Touched by Fire
Page 29
The other woman was Mr. Harper’s widow. They never talked of Mr. Harper’s death, and Sarah didn’t know if the woman knew who shot him, or whether it mattered.
Both women settled in nicely at St. George, and Sarah went there often to visit. She regaled the children with tales of dragons and knights, and quite affectionately they dubbed her The Dragon Lady. Sometimes it was difficult to smile and pretend, and although she imparted a bit more drama in her stories than Colin, she felt closer to him when she was spinning the tales.
Alcyone’s was doing quite well and the profits were used to build a new building for St. George. When Colin returned, she would give the majority to François; she had no need for it anymore.
Nancy was beginning to smile more, and Ethan had adapted quite readily to working at Rosemont. As for Iris, she was a puzzle. Disappearing mysteriously for long bits of the afternoon, singing to herself, meandering through the house as if she had nothing better to do.
Sarah felt like a spectator of a play in which everyone had a role but her. She had nothing to do but wait. The waiting drove her insane.
Each morning she studied the newspapers, reading each bit carefully. When she read the news of the loss at Ligny, she cried for hours until Giles very discreetly pointed out that the troops that were defeated were Prussian, not English. She yelled at the man, yelled like an east side fishwife, asking him how he knew that Colin was still alive. Later, she apologized profusely. She got little sleep, and was prone to rail about at the drop of a hat. Everyone knew it, and treated her with patience, quiet words, and bits of sympathy. The sympathy was what she hated most of all—as if he were already dead, and she was a widow.
The world carried on. And every night, she donned one of his shirts, and cried herself to sleep.
And thus her days progressed until finally there was news of Waterloo. A magnificent triumph. Napoleon’s defeat.
And still there was no news of Colin. The newspapers talked of soldiers going to Paris, soldiers returning home. But there was no news of Colin at all.
She took up with her cards again. Playing against herself, over and over. Meticulously keeping score of her wins and losses, until she won every hand and had no need to bother anymore.
It was a humid afternoon in September, and as usual, Sarah was miserable. She played her cards once more, finally throwing the damned things on the floor.
Nancy poked her head through the door. “Mum, there’s a rider coming.”
For a moment Sarah let her hopes soar, and then, after having disappointed herself so many times before, she clamped them down tightly. Slowly she walked to the front entrance and looked past the long line of trees, until her eyes found the single rider, clouds of dirt following in the wake of the horse’s furious hooves.
The horse could be Beowulf. It looked large and from this distance, perhaps it was a sorrel. She rubbed a hand over her belly, the feel of their child reassuring.
She walked further, still retaining a close rein on her heart. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun and she realized she still held her cards in her hand. Silly goose. She should take them back inside and put them away. They would be having company shortly. Perhaps the rider would want tea. But her feet refused to obey an order to move from their spot.
Gradually, she could discern the figure of a man. Wearing a hat. A ragged, peasant hat. Hadn’t she seen it before?
Her feet moved faster, and still she refused to let herself believe. A small flutter of joy warred stubbornly with her common sense.
But in no time at all she was running, her slippers pounding against the ground. Foolish girl. Her hopes would be dashed once more.
The rider was closer now. She could just make out his face. She was dreaming this, wasn’t she? Of course it was a dream. Clumsy and awkward, she fell, tasting the grit of the road, feeling the scratches on her hands.
Dear heavens, this was no dream.
She wiped her hands on her skirt, got to her feet, and then she ran. Ran as fast as she’d ever run before. He looked thinner and there was a bandage on his arm, but he looked so beautifully alive.
The sun beat down like a hammer, dust circling all about her, and she laughed. She let herself laugh. Dear God, he was alive. Faster she ran, her sides aching, and she could see him now. He wasn’t smiling, so intent, so serious. Oh, she loved him so.
She could almost touch him. She reached out her hand, just a bit farther . . .
Without breaking stride, he whipped her up off the ground.
And everything was right once more.
He held her. So tightly, she couldn’t breathe. Beowulf slowed to a trot, then slower still, as if knowing they were home.
Thank God, he was home.Close in his arms, she let herself feel the beating of his heart.
For long moments, he simply held her. For long moments, she wanted nothing more than to be held. Her heart quieted, her tears slowed, and she dared to look at him. To finally know this was real.
She trailed her fingers along the stubble at his chin, touched the new hollows of his cheeks, and pushed back his hat until she could smooth the hair that fell at his forehead.
Now she could let herself remember his touch, remember the hard strength of his arms.
He was home.
He clasped her face in his hands, his fine sherry eyes studying her closely, always concerned. “You’re all right?”
It was as if he had never left.
She could think of no answer for him. No way to tell him that she had never known such relief, no way to tell him how she almost went mad with the waiting, no way to tell him that he was more than a part of her now. She could think of nothing but silly nonsense, and that’s what she answered with.
“Right as rain, fit—”
He kissed her, knowing he would never leave again. Now he was home.
The DragonSlayer was no more.
Epilogue
The honorable Timothy William Wescott was born January 24, the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and sixteen, heir to the seventeenth earl of Haverwood. The boy has his father’s dark hair and his mother’s gray eyes. Curiously enough, the child was named after his proud godfather—their butler.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Epilogue