by Sophia James
Her confusion and sorrow must have formed a rigid mask on her face, for with another keen glance Fell artfully changed the subject.
‘That rabbit had a beautiful pelt. I can make you something from it, if you’ve a liking—although I can’t imagine a maid having much chance to wear furs.’
She peered up at him standing beside the table, face inscrutable again now the sympathy was hidden behind his usual brusqueness. There was real goodness in him, she realised with dawning wonder, the kind she had never dreamed might be shown to her and didn’t for one moment think she deserved. She’d lied to him to keep herself safe and had kept up that lie despite his kindness—all because of her fearful heart, now beating faster with both guilt and a growing appreciation for Fell she couldn’t understand.
The memory of her wardrobe, packed with expensive clothes, back at Fenwick Manor flitted through her mind to interrupt such thoughts and made her suppress a grim smile. Her collection of furs was the envy of all who saw them, proof of the wealth Mother was so eager to display. Septimus would have showered Sophia with gems, gowns and sables—and whatever horrors he saw fit to mete out on his trapped, friendless wife. A rabbit-fur stole might seem a poor thing in comparison to the luxuries she was used to, but she would rather that than a hundred gifts Septimus would lay at her feet if he were to discover where she had fled.
‘You’re so kind to offer, but I think you’re right—what reason would a maid have to wear furs?’
CHAPTER FOUR
Sophia peered through the low branches of the trees that screened Fell’s cottage from the rest of Woodford Common, more small thatched houses set a short distance away and grouped together on either side of the rough road as though to deliberately exclude the forge. From her hiding place she could watch the villagers going about their business without being noticed and the scene unfolding so captured her attention she could hardly tear her eyes away.
Careful not to be spotted, Sophia craned her neck to follow a young lad carrying a load of wood, his feet fairly swimming in a pair of boots far too big for him as he scurried across the cobbles. He was passed by two women with baskets over their arms, chattering before dropping polite curtsies to an elderly man inspecting the rose climbing his front porch. A small girl stood in another garden, fiercely beating the dust out of a rug, while her mother juggled pegging washing with holding a baby, her face pink, but even from a distance her smile was clear to see.
Wherever Sophia looked there was activity, strangers living their lives with unselfconscious zest that she both wondered at and envied. They all looked to have such purpose, so busy and seemingly happy with their lot—there wasn’t a fine gown or expensive coat among them, yet from the earthy shadows she could see more contentment than she ever recalled noticing in any overcrowded ballroom or stuffy parlour while drinking endless tea. Compared to the villagers’ existence her former life seemed so stunted and bland, for all its undeniable privilege devoid of the colour and liveliness she now saw all around. Part of her longed to limp out from the trees and shyly introduce herself, the cheerful energy of Woodford calling to her neglected spirit to make her wish she could join in, but the sensible majority of her mind stopped her before she could make such an ill-advised mistake.
It was essential they caught no glimpse of her as she recovered, her leg growing stronger, but still bound with rough cloth and sometimes needing the support of a stick. By pure luck she’d stumbled upon a host who by his own admission the villagers didn’t often speak with, his home concealed by the trees currently sheltering her from the midday sun. With her distinctive flaming hair she was all too easy to identify and the fewer people aware of her presence the better. There was still the danger Fell might be tempted to give her up for a purse provided by Mother or Septimus, and the discomfort that thought brought her every day was something Sophia could have very well done without.
More evidence of the stupidity Mother said I’m known for. What reason would Fell have to favour my wishes over a heap of guineas, when one choice has no value and the other so much?
It was a question that taunted her and one she had no wish to answer. Of course, there was only one logical reply, although Fell’s behaviour confused her at every turn. Tiny little considerations that to so many would go unnoticed were more pleasant to Sophia than Fell ever could have guessed—she had not known what it was to be treated without contempt since she was a child of six. She drank it in as eagerly as a parched flower might drink in rain, the likewise arid desert of her soul amazed and grateful for such a monsoon of small kindnesses—yet she could not allow herself to lose control. It would be all too easy to have her head turned by Fell’s decency and believe he might be somehow different, that he might see something in her worth more than the disdain she’d endured almost her whole life. Some determined part of her would always hope for such acceptance, a stubborn gleam that refused to be completely extinguished even in the face of Mother’s dislike for her useless disappointment of a daughter.
A sharp pain in her arm made Sophia look down, surprised to see her fingers digging into the skin without knowing she’d moved. Little half-moon indentations marked where her nails had been and she rubbed at them with a frown, trying to dismiss the unhappy memory of her mother’s face when she had spat those words at Sophia’s bowed head. How old had she been then? Sophia wondered absently. Fourteen, perhaps? Fifteen? About the age when a girl was finding herself along the road to womanhood, emerging from the chrysalis of a child and unfurling her unsteady wings. Mother had sought to clip Sophia’s immediately and the scorching malice had increased ever since to keep Sophia firmly beneath Lady Thruxton’s boot. The lively spirit that had once made Papa laugh had been resolutely crushed until only a hidden flicker of it remained, the fire in Sophia’s belly doused with icy water poured by her mother’s own hand.
Just the thought of Mother was enough to make Sophia’s palms prickle and her heart quicken beneath her dress, green today with flowers embroidered on the bodice and tucks to give shape to the skirt. It was pretty despite its simplicity, far less elaborate than the gowns she’d left behind, and running her fingers over the hand-worked petals helped distract her from the rapid flit of her pulse.
I ought to return to the cottage. There’s nothing to be gained by standing here, wishing I could introduce myself to people who wouldn’t want to know me anyway.
With a final deep, calming breath Sophia straightened her shoulders and turned for the little house behind her. As soon as she limped out from the shade of the waving trees she felt the heat seize her, sunshine glaring down to warm the lopsided curls pinned determinedly to the top of her head. Without a maid to help her, her hairstyles were becoming more and more haphazard by the day and she couldn’t help a grimace of dark, frightened amusement at imagining Mother’s disgust.
Hair half-down and wearing a Roma dress—even she’d be lost for words if she saw me like this.
‘Afternoon, Marie. Have you been out?’
A glance towards the forge showed Fell leaning against the doorframe, hammer in hand and sweat gleaming on the brow furrowed in enquiry. The by-now-predictable flurry of interest that stirred the hairs on the back of her neck murmured to her, the same as it did every time she laid eyes on his broad shoulders and the hint of coarse hair she saw at his unbuttoned collar, but she set it aside to offer a hesitant smile.
‘Not really. I just stepped into the garden to take the air, although the heat makes it hardly refreshing.’
‘You’re not wrong. No whisper of a breeze today.’
He closed his odd eyes with his face turned towards the sun, giving Sophia the opportunity to watch him for a moment without fear of being seen. With the weighty hammer dangling from one scarred fist and his frame almost filling the doorway he was an alarming prospect, huge and dark-haired and somehow untamed—yet she recalled the note of sadness in his voice when he had confessed his desire for a family, a gli
mmer of vulnerability that she hadn’t thought such a formidable outside would conceal.
Surely those village ladies are too fastidious by half. If I were a woman of their class, I’m not sure Fell’s parentage would be an insurmountable obstacle.
The thought made her blush, but that didn’t stop it from being the truth, she would have to admit as she noted the pleasing swell of Fell’s bicep hardly hidden by the singed sleeve of his shirt and the delightfully tawny cast of his skin. Surely nobody looking at him could deny he was attractive, in a rough-hewn sort of way, and the kindness he had shown her might be agreeable to anyone. His illegitimacy—Sophia flushed to even think such a word—was unfortunate indeed, but his Roma mother seemed far less of a consideration. It was an interesting rather than undesirable facet to Fell’s identity, the depictions of Romani life she had read about and seen in picture books more romantic than anything else. There was no cause to dislike the travellers that she could see—none of them had ever wronged her at any rate, which was more than could be said for the aristocrats she had borne hostility from for as long as she could remember. Perhaps Woodford was too quick to judge Fell on things he couldn’t change, denying him the chance of a family he had accepted he would never now have—but that was none of her business. Fell’s lack of a wife was not her concern, something she had no reason to consider in any way. As soon as her leg had mended sufficiently she would leave his cottage and continue her journey into the unknown, the uncomfortably intriguing blacksmith fading to a mere memory she’d have no cause to revisit, certain she would vanish from his thoughts the moment she was out of sight.
Fell opened his eyes unexpectedly quickly and Sophia immediately switched her gaze to the sun-baked ground, cringing away from the possibility he had caught her studying him so intently. Instead, however, he seemed to be peering over her shoulder at the tree-lined lane at her back, shading those strange eyes with his hand to see more clearly.
‘Looks as though we’ve some visitors, although I’ve not seen them here before. Need their horses shoeing like as not.’
Sophia turned to see for herself, just catching a glimpse of two men on bay horses still some distance from the forge—before recognising one of them with a strangled gasp as though suddenly fighting for air.
No. Please, heaven—no!
Mother’s groom would be identifiable at a hundred paces even if Sophia hadn’t seen him for twenty years, the sight setting her breath to claw at her throat. In his youth, a hoof to the face had left a curving scar across the left side of Phillips’s jaw, drawing his mouth up into a permanently grim smile even Lord Thruxton had seemed to find unsettling. Phillips’s devotion to Mother was endless and deep—he’d been with her since she was a girl, giving years of the unquestioning service Lady Thruxton always felt was her due as a beautiful woman dripping with wealth. It was no wonder she had sent her most loyal servant to hunt down her ungrateful failure of a daughter: nobody could match Phillips in his determination, no doubt trusted to drag Sophia home by her hair if the situation required.
Sophia took a sharp step back, feeling her leg shriek with pain, but too fixed on the men riding towards her to pay it much mind. They hadn’t seen her yet. Phillips’s attention was on the man riding beside him, one of Fenwick Manor’s stable lads, and she felt a flicker of desperation crackle through her like lightning in a storm. If she could reach the cottage before they turned in at the forge, she might be able to hide, perhaps escape the terrifying thought of being forced to return to face Septimus’s cold rage. It was only a few steps to the open front door with wisteria climbing each side, Lash lying across the threshold like Cerberus guarding the gates of hell…
But what of Fell? Won’t he give me away as soon as he discovers who I am?
The notion seized her chest in its icy grip and she turned her frightened eyes to him, hopelessness and despair swirling as she watched his face cloud with sudden suspicion. He was no fool—she knew he saw the frozen fear in her expression and the flit of his gaze from her to the men growing closer showed the immediate link he made between the two. There was no way she could pretend their approach played no part in the blanching of her face or skitter of the rapid pulse he could see at her throat, but with no time to attempt anything more to save herself Sophia was left with no choice but to pick up her skirts and limp agonisingly towards the cottage as fast as she could—not a word passing between her and Fell, but one last look of frank pleading hanging in the air as she turned and fled.
* * *
Fell watched Marie hobble away, new caution rising with each ungainly step she took towards the safety of his house. It didn’t take a scholar to understand the men who were almost upon him were people she knew and had no wish to see and he unconsciously tightened his grip on the hammer still hanging from one fist. That final glance holding such stark fear and an entreaty he didn’t yet understand put him on his guard at once, concern starting to simmer at the sight of her frightened face. Whoever they were Marie was afraid of them and he found he disliked the thought of her distress—as well as the prospect of someone from the past she had run from finally catching up with her when she had thought herself safe.
‘Lash. Here.’
The dog had woken as Marie clumsily hopped round him and now he got to his feet, coming to stand motionless at Fell’s side as though sensing his master’s unease. Fell patted the dog’s wiry neck and together they watched the two strangers draw nearer and dismount, the older man with the scarred face clearly in charge of the young one who nodded at Fell a little nervously with a swift glance at both the hammer and the dog.
Arranging his face into a look of mild enquiry, Fell stepped out of the forge’s doorway and into the sweltering yard. ‘Is it shoes you’re wanting?’
The scarred man removed his hat for a moment to mop his brow with a handkerchief, squinting at Fell against the glare of the sun. Even without a disfigurement he would have had a discomforting face, unfriendly with a hardness about the eyes that quite suddenly made Fell’s mind up for him. Whatever these men wanted, whoever they were, they wouldn’t be getting near Marie—she must have shrunk from them for a reason and the air of hostility he could sense coming from the man before him was enough to convince him of that reasoning’s soundness.
‘No. We’re looking for someone. A young lady.’
Fell slightly raised one eyebrow with a trace of a grin. ‘Ah, well. Aren’t we all, friend? Aren’t we all?’
Out of the corner of his eye Fell saw the younger man conceal a small smile behind his hand, although it slipped from his pink face at his superior’s withering look.
‘It’s a particular lady we’re searching for—a Miss Thruxton. In her twenties, red hair, green eyes. We’ve reason to think she may have come this way. Have you seen anyone of that description?’
Pretending to consider the question, Fell scratched behind Lash’s ear.
Miss Thruxton, in truth, is it?
The door to the cottage was still ajar, lying in Fell’s line of sight over the newcomers’ shoulders, and he caught the most fleeting glimpse of Marie concealed behind the frame. She’d be able to hear every word, no doubt listening with her heart in her mouth and standing rigid with dread, until he saw her peep out from the shadows and fix him with a desperate gaze that almost made him flinch from its naked terror.
‘There’s a generous reward for any information regarding her whereabouts. She’s a simple-minded girl, not capable of clear thinking, and it’d be a kindness for her to be found.’
‘I see. Ran away from home, did she?’ Fell nodded as if interested, all too aware of the frozen audience unseen by the other two men.
‘Aye. If she’d a speck of sense she would have stayed where she was, but as I said—she’s a foolish girl.’
Fell chanced a glance back at the doorway to the cottage. Marie still peered round the frame, staring with eyes huge with fear and pleading and mut
ely shaking her head with such passionate entreaty Fell felt himself struck by her vulnerability all over again. Even if the scarred man’s story hadn’t been an outright lie—simple-minded, is she? It seems nobody told her that—he still would have paused before handing her over, the panic on her face something painful to behold.
With his hand still resting on Lash’s head Fell shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Afraid I can’t help you. Perhaps you’ll have better luck in the next village.’
‘Are you sure? We have it on good authority she was last seen heading in this direction.’
‘I think I’d remember a woman like that. We don’t get many flame-haired beauties passing through Woodford Common.’
He kept his gaze firmly on the man in front of him even as he bit the tip of his tongue at his misstep. His private opinion of Marie’s prettiness had come spilling out of his mouth before he could stop it and he could only hope she’d been too gripped by fear to have caught his glowing description of her charms.
The scarred man held Fell’s eye for a long moment, his younger companion shuffling from foot to foot behind him. Beneath his fingertips Fell felt Lash’s hackles raise slightly at the beat of tension stretching out in taut silence and wondered distantly if he would need to call the dog off—but then the stranger nodded and turned away, both visitors swinging up on to their horses again.