by Grace Elliot
Deep inside Jack whimpered like a beaten child.
“But she returned, again and again. When I held fast, she threatened to use blackmail, to reveal our intimacy to the woman I am courting.”
A shrill whine filled Jack’s head, flashing stars before his eyes, Devlin turning into jagged shards of a man.
“My poor man, I do sympathize. But if it is any comfort, it’s that Miss Foster is an accomplished liar and a cheat, obviously she now sees you as better target. It’s your money I expect. Best you found out whilst you can still call off the wedding.”
“But…” Jack wanted to argue but he couldn’t. Miss Foster hadn’t even denied a relationship with Devlin, only that she wasn’t his mistress, which she wasn’t.
The room span in dizzying circles. What about when she’d called on Devlin and refused to tell him why? Fool! Despite his better judgement he had trusted her, when what did he truly know? Nothing. Only the lies she had fed him. When he’d pressed her about her earlier life, she’d answered with a strange look in her eye. He’d assumed her discomfort was because of the social differences, but now he knew the truth and loathed her for it.
“I…I don’t believe you,” he muttered, without conviction.
But what reason had Devlin to lie? It was he who had sought Devlin out, not the other way round. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe, like a cornered animal he had to escape. The future crumbled. Ashen faced he bowed. Without knowing how he formed some words. “I am most grateful for your time. I trust you will not repeat this conversation on your honor as a gentleman.”
“Of course, Huntley, take that as read.”
As Huntley turned to leave, the final wound was seeing the pity in Devlin’s eyes.
Outside, a grey greasy sleet fell for an oily-grey sky. As it landed on his skin, the coldness of it stung like needles, and yet Jack didn’t notice, dead to everything but rage. Walking blindly he turned toward home, half insane with the pain of betrayal.
Of course she must be faced, to give her an opportunity to confess her scheming. It was over between them and she owed him an explanation. Perhaps, he recalled, she had been trying to tell him something, he ground his teeth but of course that was after the engagement was made public. What an idiot he’d been. Devlin was right. What did he truly know about Eulogy Foster? Only what she wanted. He groaned aloud.
And yet he loved her. Deeply, irrevocably, a deep wound running through his soul. He wanted so much for Devlin to be lying and yet, deep down, it all made sense: meeting on the Devlin estate and her following to London.
Jack tugged at his hair. Where Miss Foster was involved he couldn’t trust his own judgement. He had to regain control, and to do that he couldn’t be near Eulogy Foster. She was his fatal weakness.
He would leave London immediately. Visit his mother in the country, after her recent illness he could run the estate for a while. That was it, go where Miss Foster couldn’t turn his head with more lies. He would withdraw until the pain and humiliation receded, until he armored himself against Miss Foster and she could no longer pierce his heart.
-oO0Oo-
After meeting Devlin, Eulogy left Grosvenor Square with a pounding head and blurred vision, stumbling through the streets lights danced before her eyes and with great difficulty retraced the route to Red Lyon Square.
She spilt through the front door in a state of distress, almost knocking the elderly housekeeper over.
“Mrs. Featherstone.” Shards of lightening pierced her head, dancing painfully before her eyes and she feared at any moment she would vomit. “I fear I won’t be able to sit for Mr. Farrell today. Could you please tell him I have a fearsome headache?”
With one look at Eulogy’s blanched face, the housekeeper took her arm.
“Hush, dear, don’t talk. Sit quiet in the kitchen. I’ve a draft that will soothe yer head.”
Mrs. Featherstone helped Eulogy to a chair.
“Does it pound terrible, yer head?”
“Like the very Devil is hammering inside!”
“Here, then drink this down.” The housekeeper wrapped Eulogy’s numb fingers around a beaker. Through chattering teeth, she downed the bitter liquid.
“There now, dear, I’ll help yer up to bed, so’s yer can sleep the meegram off.”
“But Mr. Huntley…” Eulogy shook from head to toe. “He’s calling this afternoon. I must see him. It’s of the utmost importance.”
“Hush, now. Yer in no fit state. I’ll send a note, explain yer tekken poorly…he will understand.”
Devoid of strength Eulogy slumped; the words just elusive, fuzzy shapes in her brain as a high-pitched whine drowned out all sense.
“Tell…Jack, love…him.” Her tongue was suddenly wooden.
“Come now, child, off ter bed with yer. Worry not. I’ll mek sure he gets the message.”
Sometime later Eulogy woke with a start. Her head felt bruised on the inside, but no longer threatened to burst like a struck melon when she moved. Cautiously, she propped herself up on her elbows and tried opening her eyes. The piercing shafts of light were gone. Instead a watery sun filtered in through the bedroom curtains. She tried to shake off the drugged feeling, as if she’d slept forever. Disorientated, she wondered what the time was and glimpsed a bone white sky tinged with pink, more like dawn than sunset. The shadows leant the wrong way for evening. Merciful heavens had she been asleep for a whole day and night?
Unsteady on her legs, but driven by urgency, Eulogy dressed. There was no time to waste, Jack had to know everything and that ogre Devlin could take his chances. Feeling better for the resolution, Eulogy hurried down to the kitchen.
Mrs. Featherstone paused over her porridge, to greet her with a smile.
“How are yer now, dear? White as goose feathers yer were yesterday quite gave me a turn. Mind, yer still a bit pale…”
“Much better, Mrs. Featherstone, thanks to you. Mr. Huntley, he received your note?”
“Aye, that he did, and he even sent a reply, so don’t go worrying now.” The housekeeper delved in her apron pocket. “I found it slipped under the door this morning. Happen he didn’t want to disturb your rest.”
Eulogy’s heart fluttered. “Thank you.”
“Now then, a little porridge for strength?”
As the housekeeper took a ewer up to Mr. Farrell, Eulogy drew her chair to hearth, to read the note. She recognized Huntley’s writing and yet something about it struck her as odd. Puzzled, she broke the seal and smoothed the stiff vellum flat. Indeed, the first impression was of an untidy sprawl, of crossings out and smudges. In fact, some of the words were difficult to make out. Angling the paper toward the light, Eulogy frowned.
Her frown deepened. No, this could not be. Her hands shook so hard, the words became blurred. No. This simply couldn’t be right. She shook her head and re-read it, hoping the words would make more sense. Stubbornly, the words remained the same.
Miss Foster,
Events have come to my attention with cast grave concern upon your integrity and honor. I have reason to believe I cannot believe a word you say, and therefore must withdraw my offer of marriage and break the engagement.
I hope in time you will forgive me for breaking the news by letter, but coward that I am, I find I am unable to face you and having no wish to prolong the pain, have quit London.
JH.
The letter fell to the floor. How could this be? Why had Jack called her a liar? Eulogy rose unsteadily to her feet. What…or who…had turned Jack against her? Cold fingers of dread tingled down her spine.
“Devlin must have gotten to Jack whilst I was ill.”
She paced the flagstones; her mind raced. Why would Devlin ruin her like this? But the answer was so obvious she almost laughed aloud. To discredit her! It was a master stroke, if her own fiancé denounced her as a liar, no one would ever believe a word she said. Begrudgingly she saw the cleverness of Devlin’s method. Discredit her with the man who loved her and no one in the ton would believe he
r claim to be Devlin’s sister.
Only then, briefly, did she allow the indulgence of self-pity. Moaning and pulling at her hair. Why hadn’t she trusted Jack sooner? It seemed a meaningless game now, testing his love. Goodness knows what poisonous tale Lucien had spun.
Eulogy forced herself to be calm. Jack Huntley was a reasonable man, if she explained and begged his forgiveness, the worst she had done was withhold the truth. She hadn’t lied to him, unlike Devlin.
A plan took shape. She would find Jack directly and explain everything. Her heart sank. The letter said he had quit London. Who would know where he had gone? There was not a moment to lose if she was to find him.
After grabbing her cloak, Eulogy set off into a bleak winter’s morn.
Despite the unorthodox hour and still in his dressing gown, a bemused Charles received Miss Foster. He greeted her warmly, and if he was a little curious as to her disheveled state and high anxiety, he hid it well. Without demur, Eulogy explained the situation and begged him to tell her where Jack might have gone. After much thoughtful rubbing of the chin, Charles conceded that the most likely place Jack would head for was back to the Huntley estate, with their mother having been so recently ill. If he’d left that morning, then he had no more than a few hours start. If she set off now, why she’d likely catch him at an Inn.
Eulogy returned home in a state of anxious agitation. She stopped a link boy, gave him a shilling for his trouble and instructions to run to the livery yard and hire a lady’s hack. Meanwhile, she flew upstairs and changed into her riding habit.
In the hall, Mrs. Featherstone wrung her hands.
“Don’t go, dear, I beg yer. Tis no weather for a journey, especially for a woman alone, and not with snow in the air.”
“I must, don’t you see? It’s this, or live with regret for the rest of my life.”
Farrell appeared, bleary eyed but concerned. No amount of argument could dissuade her, and barely quarter-of-an-hour later, the red-nosed link boy returned, leading a rangy chestnut mare.
Standing on the doorstep beneath gathering storm clouds, Farrell placed a comforting arm round Mrs. Featherstone’s shoulders as she sobbed. Eulogy caught up the hack’s reins and the boy formed a cup with his hands, boosting her into the saddle. At the sight of the housekeeper’s quivering lips, she paused.
“I shall be careful, but I have to go…you understand that?”
Mrs. Featherstone blew her nose. “Tis like watching my own go.” She sniffed. “And is such in weather.”
“Aye, but she has to follow her heart.”
“Take care at least. Yer have money for an inn, for when the snow sets in?”
“I do.” Eulogy smiled back with more assurance than she felt. “No need to worry, don’t forget I travelled all the way from Easterhope by myself.”
“Yer know the way to the Huntley Estate?”
“Charles drew me a map. It’s quite simple, out of London and take the Great South Road.”
“There’s snow in the air.” Mrs. Featherstone sobbed. “Promise you’ll seek shelter.”
Wind eddied and swirled, scattering Mrs. Featherstone’s words. Eulogy nodded, her skirts flapped as she nudged the mare forward. As she waved goodbye, sitting tall in the saddle, she took a last lingering look and Red Lyon Square and then urged the hack forward.
They clattered away, leaving the pale faced housekeeper and concerned painter behind. Eulogy’s mask of confidence slipped. The streets seemed eerily somber and unusually dark for the hour. She glanced up at the sky. Slate grey clouds closing out the sun and the unmistakable stillness that heralded snow. Despite a redingote, fur tippet and gloves, Eulogy shivered and not just from cold. All her future happiness depended on finding Jack and quickly before the storm set in.
Chapter 19
The few travelers Eulogy passed on the road were faceless creatures huddled behind scarves and muffles. A mail coach passed and from his high perch, the driver tipped his whip at her, surprised to see a lone horsewoman abroad in such weather. His lips moved as he pointed at the sky, but his words were lost on the wind.
Soon even this meager traffic thinned to nothing, as the scenery changed to open fields and pastureland. The mare pricked her ears, she seemed well chosen for a long journey: skittish, lively and fresh from the stable. Eulogy gave thanks that the livery yard hadn’t fobbed her off with a broken-kneed hack; it seemed Farrell’s name indeed counted for something. A bird took flight and the mare bridled sideways, Eulogy stroked her arched neck.
“Steady now, we’ve a long way to go. Best save your energy.”
Conscious of Jack’s head start she slackened the reins and allowed the mare’s energy to spill into a bouncy canter. From horseback Eulogy saw over fences and hedges. Sheep with their tails to the wind, cattle huddled in circles. The dry stone walls and lonely cottages were the only signs of life. She rode as if travelling through a hinterland between day and night studiously ignoring the darkening clouds, hoping to outride the coming storm. She guessed there were three hours of daylight left before she would be forced to stop at an inn. Grim-faced, she reined the mare back to a trot, the better to cover the distance on a long journey.
Then the snow started.
Softly at first, snowflakes fluttering from slate grey clouds, melting as they fell, dissolving before they touched the ground. A fat snowflake brushed her cheek. And another. Pleasantly cooling after the exertion of the ride, she smiled, remembering winters at Easterhope and hot cocoa after a playing in the snow.
The snowflakes fell more thickly. A lacey curtain layered over the landscape, dancing patterns in the wind. Conscious of the threatening sky Eulogy pushed forward, quietly acknowledging that Mrs. Featherstone was right.
This was no day for travelling.
How long since she left London? Two hours perhaps? Her spirits buoyed. There was bound to be an inn soon. She would be sensible and stop for the night. The thought cheered her as the snow fell more quickly.
She shivered beneath a sickly yellow sky. Snowflakes coated her eyelashes now, her lips cracked and raw where she had licked them in anxiety. Unsettled, the mare tossed her head as the snow tickled her nostrils. Eulogy buried the seeds of panic. She wouldn’t allow herself to be spooked. Keep her head and all would be fine. The snow settled on a crisp unblemished crust on the road ahead.
The countryside swathed in white, Eulogy lost track of time. It seemed she had travelled for hours, but not passed another living soul for an age. Eulogy trembled with fear. Whatever had possessed her? Really it wasn’t like her at all. Then the memory of Jack’s note banished doubt. What was a little discomfort against the rest of her life?
Hedgerows, verges and road were uniformly covered now, merged together under blanketing white. The wind got up, whistling between bare branches. Even the rooks and crows disappeared.
The blizzard swept in.
Blinded by the squalling flurries, the mare slowed to a walk. Eulogy, barely able to see the horse’s ears, prayed they stayed on the track. The shrieking, screeching wind filled her ears, making her deaf as well as blind. She would have cried had it not been for fear of tears freezing on her cheeks. Her gloved hands had long since lost any feeling. Transferring the reins into one hand, she clamped the other under her armpit to warm it. Her ears burnt with the cold, an intense ringing pain as if they would shatter.
The mare shivered from nose to tail, almost unseating her rider with vigorous shaking. Eulogy reached forward, petting the terrified animal’s neck as the snow swarmed like bees, a blinding frenzy in their eyes. Every step an effort now, with the snow crunching above the horse’s fetlocks. The mare stumbled, pitching Eulogy forward. She grabbed the mare’s mane and pushed herself back into the saddle. Fear grew into panic. They must find shelter soon or they wouldn’t survive much longer in the open. Anything would do, farm, byre…a stable, anything.
Struggling blindly through the blizzard, the mare led on, plodding beside meaningless drifts, on what Eulogy hoped was
the road. When the mare flagged and faltered, Eulogy rallied and drove her on. Her mind started to drift. It wouldn’t be such a bad end, she speculated, to drift into unconsciousness, no pain as such. She started to dream, her thoughts idly wandering hither and thither, to happier times—to Jack’s warm laugh, his eyes glowing with love.
The pain of his rejection jerked her awake.
Then she saw it! A faint glow in the distance. She strained her eyes. Was she still dreaming? What was that, a light? Between blinks, rubbing the ice from her lashes, it was indeed the glow of a far-away lantern.
Grasping at hope, she nudged the mare on. Perhaps she had seen it too for her head came up as she bravely lifted one leaden leg after another, hooves biting down through knee deep drifts. Slowly a building emerged from the gloom, lighted windows and chimney smoke. Carried on the howling wind came a new sound that Eulogy strained to hear, fiddle music…and laughter.
“Saints be praised,” she mumbled, half-crying with relief.
Gathering the reins in numb hands, eyes fixed on the distinct glow Eulogy encouraged the mare forward.
It took an age to cross the distance to the welcoming inn, but arrive they did. The approach road had been churned up by wheels and hooves, until freshly fallen snow had smoothed the ruts. As Eulogy drew closer she made out a substantial building with a coaching arch in the middle leading to stables at the rear. It looked an old building, criss-crossed timber beams across the façade and what looked like a thatched roof, thick with snow like a muffin top. Close enough now to hear the murmur of voices, she passed by lead paned windows, misty with condensation, a welcoming orange glow inside.
Turning into the stable yard, Eulogy felt like pinching herself. Courtyard walls formed protection of sorts, the cobbles slippery with ice but largely free of drifts. The noise and bustle of the inn was confusing after the blinding, white landscape and it made her dizzy. A stable lad buzzed around, whistling to himself, tossing hay over half stable doors. Eulogy tried to smile but found her face frozen.