by Amy Corwin
“No.”
She looked crushed by his response. Her right hand went to her left, her fingers feeling her wrist before she frowned. “My reticule—I don’t have it with me. I don’t have any smelling salts.”
“Never mind.” A glance around the room revealed a slender vase of limp daisies on a small table near the fireplace. He plucked the flowers out and threw them onto the logs on the grate. Only a few ounces of murky water remained in the vase, but he carried it over to Polkinghorne and dashed the contents into the young man’s face.
“What?” Polkinghorne sputtered and sat up, pressing his fingers into his eyes.
The door opened noiselessly.
“You found her! Oh, Grace!” Miss Martha ran into the room and caught her sister in a tight hug. “Thank goodness!” She thrust Grace out at arm’s length and examined her with a searching gaze. “You are not harmed, are you? He didn’t do anything to you, did he?”
“No. I’m fine.” Grasping her sister’s hands, Grace gave them a reassuring squeeze.
“Whatever possessed you to get in a gig with Stephen?” Now that she knew her sister was safe, Miss Martha’s expression turned rapidly from relief to grim anger. She looked over her sister’s shoulder to their cousin, sitting dejectedly on the sofa. Her brows jutted out even further as she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose in her now familiar gesture.
“He said he’d received an urgent letter from Dorothy—that I had to come at once!” Grace explained. “He didn’t even allow me to pack a bag.”
“Did he show you the letter?” Miss Martha rested her fists on her hips.
Grace flushed and flashed an embarrassed look in Glanville’s direction. “Well, no—”
“And you believed him?” Miss Martha scoffed.
“I—”
“How could you be so silly?” Miss Martha asked. “Do you realize Constable Gribble believes you are running away to escape hanging? Do you have any idea what your actions may have done?”
Grace’s flushed embarrassment didn’t last long. Her eyes sparkled with indignation as, chin thrust forward, she leaned toward her sister. She opened her mouth, then shut it again and swallowed. She straightened. “Well, I don’t see how it matters one whit,” she said bitterly. “After all, anyone would do the same, would they not? Run away to escape hanging?”
“What?” One of Miss Martha’s fluttering hands grabbed the doorframe. “Are you saying—”
“No. I am not. Not that you’ll believe me, anyway,” Grace replied, her voice hard. She glanced at Glanville. Some of the tension tightening her neck and shoulders drained away as she took a long breath.
“Of course, I believe you. Don’t be silly.” Miss Martha looked around the stuffy room. Her gaze seemed to fall for the first time on Polkinghorne.
His face and collar were wet, and his eye had reached the point where it was nearly swollen shut. Under her scrutiny, he flushed and squirmed on the sofa, his fingers pulling at his crumpled neckcloth.
Her eyes widened behind her glasses as she took in Polkinghorne’s miserable condition. She glanced at Glanville.
He smiled and shrugged, pointedly casting his gaze at Grace.
Miss Martha’s gaze followed his. A grin twitched over her face. “What happened to Stephen?”
“Nothing that he didn’t deserve.” Grace’s glance wandered around the room. She sounded defiant and yet embarrassed.
“That is a relief. Well, since everything appears to be settled satisfactorily, I suggest we return to Kendle.” Miss Martha clasped her hands at her waist in a firmly decisive manner and stared at him, clearly expecting him to act accordingly.
Glanville glanced at the window. Although it was still light out and would be for several hours, it was nearly seven. Sir Horace’s team of horses deserved some rest, even if the Stainton sisters eschewed such a weakness for themselves. His stomach rumbled, deciding the matter.
“It’s late. Morning is soon enough to return to Kendle. You and your sister can use this suite. I’m sure Lush can find another room somewhere for the two of us.” He gestured to Polkinghorne.
The lad looked around with frustration and disappointment clear in the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. Polkinghorne stared at him, unaware how very young and uncertain he looked, even though at seventeen, the young man was only six years younger than Glanville.
“Why should I go elsewhere?” Polkinghorne stepped forward with a belligerent frown. His hands balled into fists. “I paid for these rooms—”
“Agreed to pay. I don’t believe Lush actually received any remuneration, yet, except in promises.” Glanville gave him a bland smile.
“Lush, Lush! How is it you are such friends with a tavern keeper, I’d like to know?” Polkinghorne stepped closer, his one eye blazing with irritation.
Glanville’s brows rose. “Surely, you don’t begrudge me a friend or two?” Then, without warning, he caught Polkinghorne’s right wrist in a tight grip. “Do you really want two black eyes?”
“Let go!” Polkinghorne twisted and started to curse, only to cast an embarrassed glance over his shoulder at the ladies watching him.
Grace snorted with exasperation while her sister stifled her giggles with her hand.
“Behave, Polkinghorne.” Glanville released the lad and gave him a little push. “Sit down.”
Rubbing his wrist, Polkinghorne returned to the couch and thumped down, casting black looks at Glanville.
“Why don’t I order supper?” He glanced at the Stainton sisters.
Grace now appeared to be having difficulties stifling her laughter, having caught the giggles from her sister. Covering her mouth with one hand, she simply gave Miss Martha’s shoulder a squeeze in lieu of answering.
Miss Martha nodded. “That sounds like an excellent notion to me. We can eat here, and then you two can see about a room. I have to admit I’m relieved not to have to travel back to Kendle tonight.” She brushed one hand over her cheek. “It is a very dry and dusty journey.”
His gaze traveled to Grace’s lovely, flushed face. Her eyes danced with warmth and amusement, and a flirtatious dimple appeared in one rosy cheek. She took a deep breath and, in a voice that held only a trace of mirthful bubbles, she said, “I agree wholeheartedly.” She cast a scornful glance at Polkinghorne. “I haven’t had a bite to eat since breakfast, and I’m famished.”
Polkinghorne flushed and started picking at a worn thread on the arm of the couch.
“Then we are in agreement.” Glanville went about finding Lush and ordering supper, as well as a second room.
Lush, for all his apparent inability to smile, set an excellent table. They couldn’t have asked for better when the innkeeper himself brought a huge platter loaded with a luscious beef roast, crispy potatoes, carrots, and a yeasty fresh loaf of bread.
For the first time in days, fair fortune seemed to smile on them.
Chapter Twelve
It was annoying that Martha felt she had to rescue Grace from silly old Stephen, and it was even worse that she’d dragged Lord Glanville with her. Nonetheless, an odd, exuberant bubbling inside her made it impossible to stay angry. Every time she caught Lord Glanville’s gaze, she flushed and had to look away before she squealed like some ridiculously excited child. She felt like a drop of water sparkling and dancing on a hot skillet.
Supper, a long night in a very lumpy bed, and breakfast soon passed into the happy, breezy haze of the past. Before Grace could regain her normal, rational senses, they had parted ways with Stephen and were returning to Kendle. Unfortunately, Martha decided once again to insert herself where she was not wanted, this time right between Grace and Lord Glanville.
Casting irritated, sidelong glances at her sister, Grace lapsed into silence after her third attempt to hold a conversation with Lord Glanville around the barricade of her sister’s bonnet. Quite a large, old-fashioned bonnet, Grace thought. Her sister had never shown such a blithe disregard for others as she did now. Martha was just
sitting there, squished between Lord Glanville and Grace, and smiling to herself with the satisfaction of someone performing an excellent job.
Really, ever since Martha had gotten herself engaged to Lord Ashbourne, she’d grown impossible. Grace hadn’t noticed it before, but now it was obvious. She could just as easily have taken the seat on the outside and left the middle one for Grace, as she’d requested. And now, Martha had the gall to sit there and discuss whether Lord Glanville liked his house well enough to purchase it, or if he intended to move once again to another village, or return to his family’s seat in the northeast.
Grace’s spirits dropped further when he said, “My sister has expressed a desire to return home.” He sounded tired, but Grace couldn’t see his face past the brim of her sister’s bonnet. “She has not had… good fortune here. We’d hoped a change of scenery… Well…” Apparently he shrugged, given the way his hands moved, though he continued to hold the reins sufficiently steady to keep the horses at an easy trot.
“I see,” Martha replied. She pushed her glasses up her nose with one gloved hand. “I am sorry that all of this had to happen. It must have been awful for her.”
“Yes.” Lord Glanville’s reply sounded absentminded at best.
The two lapsed into silence. As the person Grace truly wished to speak to was on the other side of the wall created by her sister and that absurd bonnet, Grace remained silent, as well.
Time passed slowly, with each of them absorbed in their own thoughts. The gig trundled in and out of pools of cool shadows, cast by the occasional tree spreading its branches protectively over the road. About five miles outside of Kendle, Grace heard the rumble of distant thunder.
Well, that is just the perfect ending to the day. Grace looked over her shoulder to find a towering dark cloud scudding across the crystal blue sky toward them. Beneath the dark anvil-flat base, she could see a gray misty area, showing where it was already raining over the fields and road behind them.
Her thoughts rushed inevitably back to the dreadful night when she’d first arrived in Kendle.
Martha squeezed against her as Lord Glanville moved, presumably to take a look at the storm building behind them. He snapped the reins to encourage the horses to go at a faster pace.
“Do you think we will arrive at Sir Horace’s house before it rains?” Grace asked, not really expecting anyone to answer. She glanced over her shoulder again and pulled her thin summer shawl up around her shoulders.
Stephen had torn her away from Hornbeam Manor so quickly that she hadn’t had time to put on a bonnet, and Martha had not brought a spare one with her.
A mile outside of Kendle, a low stone wall and wooden gate marked the boundary of the Cavell farm. The blue gate beckoned Grace, promising a comfortable refuge from the rain and the friendly face of Mr. Cavell, himself.
Grace straightened. “Let’s stop at Farmer Cavell’s house!” She pointed to the lane intersecting the road and passing along one side of the neat, well-tended stone wall.
Nose wrinkling, Martha glanced at Grace and then up at the sky. “We have only another mile before we reach Kendle, and we’ll turn down the lane to Hornbeam Manor well before that. If we hurry, I have no doubt we can arrive there without any difficulties.”
A loud boom of thunder punctuated her words. The sound reverberated through Grace’s chest.
Before Lord Glanville could reply, a tall, robust man stepped out into the road. He held up one hand and reached to take hold of the reins of the horse nearest to him, forcing Lord Glanville to bring the gig to a halt. With a sinking heart, Grace recognized Constable Gribble. He was well-dressed for the weather, with a heavy, oil-cloth coat on and a wide-brimmed hat.
Her hand reached up to touch her windblown hair. She felt disheveled and ill-prepared to meet the officer.
A grim expression set his mouth into a thin line. “Lord Glanville,” he called up to them. “I am pleased to see you have returned with the fugitive. I’m grateful to you for your quick work.” He transferred his hard gaze to Grace.
He’d come to find her and hand her over to the constable? So that was why he’d come… And yet, after last night… his kiss… Grace took a long, shuddering breath. All the threads wove themselves together into a remarkably ugly tapestry.
What a fool she’d been. Last night, she’d felt ridiculously happy, unaware that Lord Glanville had had a quite different reason for appeasing her, making her biddable, and keeping her there at the inn. Like a simpleton, she’d allowed him to kiss her because she’d wanted it so much, so desperately.
She’d thought—had hoped—that he had also felt the same surge of happiness that she’d experienced when he pressed his lips against hers. She was sure that he’d felt the same heady emotion that she’d grown to feel for him. Oh, not that she’d been aware of it. It hadn’t been until that tender moment that she’d realized it. Her deep affection for him had come too secretly, too silently on tiny cat paws for her to realize what was happening.
Certainly, there’d been that glow of anticipation, that warmth that had spread through her whenever he came to assist her with Flossie’s training. And she’d experienced that sense of shared interests, of caring about the same things, and that had swept her along, replacing the frail shadow of her attachment to Mr. Blyth that she’d once thought was so real.
This was real, though.
And so was this pain at his betrayal, worse even than what she’d felt upon reading that Mr. Blyth was betrothed to Lady Lenora. That had been more a blow to her pride than anything else.
This was worse, far worse. All along, while love had been taking root within her, Lord Glanville had remained as unchanging as a rock, unfeeling and sure of her guilt.
A bolt of lightning flashed through the sky. All eyes followed the sizzling trail. Then another boom of thunder made the horses whinny and toss their heads, their hooves dancing nervously over the dirt road.
“Let go of the reins, Gribble,” Lord Glanville ordered. “I’m taking the Staintons to Hornbeam Manor before this storm gets any worse.”
“Very well, my lord. But lock her door, this time,” Gribble replied. “No mistakes. She’s run once. She’ll do it again if we let her.”
Lord Glanville’s only answer was to gather up the reins more firmly in his gloved hands and give them a snap.
A fat drop of rain splashed over Grace’s nose. Without thought, she wiped it away with the back of her hand. Martha flung an arm around Grace and pulled her closer, as if she could shield her sister from the coming rain. All Grace could think was that it was a bit late for Martha to worry about her.
If she’d really cared, she wouldn’t have helped Lord Glanville find her and bring her back.
They heard the approaching storm, then. The rapid patter of droplets on the leaves and stone wall next to them increased in intensity. Cold rivulets trickled through Grace’s hair and down her neck.
Not that she cared. Nothing really mattered now. They would lock her in her room until the trial. A jury would find her guilty, because after all, there was no one else to find guilty. And she would hang. Her thoughts drifted to the vicar and drifted away again. Mrs. Wolstenholme’s story had been sad, but no matter how much Grace tried to see the vicar as the murderer, she could not make the role fit him.
She wouldn’t tell the constable about the vicar, just to shift the blame to someone else. If anyone told Constable Gribble, it had to be the vicar, himself.
After all, if Mr. Wolstenholme were guilty, he would never allow her to hang for something he had done. He was too proper, too bound by the tenets of his deeply held religion to allow such a miscarriage of justice.
And she had the irritating feeling that there was something else that she knew, something she’d overlooked, but… It was too late, anyway, and why did she even care? She was an impulsive fool who had brought her own doom upon herself. She’d imagined love and affection where there was none—had never been any—and had behaved without the least sense.
When the gig jerked, she glanced up. Gribble had stepped away from the carriage and had refrained from making any more demoralizing requests. Lord Glanville only had to flick the reins again for the horses to break into a canter. Although they swept down the narrow lane at a rapid pace, the storm raced toward them faster. The landscape was washed in watery gray mist. Within five minutes they were all drenched, just as they had been when they first showed up at Sir Horace’s doorstep so many days ago.
Once again, Sir Horace welcomed them. Lady Branscombe ordered towels, hot drinks, and maids to take Grace and Martha to their rooms. After the initial flurry of activity, Grace was left staring at her pale reflection in the mirror above her washstand. A wild, hysterical giggle broke from her.
Maybe she should not have hit Stephen so hard. She should have begged him to continue on to London, and maybe… No. Hadn’t the Polkinghorne family had enough difficulties since the death of Uncle Cyril? They didn’t need to harbor an escaped fugitive in their midst.
But if she could have brought herself to tolerate Stephen’s moist, slack lips and his unctuous manner long enough to marry him, then he would have gained her five thousand pound inheritance. He would have gotten a reward for his worship of her—something other than a black eye.
A new thought struck her. Did Stephen feel about her the way she felt about Lord Glanville? She pressed her hand against her middle. The thought made her stomach twist with pity. She’d never meant to hurt him, or anyone. All she’d wanted was to find someone to put his arms around her and hold her close, giving her that sense of safety she used to seek when she crawled into the back corner of a wardrobe.
Her glance strayed to the large mahogany wardrobe in her room. She pulled open the doors and almost stepped inside before she paused. What was the point? She would soon be locked away in a tiny cell, awaiting the noose. No need to seek a confining space before that time.