by Anna Bradley
“So, we cannot travel?” she finally interrupted him.
“I’m afraid not, Miss Cline.” He truly looked disappointed himself. Of course, it meant he, too, would be away from his home over the Christmastide. And then he brightened somewhat. “Fortunately, Lord Crestwood here has offered us a ride to Sky Manor! I can retrieve the parts I need, and you can join Lady Kingsley’s house party.”
No wonder Henry had grimaced at the sight of her.
“I cannot impose—“
“It’s no imposition. And my driver believes we can set out later this afternoon. We aren’t far from Sky Manor and ought to be able to arrive before nightfall.”
Could he not ask her opinion on these matters, rather than simply assume she would fall in line without question?
Only, it was rather generous of him, and he was also willing to help Coachman John.
She dipped her chin in acknowledgment.
“If we wait until just after the nuncheon, that ought to give the snow a chance to melt.”
“I… Thank you.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. And this time, at the sight of the lines around his eyes, and at the corners of his mouth, she contemplated the circumstances of his marriage. How ill had his wife been? Why had he sent her away?
Although he’d remained a robust-looking gentleman, his face seemed harsher, his eyes… haunted. How had she missed these details before? Was she only imagining them now?
“I’ve ordered breakfast.” He seemed hesitant all of a sudden. “Would you care to join me?”
Ah, he was finally asking. A rumbling in her stomach reminded her that the soup she’d eaten the night before had not been as filling as she’d like.
“Breakfast. Yes. I would.”
He gestured toward the same private dining room they’d shared with his children the night before and, after the briefest second of doubt, she preceded him inside.
***
Henry had lain awake, restless, most of the night, and it hadn’t been because his son had been snoring loudly beside him. No, once he’d climbed into bed, memories of twelve years ago refused to allow him any peace at all.
He’d been returning home to his wife and two small children after meeting with several physicians in London and being told in no uncertain terms that his wife’s condition had little to no chance of ever improving. They’d examined her several times already and told Henry he was wasting his time. His only course of action was to make provisions for the future.
He’d traveled the first day in a daze of hopelessness. He’d loved his wife when they married. He’d cherished her, in fact.
“Are you certain traveling today will be safe?” Miss Cline’s voice jerked him out of his reverie.
Would it be safe? The sun slanted brightly across the small dining room. “If we don’t see sufficient snowmelt, we will delay.”
She wore a gown that was as dismal-looking as the one she’d worn the day before. Gray, with the same brown shawl wrapped around her shoulders. With her hair pulled back tightly, she ought to look austere, but instead, it drew attention to the classic perfection of her features.
Such a simple woman, and yet… Yesterday she’d breathed fire at him.
And he deserved it.
“What happened to your wife?” Her question should not have surprised him.
Ah. What had happened to Francine? The question that had haunted his own soul for over a decade.
“She was attacked by a thug. On Bond Street.”
Miss Cline blinked.
“We’d not been married five years. Bart was three and Charlotte had just turned one.” Henry shook his head, still unable to comprehend the events of that day. In the past decade, his anger at himself had simmered into a deep self-loathing. “We were in London for the Season, and she’d gone shopping with some friends. A man…” he swallowed hard, “apparently wanted her reticule. Slammed her to the ground. She hit her head.” The lump in his throat thickened his voice. “She didn’t wake up for four days, and when she did…”
She’d invited him along that morning, but he’d wanted to discuss some horses with a few other gents.
“I should have been there to protect her. I was at my club.”
He’d not been there.
Henry stared into the empty teacup before him. He’d not discussed these events with anyone in years. And yet…
They relentlessly followed him from one day into the next, one year into the next…
“It left her in an altered state?” Miss Cline enquired in a sympathetic tone.
He pictured his beautiful wife, unable to eat on her own. Unable to speak but for a few garbled childish-sounding words. The unfocussed gaze her eyes had taken on. “You could say that.” He hadn’t meant his voice to come out sounding so angry. But it had made him angry.
All of it. Some physicians had offered false hope, and some had said she wouldn’t live more than a month. In the end, they’d all been a little right and a little wrong.
Miss Cline nodded. “I’m so sorry.”
What was she sorry for? He leaned back as a servant entered the room and then proceeded to pour hot tea into the cups set in front of each of them. Francine had been unable to ever enjoy hot tea again. After one attempt by her nurse, she’d burned her mouth and chin.
They’d been careful her food was never very warm from that day forward.
Miss Cline added cream but no sugar to her cup. Hers was chipped. His was not.
He drank his tea black.
“You say you just met Olivia, the countess, last spring? I haven’t seen her since last March, since before she married the earl. She left Misty Brooke to have a Season with her sister and the next I heard, all of her belongings were being sent to Lord Kingsley’s estate.”
Miss Cline was kind enough to change the subject. She could have delved into his tragic past; he supposed she had every right. But no, she would be sympathetic instead.
“Lady Kingsley is most enchanting,” he offered. And she had been. The family connection between Henry and Kingsley was a loose one. He had, in fact, been slightly surprised to receive the invitation. “I believe Lady and Lord Kingsley had only been married a month when I was lucky enough to become better acquainted with my cousin this summer. She is a friend of yours?”
Miss Cline nodded. “A very good one.”
He felt some small relief to hear it. Henry imagined what Eliza’s life had been like after he’d left her. After he’d ruined her.
“Was it horrible for you?” he surprised himself by asking. “Once I’d gone?” He wasn’t sure if he was looking for reasons to feel better about what he’d done or more reasons to berate himself.
She paused with the cup just in front of her lips and tilted her head slightly. “It felt quite tragic, at first.” She blew on the tea and then allowed herself a sip. She did not expand on her answer until she’d set the cup back in its saucer.
“Mathew’s parents banished me from the inn, of course. Mrs. Wilson wrote to my mother and as a result, my parents told me not to bother returning home. But my brother has always been my hero. He took me in and never made me feel as though he judged me for any of it, and he very well could have. When no one else would speak with me, he provided me protection and companionship. He made it a point to preach often on the subject of forgiveness. On God’s grace.” She shrugged. “Eventually, people seemed to forget. The Wilsons sold the inn and moved away. Matthew eventually married, as far as I know, and last I heard was father to eight or nine children.” At that, she seemed to shudder.
And then she furrowed her brows and seemed to be studying him. “Not so tragic, after all.”
CHAPTER FIVE
More than Meets the Eye
Eliza dropped her gaze and stared unfocused at her toast as she replayed her own words again in her mind. People had forgotten about the scandal she’d found herself in at the tender age of nine and ten. Even if they hadn’t forgotten, they’d forgiven her.
Her brother h
ad never once used her incident to belittle her.
And in truth, she hadn’t missed Mathew as much as she ought to have. Her life at the vicarage had been satisfying.
“I’m glad.” Lord Crestwood sounded… relieved?
Eliza looked back up at him and blinked a few times. Not that what she’d done had been the wisest course of action to take, but what would she be, who would she be, if she’d married Mathew twelve years ago?
The Wilsons’ life had not been an easy one. And she’d been coming to realize Mathew and she had very little in common. Even before Henry had come along, she’d begun to experience a myriad of doubts.
Had she truly loved him, another man could not have caught her attention so easily.
Which was no excuse at all, however…
Eliza liked that she could delve into a good book before bed. She enjoyed the fact that she could go visiting and help others when they were in need. If she’d married, her life would have demanded all her energies be focused upon her own family and household.
“I am sorry for saying… what I did. Yesterday. I only wish…” That you had been honest with me from the beginning. But did she? That we had not taken that ultimate step of intimacy when it was wrong in every possible sense.
But did she really?
Of course, she did! Her conscience warred with her wayward thoughts.
“I make no excuses for myself.” He cleared his throat. “I returned home…” He cleared his throat a second time. “For what it’s worth, I never cheated again.”
She could not doubt such sincerity.
Eliza stared down at her lap. She supposed that it did matter. She felt a small stirring of respect to know he had not sought physical gratification with other women for the remainder of his marriage. For if his wife had been incapacitated, that meant he’d abstained for…
Ever since the two of them had…
Not that other married men of the ton didn’t practice infidelity regularly, but Eliza was a woman of God.
“It is worth something,” she said into her napkin.
Before either of them could say anything more, the door flew open and that younger version of Lord Crestwood came barreling into the room to take his seat beside his father.
“Good morning, Miss Cline, Father,” he said politely while reaching across the table for the jam. “I’m positively starving. Are we leaving today? Do you think the roads will be passable?”
Conversation was led by Bartholomew Fairchild for the remainder of the meal until Eliza finally stood and excused herself. Both men rose politely and bowed in her direction.
“I’ll be ready around one, then,” she commented before slipping out the door.
She would be spending several hours in his company. His and his children’s.
Had she forgiven him, then? The thought was a shocking one. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she’d believed him to be the cause of her fall into hell.
***
“I cannot sit backward-facing, Bart! You know that,” Miss Fairchild grumbled at her brother, her backside protruding from the doorway of the elegant carriage that had been pulled around to the front of the inn.
“You cannot expect Miss Cline to ride backward. And I cannot either. Remember the last time…?” The siblings’ argument carried out to the front porch of the inn.
Lord Crestwood was settling up with the innkeeper inside and Eliza felt hesitant to intrude. Nonetheless…
“I will ride facing the back,” she said, interrupting the squabble in a firm tone.
Both of them peered out the door at her and spoke at the same time.
“That’s not really necessary, Miss Cline, my sister—“
“My brother is more than willing to do the gentlemanly thing—“
“I would rather ride facing backward than have either of you get ill.” Eliza smiled in as convincingly a manner as she could muster and then climbed in and made herself comfortable beside Mrs. Blake. Lord Crestwood would ride outside upon his mount.
“Have you visited Sky Manor before?” Eliza asked her traveling companions as they pulled out of the yard.
Bartholomew answered, “My father prefers we remain at his estate, Fair Lakes, when we’re not at school.”
“I’m dying to travel to London, but Father says it isn’t safe. It’s because of the assault on Mother, but he doesn’t ever speak of it.” Miss Fairchild glared at her maid’s shushing before adding, “He’s promised me a Season, however, once I’ve turned seven and ten.”
“Once he’s established someone to sponsor you,” Mrs. Blake inserted. “And he’s only concerned for your wellbeing.”
“Just because someone attacked Mother doesn’t mean it’s a common occurrence,” Miss Fairchild argued.
“But look what it did to her,” her brother rejoined.
“Did her assailant ever come to justice?” Eliza felt very sorry for the woman who’d been struck down at such a young age.
“A man was caught but Mother was unable to testify. Since no other witnesses came forth, he was released. She didn’t recognize her own children, let alone a stranger,” the son who’d lost his mother at far too young an age answered.
“Her brain was injured.” And then the young woman fell silent, as though unwanted emotions had crept up on her.
“She could do less than an infant,” young Mr. Fairchild added solemnly. “But she was our mother.”
“You two need to learn to curb your tongues.” Mrs. Blake shook her head. “I would think those fancy schools would teach you what topics of conversation are inappropriate outside of family.” And then, to Eliza, “My apologies, Miss Cline. Not many are privy to the distasteful nature of Lady Crestwood’s final years. God rest her soul.”
Eliza blinked. “But she was their mother. I imagine it helps to speak of her.” Eliza had sat with many of her brother’s parishioners after the loss of a loved one. She’d discovered the most soothing thing she could do was encourage them to speak of the deceased.
“Do you remember your mother at all, Mr. Fairchild?” she asked the young man sitting across from her. “Before the attack?”
“Do call me Bart.” He gave a sideways glance at his sister. “And my sister Charlotte.”
Then he furrowed his brows. “I remember my mother a little. Moments, more than anything else. I do remember that she loved her garden. I remember playing in the dirt while she tended it.”
“I have no memories of her from before,” Miss Fairchild—Charlotte—piped in. “But Papa had a painting done. She seems normal enough in the painting.”
“How difficult it must have been. To have her be present and alive, but her body and mind locked away from you.”
Charlotte studied Eliza, seemingly considering her comment. “That’s exactly what it felt like, Miss Cline. As though she was trapped in another world. That she could perhaps see outside of it but never allow us in.”
“It wasn’t so bad at first. I remember believing she’d get better eventually.” Bartholomew removed his hat and ran his fingers around the brim. “But she only grew worse.”
“Doctors advised Lord Crestwood to send her away, but he never did.” Mrs. Blake apparently had given up on discretion by this point.
“Sometimes she seemed angry and would thrash about. She hit me once, but I know she didn’t know what she was doing,” said the young man, earnestly defending his mother’s actions.
“Of course, she would not.” Eliza couldn’t help but suddenly feel great sympathy for what this family had endured.
And for Lady Crestwood, a woman who’d had everything, but then had her life ripped away in an instant.
“Lady Crestwood had less than a pound in her reticule that morning.” This time, it was Mrs. Blake who was shaking her head. “Meaningless, so meaningless.”
Eliza bit her lip. They were on their way to a Christmas house party, but one would not guess that if they took one look at the sad faces in their carriage. She decided to change the subject
.
“Olivia… Lady Kingsley, that is, wrote to me that she and Lord Kingsley are of a mind to make this house party the best in all of England.” This was only a slight exaggeration. Olivia’s parents often had excluded her from their holiday celebrations and her new husband was determined to begin making up for it. “I wouldn’t mind a little snow once we’ve arrived at Sky Manor. We could have snowball wars and make snow angels.” She felt rather wistful all of a sudden, remembering one year when even her mother had played outside with her and Thomas. Their mother had been laughing and screaming when their father lifted her and then tossed her into a large drift of snow.
She hadn’t seen them even once since that summer…
But she was no longer going to dwell on the past. She determined in that moment to embrace all the festivities to come.
Mrs. Blake covered her mouth. “Oh, dear.” The woman had turned a rather sickly shade of green.
“Stop!” Eliza pounded on the roof as hard as she could. “Driver! Stop!”
The coach came to a jarring halt, giving the maid just enough time to leap—with surprising ease—out of the carriage and dash to the side of the road. By the time Lord Crestwood turned around to see why they’d stopped, Eliza was at the woman’s side and handing over her own handkerchief. Apparently, Mrs. Blake did not do well riding backward-facing either.
When all was said and done, it was decided that Bartholomew would ride Lord Crestwood’s mount, Mrs. Blakely and Charlotte would ride on the front-facing bench, and Lord Crestwood would take the other half of the backward-facing bench.
Beside Eliza.
CHAPTER SIX
Beside Him
It means nothing.
And yet all along her left side, Eliza felt a charge she’d not experienced in far too long.
God help her, but she was still attracted to him.
“Your coachman did well to stop so quickly,” Eliza found herself babbling. “Otherwise, we might all have been covered in—“ Good Lord! What was she saying? She clamped her mouth shut and just barely stopped herself from saying the word ‘vomit’ in his company.