Fenella J. Miller (12 page)

‘Shall I send for the doctor to attend to those cuts, sir?’

‘Damn the physician, you can attend to me. I need to go back to my rooms, run me a bath, bring me a pot of black coffee and something to eat.’

He walked in his red-stained stockings through the house and even with a crashing headache detected looks of disapproval and a decidedly chilly atmosphere from all the staff he met. Mystified by their behaviour, he reached his chambers and flopped out in front of the fire.

He heard the clanking and banging of buckets being brought to fill his bath but no sign of food or the coffee. Impatiently he stood up, wincing from the pain in his legs. What had possessed him to drink so much? Why did he have a sinking feeling in his stomach?

His stomach lurched again and he knew he was about to cast up his accounts. Forgetting all else he shot into his bedchamber, reaching the china basin just in time. He dropped the rest of his garments on the floor seeing at once that the cuts on his legs were superficial and needed no more attention than a wash.

Submerging himself in the lemon scented water he closed his eyes, trying to remember what had happened the previous day. His legs stung unpleasantly but he ignored it. A few minutes later a steaming mug of well sweetened coffee was handed to him in silence. As he sipped the drink his digestion settled and his head slowly cleared.

Suddenly he erupted from the bath sending a cascade of water over the floor. ‘My God! I sent her away. What was I thinking of? Tell me, Sam, tell me that I didn’t do anything so stupid. Tell me I didn’t behave with as little compassion as her uncle.’

His valet looked at him and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot do that. Yesterday you told Miss Forsythe to leave the house and she did so, taking Molly and Miss Roberts with her.’

‘Quickly man, get me something to wear. I must find her, the weather is worsening, she has no money, I am a brute of the very worst kind.’ Sam didn’t disagree.

 Twenty minutes later he was dressed and waiting for his stallion to be brought round him. He had already spoken to Tom and knew that his beloved was at The Black Sheep. He thanked God that the ladies had had the sense stay there. He realised that if it hadn’t been sleeting so heavily, if the road had been dry, then she might well have continued on to Ipswich, caught the mail coach and be lost to him.

In spite of his anguish, his remorse, he knew that he had not been abandoned by his maker as he’d feared. He had been taught a lesson, reminded that losing his temper was not the way a sensible man carried on. As he was about to leave he turned to Foster. ‘Have Tom follow me with the carriage, I shall be returning with Miss Forsythe, Miss Roberts and her maid within the hour. Have their rooms prepared.’ It was only then that he thought of Amanda. ‘Does Miss Amanda know that Miss Forsythe has left?’

‘No, sir, Miss Forsythe left a note, but we …. that is well, sir, we decided it would be best not to give it to her, to leave it for a day or so and see how things turned out.’ To the butler’s astonishment Jonathan stepped forward and gripped him by the shoulders. ‘Thank you, Foster, I am forever in your debt. You did the right thing. I wish to God that I had done so.’

 * * * *

Cassie woke the next morning to hear the gentle rhythm of another’s breathing at her side and turned her head lethargically. Ann was still asleep, but she could no longer lie in bed, she needed to get up, she needed to think about their future, about both their futures.

She walked over to the window and peered around the curtain, it was fine and dry, and it was just light. The courtyard below the window was already busy with folk coming and going. It was a pity the mail coach didn’t call, then they wouldn’t have to make their way to Ipswich somehow, and catch it from there. But where would they go? She had no idea. Yes – she did!

Sir John and Lady Digby had fled to the continent, in fear of their lives, leaving Upton Manor to Peregrine. They could go there, he would be pleased to see them, she could take care of him, make sure he had what he wanted, wasn’t bothered by trivia and wasn’t taken advantage of by tradesmen or staff.

She turned to the sleeping figure on the bed. ‘Ann, wake up, we have to get ready to leave. We’re going back to Upton Manor, now that my uncle and aunt are gone, I can live there comfortably, and take charge of the house for my cousin.’

Ann sat up rubbing her eyes. ‘I had already thought of that, and was going to suggest it this morning. In fact we haven’t unpacked the trunks, they are waiting downstairs for the carter. There’s a mail coach leaves from Ipswich at t 11 o’clock, hopefully we can obtain seats on it..’

‘I think it must be a little after seven now. We can be ready within the hour.’ She smiled grimly, from now on should be beholden to no one, she had thrown away her one chance of happiness and didn’t deserve another.

 * * * *

At eleven o’clock Jonathan thundered into the yard of the inn, leapt from the saddle and ran in to greet the flustered landlord. ‘Miss Forsythe, Miss Roberts, are they here?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Anderson, sir, but they left early this morning. They’re catching a mail coach from Ipswich.’ He looked at the tall clock ticking noisily against the wall. ‘In fact, sir, they will already be on their way.’

Chapter Eleven

The mail coach left, as it always did, precisely on the hour with Cassie huddled in the corner seat pressing her face against the side of the carriage, trying not to think about the last time she’d travelled in such a vehicle.

Ann was sitting by her side, Molly next to her. The coach was jammed, both inside and out, with the usual travellers – farmers, clerics, but this time no military gentleman. They bounced over the cobbled streets of Ipswich heading for the toll road and Cassie thought wryly that the two young officers would not have ignored her now, not dressed she was and with two females in attendance.

She raised her damp eyes to meet the sympathetic stare of a middle-aged woman sitting, with her husband, directly opposite. Instantly she looked down again, burying her trembling fingers in her muff. She supposed that she looked what she was, a young woman fleeing from someone or something she could no longer cope with. Why else would a lady dressed so expensively travel by the common mail coach?

They stopped briefly to change horses but the passengers did not alight, their first break for refreshments and to use whatever primitive facilities were available, was at Colchester at The Red Lion in the High Street. Last time they had stayed there for twenty-five minutes, time enough to grab something to eat and scramble back in before the coach left.

She closed her eyes, resting her head on the squabs, trying to make sense of what had happened, but failing miserably. When the coach arrived in Colchester, the steps were let down and she was first to escape the stuffy interior.  Keeping her head lowered, her ravaged face hidden inside her bonnet brim, she continued to step forward but unexpectedly cannoned into a solid wall of flesh.

She drew a deep steadying breath, instantly recognizing with whom she had collided. Her eyes flew up to meet Jonathan’s. How had he come here? She didn’t know if she should turn and flee, and swayed in indecision, as if about to swoon.

 * * * *

‘God dammit to hell! This is all my fault.’

Without another word he bent and swept her up into his arms holding her tight to his chest much to her consternation, Molly and Ann’s delight and the amusement of the rest of passengers. Ignoring the spectators he strode into the inn to the private parlour he had already reserved. His mad ride to beat the coach had almost killed his horse, but it was worth it.

Placing her tenderly on a chair he swung round and slammed the door in the faces of her companions. Then he turned back, dropping to his knees in front of her.

‘How can you ever forgive me? What I did to you yesterday was unforgivable.’

She looked up, her face pinched – her eyes brimming with tears and he felt the weight of guilt crush him. He’d done some terrible things in his time, knew he could have handled things better when his wife had revealed her infidelity, that he shouldn’t have killed her abductor in cold blood. Turning the woman he loved more than his very life out into the winter to fend for herself was by far the worst.

She sat limp in her chair, head lowered, her hands hidden inside a silly muff. For a moment he was unsure what to do, then slowly she raised her head and spoke to him.

‘I’m so sorry, I should never have doubted you, you’re an honourable man – I know you would never harm another woman whatever she’d done to betray you. I don’t understand what you’re doing here, but I thank God that you are, and that I have been given the chance to offer my apologies for doubting you.’

For a moment he was speechless. Then, his heart bursting with joy, he snatched her from the chair and leaning his back against the wall, pulled her almost roughly on to his lap. With trembling fingers he undid the bow that held her ghastly bonnet in place and tossed it over his shoulder. The muff followed.

‘My darling – Cassie – sweetheart – it’s I who must beg your forgiveness. I don’t know what I was thinking of yesterday to send you away like that. I should have told you what had happened the day that Lydia died – what else could you think, having read her letter, than that I had some hand in her death.’

He felt her relax and one small hand crept up to touch his face. ‘I don’t care what you did, it’s in the past, I realised lat night that when you love someone, you love them completely, and that is how I love you. You don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to. It’s in the past.’

‘I want to tell you – it’s quite simple really.’ He settled her more comfortably on his lap and begun his sorry tale. ‘Lydia wrote that letter just after I’d stormed out. I shouted, vented my spleen, but I didn’t raise my hand to her. I might have looked murderous, but I would never have harmed her.’ He paused and she remained quiet waiting for him to continue.

 ‘When she had finished writing the letter she must have decided to mail it herself. What you found was the first draft, obviously she decided she couldn’t send it as it was, so she rewrote it. Foster told me she came downstairs, apparently calm, and asked for her mare to be brought round. She galloped off down the drive and no one saw her alive again. When I got back it was to find pandemonium at the house.’

‘What happened ?’

‘Peter Hodgkin, my estate manager, had discovered her horse and was organising the male servants to search for her. As I was already mounted I rode ahead and was able to see over the hedges. I saw her body lying on the far side of a five barred gate. She had obviously fallen and broken her neck.’

He felt her shifting her weight and then she tugged on his lapels, pulling his head down towards her waiting lips. As he kissed her he felt the guilt trickle away and knew he had been given another chance. For some reason she was prepared to forgive him, still loved him in spite of his brutality. He drew back to smile down at her and her face was transformed. From ashen to radiant in the space of a few minutes.

‘Jonathan, you’re a good man, but you could be a better father. You must promise me that from this point on you’ll forget how Amanda arrived in this world and treat her as your own daughter. Treat her as you will any children that we may be blessed with.’

That was an easy promise to make. ‘I do love her, and since you came into our lives it has become easier for both of us. You are a God send, and although I said we should marry at Martlesham Hall I should like to say our vows in the local church with friends and family present.’

She didn’t need to answer him, her smile told him everything he needed to know.

Copyright © 2008 by Fenella Miller

Originally published by DC Thomson, UK, in My Weekly Pocket Novels

Electronically published in 2009 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.