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‘Perhaps not, but I would still like to see you safe at your doorstep. I’ll not mention your sabotage of the hunt to your parent or guardian, if that is your concern.’
‘No. It’s not that.’ She paused and then continued. ‘My guardian would find your presence without a chaperon exceptional. She worries about my—um—morals, not realising that I am past the age and lack the physical attributes that make concern necessary.’
She stopped speaking and it struck him sad that a woman, still youngish, should dismiss herself so completely.
‘I quite like your attributes.’ He spoke without thought.
Her reaction was immediate. Her back jerked ramrod straight and she twisted about almost violently, despite her apparent fear of large horses and the danger of dropping the basket.
‘Lord Langford,’ she snapped. ‘You will not insult my intellect. I am no beauty, but I am not dim-witted and refuse to be treated as such. I have gumption, if nothing else.’
Good Lord, the woman sounded downright furious.
‘You definitely have gumption.’
She twisted even more precariously. ‘I hope you are not scoffing again.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I was only wishing that Elizabeth might meet you.’
Again he had spoken with an uncharacteristic lack of thought.
‘Elizabeth?’
‘My daughter.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know exactly, but she needs—’
Heaven only knew what Elizabeth needed.
But, he realised with a start of surprise, he would tell Elizabeth about Miss Martin when he returned.
He might mention nothing else about this country weekend, but he would tell her about the rabbit, the fox, the mud, the basket and Miss Martin’s gumption.
Elizabeth would not reply, of course, but he would tell her.
Chapter Three (#u03f91c07-f4c5-5163-aa79-be71aa34ab91)
The barn was a ramshackle structure of mossy stone with an uneven slate roof patterned with yellowed grass. Sebastian dismounted. As he turned, helping Sarah from the horse, he was aware of a peculiar narrowing of focus. It seemed as though the barn, the trees and everything else except this woman became inconsequential.
He was keenly aware of her proximity, the faint soapy smell of her hair, the long dark lashes outlining her grey-blue eyes and the oddly endearing way she bit one pink lip.
‘I—um—’ She swallowed. He watched the movement in her throat. ‘There’s water for your horse inside.’
Everything sprang to sudden life.
‘Thank you.’
He followed her into the dimness of the barn’s interior. Straw covered the floor and the air felt dusty and smelled of hay and animals.
At almost the same moment, a loud, boyish whistle broke through the quiet and Kit Eavensham strode into the barn from the opposite entrance. He drew to a halt immediately upon seeing Miss Martin.
‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘As soon as the hunt proved unsuccessful I knew you were involved. When will you stop such nonsense?’
‘Likely never. That is one advantage of my circumstances. Society expects little of me.’
‘But it is not sensible. I mean, it was fine when we were young and rebellious, but you can’t go round saving foxes all your life. Besides, you look like an undersized drowned rat.’
‘I slipped.’
‘But was fished out quite handily.’ Sebastian stepped forward to make Kit aware of his presence.
Kit’s mouth dropped to form a round ‘O’.
‘Morning, Eavensham,’ Sebastian drawled.
‘Good Lord, Langford helped you? Do you know who he is?’
‘We were introduced. Last night, if you recall,’ Miss Martin said in composed tones.
‘No, I mean—did you know—I mean—well, Langford is well, good ton. Though he hasn’t been about much this past year. Still, a diamond of the first water, don’t you know.’
‘Then I am honoured—Oh!’ She gasped, her gaze drawn to the window. ‘Mrs Crawford is coming. Kit, you must not let her see you or Langford, please. You can lecture me later.’
Then, before Sebastian could say goodbye or even complete his bow, Miss Martin had disappeared through the barn door, letting it rattle shut behind her.
Stepping around the basket which he had placed on the floor, Sebastian went to a small, dirty window. Through its pane, Sebastian could see an older woman approach the barn from a square, stone house set some fifty yards back. She was gaunt, her grey hair pulled tightly from her face and her dark clothes cut for economy, not fashion. Her movements had a nervous jerkiness.
‘Mrs Crawford, I presume?’ he said softly to Kit who had followed to the window.
‘Yes.’
‘She looks strict.’
‘And religious. Extremely so. I mean, she always has been somewhat.’ Kit shrugged.
‘You’ve known her long?’
‘Mrs Crawford. Unfortunately.’
‘No, Miss Martin.’
‘Since she came to live here from London. She is a couple of years older than I am and Mother did not want me to get any romantic notions since she is as poor as a church mouse. Anyhow, my parents decided that the best way to avoid this was to ensure that we spent considerable time together, you know, like brother and sister. It worked, actually.’
‘Practical woman, your mother.’
‘Lucky for Miss Martin or she would have starved, most like. She is quite the zealot.’
‘Miss Martin?’
‘No, no. Mrs Crawford. She wishes to save money for the heathen. Knits socks for them. A dreadful lot of socks. Although the heathen always seem to come from these dashed hot countries. Can’t see ’em needing socks.’
‘Which explains Miss Martin’s lack of fashion.’
‘Lack of fashion? She’s lucky if she gets a decent meal. Not sure she’s quite all there. Mrs Crawford, I mean. Miss Martin is all there, although a tad eccentric. But jolly. Tough life for a girl.’
Turning back to the window, Sebastian watched Miss Martin approach the older woman, taking her arm and leading her towards the house. It struck him as a gentle gesture.
‘Well, I’d best get back home before Father notices my absence. Just wanted to make certain that Miss Martin hadn’t been bitten or drowned. Thought she’d have given up such nonsense.’ Kit sauntered towards the barn door. ‘I think the coast’s clear. You coming?’
‘In a moment.’
‘Righto.’
Sebastian heard the barn door shut and Kit’s boots tap sharply on the cobbles.
Jester whinnied, eager to move again, but Sebastian remained, gazing through the window, his fingers drumming on the sill. He followed the two women’s progress, watching as Miss Martin supported her elderly relative, her head bent as though in conversation.
‘Gracious,’ Sebastian muttered to no one in particular. His fingers stilled. ‘I wonder.’
* * *
Sarah took Mrs Crawford’s hand. It felt cold. Her guardian had lost weight and Sarah could feel the movement of the bones beneath the dry, parchment skin.
‘Come,’ she said gently, rubbing the thin fingers. ‘We must get you inside. You’re chilled.’
Mrs Crawford glanced about, her angular face furrowed. ‘Molly?’ she said. ‘Molly, it is good of you to come.’
‘Of course I came,’ Sarah said.
Molly had been Mrs Crawford’s sister. She’d died twenty years earlier, but Sarah never corrected her guardian when these moments of confusion hit.
‘’Tis good to see you, Molly. You’re wet,’ she said as if only now noticing Sarah’s sodden clothes.
‘A minor mishap, but let us visit in the warmth.’ Sarah pushed open the front door. It creaked as they walked into the hall, dreary after the sunshine outside.
Warm was never an accurate description of the Crawford house, and had never been, not even prior to Mr Crawford’s death and Mrs Crawford’s fanatical economy.
To Sarah, its interior had a frigid stillness as though time had stopped and all within had ceased to live. Like Sleeping Beauty, but with no happy ending. Oh, how she and Charlotte had loved fairy tales.
She smiled sadly and then refocused her attention on the drab hall. ‘Let’s go into the drawing room where we can sit,’ she said gently.
Mrs Crawford allowed herself to be drawn forward. ‘But no fires.’ Her face puckered, her hands fluttering like fragile, useless birds.
‘No fires. Now sit here and I’ll fetch a blanket.’ Sarah helped her guardian to sit, reaching for a crocheted blanket, fuzzy with wear.
Mrs Crawford huddled in the chair but, after a second, her expression cleared and her gaze sharpened. ‘You’re not Molly.’
‘I’m Sarah.’
‘I knew that. Have you said your morning prayers? You have much for which you must repent.’ Mrs Crawford always sounded cross after moments of confusion. Unfortunately such moments were all too frequent.
‘Yes.’
‘You must save yourself from the eternal damnation of your parenthood—a child conceived out of wedlock. And I must help you. It is my duty.’ Mrs Crawford’s voice rose again, her tone fractious.
‘You have done your duty admirably. How about a cup of tea?’ Sarah looked at the clock. She must not forget the rabbit or Hudson would have him skinned and in the pot.
Plus she still needed to change her dress and collect eggs. Hopefully, Portia and Cleopatra had been milked by the lad up the lane.
‘The dinner party at Eavensham. It was not sinful?’ Mrs Crawford asked after a moment.
Sarah grinned. ‘I do not think Lady Eavensham runs to sinful parties.’
‘And you did not enjoy it overly much?’
‘I made certain I was only moderately content.’
‘And no gentlemen made any improper advances?’
‘At six and twenty, such an event is highly unlikely. Now let me put the kettle on and make you a little luncheon.’ Sarah stood, moving briskly.
‘Do not waste food.’
‘I will use the bare minimum to keep body and soul together.’
After settling Mrs Crawford, Sarah entered the kitchen’s warmth, which still smelled pleasantly of the fresh bread Mrs Tuttle, their only domestic, had made earlier.
With the ease of familiarity, Sarah filled the kettle, hanging it on the arm iron to boil before slicing the bread and spreading it with Cleopatra’s creamy butter.
Her knife scraped the pot. She’d have to make more soon. Always so much to do... Plus she’d accomplished nothing yesterday. Not that yesterday had been wasted. Sarah smiled—just hearing about London thrilled her as though being in earshot of the words ‘Westminster’ and ‘Regent’s Square’ made finding her sister more possible.
One day, she promised herself. One day she would get to London and look for Charlotte, the half-sister who had been more of a mother to her than the woman who had given birth to them both.
And once in London, she would scour every street, knock on every door and pray that she was not too late.
* * *
Next morning, Sarah rose early, rushed through breakfast and hurried to feed the chickens in the hopes of escaping to Eavensham to collect the rabbit and her valise.
Yesterday had proved too busy despite her best efforts and she just had to hope that Eavensham’s kitchen staff would have looked after the creature. Likely they would. They had an affection for her from the days when she and Kit had requested treats and other edibles.
‘Miss! Miss!’ Mrs Tuttle’s shrieks interrupted her only seconds after she had started to scatter seed.
‘What? Is Mrs Crawford ill?’ Sarah threw the rest of the grain at the birds and hurried towards the house where Mrs Tuttle stood at the kitchen entrance, her pink face puce as she flapped her arms with agitation.
‘What is it?’
