton and sent me a whole list of the entertainments they have planned for the season.” She smiled fondly thinking of Ema and Zaya and the scores of admirers they would no doubt be making at the seaside resort. Their scrawled postscript had been a written appeal for news of ‘darling Sebastian’.

“Didn’t you say Connie’s at Brighton?” Benedict asked absently.

“No, Connie’s at Eastbourne,” she corrected him. “Niamh and Colin are in lodgings at Epsom, so I hope we will see them soon. I was thinking of inviting them for Boxing day or maybe the day after that.” He nodded, opening the kitchen door for her to precede him inside.

“Benedict,” she said impulsively, turning to him. “Would you like your Christmas present now?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“It’s in the front parlor,” she said feeling unaccountably nervous.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, as though picking up on her abrupt change of mood. “Lead the way.”

When they entered the parlor, she crossed the room and opened the drawer in the oak sideboard. Retrieving her package, done up in paper and ribbons, she turned back and held it out to him. “I’ve been making it myself,” she blurted. “In the last month, whenever you were out.”

He took the package from her and turned it over a moment before untying the ribbon. “It doesn’t feel like slippers,” he commented, and Lizzie laughed, remembering her promise to make him some.

“It isn’t,” she admitted. “I’m going to make those for your birthday.”

“You made this?” he asked, casting the paper aside and shaking out the delicate white shawl. “It’s very fine work,” he began admiringly and then froze, his gaze snapping to hers. “Is this what I think it is?” he demanded. “Lizzie?”

She bit her lip and nodded. “A baby’s shawl.”

“When?” he demanded.

“June time.”

“Lizzie,” he said in a choked voice, placing the shawl down carefully over the back of a chair and drawing her into his arms. “Come here. You amazing woman,” he sounded awestruck. “June. So soon?”

“Yes.” They stood locked in each other’s embrace before the fire for a good long moment.

“I can’t believe it,” he said huskily.

“You’ll be a world champion and a father in a few months,” Lizzie said with satisfaction.