CHAPTER FOUR
“‘Scoundrel’ appears to be the new definition of ‘dashing’ this season. Perhaps I shall perish soon and be spared the redefining of ‘regal’ to include beggars and vagabonds.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Atherbourne in a letter explaining the pitfalls of romantic nonsense.
When next Colin awakened, the light from the window was afternoon-bright, and the inimitable Miss Battersby was gone. Their last interaction had been a mite terse, with she setting a bowl of broth and a slice of bread on the side table and he barely conscious, head swimming after collapsing back onto the narrow bed.
“You should eat something before you sleep,” was all she said before departing, face red and eyes downcast.
Perhaps he should not have teased her so. Something about her prim manner and authoritative speech provoked him. She reminded him of every governess he’d ever had. Except he had never longed to kiss the starch out of his governesses.
Tossing aside the blankets, he managed to sit up and plant his feet on the creaky wooden floor. The flesh over his ribs stung and protested, but he could not let a little pain prevent him from leaving. He was a danger to her, to anyone who aided him. He must find his coat and boots, find Matilda, and then complete the journey to his original destination.
“Ah, I see you are awake.”
His head swung toward the door. There, an older twin of Miss Battersby stood, a stack of folded cloth between her hands, a stern look on her pixie face.
“You must be her mother. Mrs. Battersby, is it?”
“Mmm,” she affirmed. “And you? What is your name? Or shall I call you ‘stranger’?”
He hesitated before answering, “Perhaps that is best.”
She stepped forward to place the folded stack on the foot of the bed. “Some clothing for you. My husband’s. There is water and a bit of soap on the washstand.”
“Thank you.”
“You appear much improved.” Her eyes landed on his hand where it rested over his ribs. “Any signs of fever?”
The first two days after he had fled London, he had been feverish, but by the time Miss Battersby had loaded him into her wagon, that had broken, replaced by debilitating weakness. He shook his head in answer to the mother’s question. “I am on the mend, it seems. As soon as I can locate my horse, I shall trouble you no more.”
The woman’s mouth tightened. “When you leave is your choice, naturally. However, my daughter did not save your life, nor I mend your wounds, only to have you perish for recklessness.”
He blinked, unaccustomed to being chastised by a female. Occasionally, his sister would do so, but Victoria had not spoken to him in months. His mother had been dead for years, and before that, could scarcely be bothered to offer a greeting, much less a scolding. He gestured to his ribs. “This was your handiwork?”
She nodded, her pointed chin elevating. “Have a care how you exert yourself. Your wounds are deep and will not heal well on their own. You must keep the stitches intact for at least a fortnight.”
“My thanks to you, madam, for your kindness. Please convey the same to your daughter.”
“Perhaps you should thank her yourself.”
He stood, steadying himself against the same wall where he had collapsed against Miss Battersby that morning. “I should think you would prefer distance between a strange man and your unmarried daughter. Are you not concerned she slept here last night?”
The woman’s hard stare softened, and she crossed her arms in an oddly familiar pose. “Sarah insisted. She refused to leave you.”
He huffed out a chuckle. “Now, that I believe.” Moving to the foot of the bed, he picked up the stack of clothing: linen shirt, dark trousers. Simple, well-made garments that had been mended numerous times.
“Where is your husband? I should like to thank him as well for your kind hospitality.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “He is asleep.”
He frowned. “A bit early in the day for—”
“I have much to do,” she said tartly. “I shall leave you to dress and …” Her nose wrinkled. “Well, as I said, the soap is on the washstand, and more water can be found at the well in the garden. There is a stew in the kitchen when you are hungry.”
“Mrs. Battersby.” His voice halted her as she opened the door. “I must leave—and soon. Where will I find my horse?”
Without turning, she answered, “Ask my daughter.” Then, she closed the door behind her as though being chased.
“Blast,” he muttered, tossing the clothing back onto the bed before limping to the washstand. Infernal stubbornness must surely run in families, for the ladies Battersby both possessed that quality in abundance.
Glancing at the sizeable bucket of water at his feet, the full basin on the washstand, and the sliver of homemade soap placed neatly beside a washcloth, he sighed. Stubborn they might be, but they were also kind. Miss Battersby—Sarah, he preferred to think of her by that name—had stubbornly refused to leave him to die. She had stubbornly cared for him, even sleeping beside his bed … which was not his at all, but one she had provided, and at some risk to her own safety and reputation.
Glancing around the small chamber, he noticed a few details he had earlier missed. The pillow on the wooden chair near the window was embroidered with small flowers and framed with a ruffle. The coverlet was a patchwork of fabrics—ginghams, sprigged muslins, and floral cottons—all in shades of lavender, white, and sunny yellow. He ran a hand over it. Such fine stitching. The fabrics themselves were wash-worn, clearly reutilized for a new purpose, but great care had been taken in the design and crafting of the quilt. The dark, wooden bedstead was plain, but solid and in good repair, the feather mattress plump and comfortable.
“This is your room, is it not, sweet Sarah?” He grinned slowly, seeing the place in a new light. Why it should delight him that he had slept in her bed, he could not say. But it did.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered in an ongoing conversation with himself. Shaking his head, he stripped off his filthy breeches, took up the cloth, and sloshed it in the basin.
He needed to leave.
Briskly scrubbing his skin, he cringed at the flash of cold water and the sting of soap. It was hardly the baths he was accustomed to, but it would have to do.
He needed to leave because if he did not, his stubborn, honey-eyed Miss Battersby would be in danger, not just from the man who hunted him, but from Colin himself.
*~*~*
“You let him leave?” Sarah hurried from the cottage parlor, past the staircase and the front door, and into the corridor to her bedchamber. Seeing the room was empty, she swung around to confront her mother, who had followed behind. “Why did you not stop him?”
“Calm yourself, daughter,” Eleanor chided.
“We need him, Mama. I need him.”
“This foolish plan of yours was never going to—”
Rubbing at her eyes, Sarah tried to ease the dry ache behind them. Unfortunately, her fingers had little effect; the only cure was sleep. “Did you at least discover where he means to go?”
Her mother sniffed. “The village, then the Hubbard farm. He mentioned a horse. Marigold, or some such.”
“Matilda.”
Eleanor waved a hand dismissively. “Regardless, it is several miles, and given his condition, that is approximately as manageable as leaping across the Channel to take tea with an odious Frenchman. I would guess he has either collapsed near the old orchard or recognized his folly and is even now making his return here.”
Sarah’s chest tightened at the thought of him lying unconscious—again—on the side of the road. Brushing past her mother, she headed for the front door. “You knew he was weak, and still you allowed him to leave.”
“What would you have me do? Bind him hand and foot? Lock him inside your bedchamber? That man is not our prisoner. He is wealthy, likely gentry. He may even be titled.”
That stopped Sarah where she stood, hand resting on the knob of the cottage’s front door. “Do you …” She took a deep breath and turned to face her mother. “Do you think it is possible?”
Eleanor stepped forward to grasp Sarah’s free hand. “If he agrees to help you—and that is, at best, uncertain—it will be because he seeks to settle a debt. Agreeing to your absurd charade is not the only possible method of repayment. Perhaps he will settle funds upon us, once he returns to his family. A far better reward, I daresay, than this silly pretense, which shall gain you only a temporary reprieve.”
Her jaw clenched, the tight squeezing of her heart and throat clamoring to be eased. “If he should die, or leave without an understanding … He is the only hope, Mama.”
“That is his choice, not yours. For pity’s sake, Sarah, you cannot bend everything and everyone to your will. It is long past time you learned—”
Sarah yanked her hand away, jerked the door open, and slammed it behind her. Blindly, she strode past her father’s rose garden, through the small gate, and out onto the narrow road. The late-day sun lavished the church’s valley in rich, amber gold. But she took little note.
Her mother was wrong. Eleanor had surrendered to the ill fortune looming like floodwaters overtopping a dike. But she was not the one who must marry Mr. Foote. No, that wretched duty belonged to Sarah.
It was Sarah who must agree before God to obey him.
Sarah who must allow him to touch her.
Sarah who must bear his children.
Her head spun as it swiveled back and forth in denial. Eleanor did not understand. Sarah would sooner starve to death. If her mother’s fate and that of Foote’s tenants did not also rest on her shoulders, she would have left Keddlescombe rather than entertaining his suit for even a moment. Eleanor might consider the battle already lost, but Sarah had no such luxury. The price of failure would be paid by her, not her mother. And it would be painfully dear.
Her footfalls along the hard-packed soil of the village road blended with the steady, soughing breeze coming off the sea. The air was cool today and smelled of brine, the waves of the Channel a distant drumbeat. Ordinarily, such fine conditions would be just the balm she needed. But nothing could ease the knot in her chest—nothing except finding him and persuading him to lie. For her.
She let her eyes travel the road ahead, where it wound gradually down to the floor of the valley, then back up the opposite slope past the old orchard. Beyond the peak of the hill, it descended again into the village.
He was weak, with much healing yet to do. He could not have traveled far.
Passing the school—a looming stone structure with Gothic-arched windows and one ivy-covered wall—she slowed her stride. It was quiet there. Too quiet. She stopped and swiveled to peer across the open valley, shielding her eyes from the setting sun. When she turned back to the old abbey, her fears were confirmed. No movement. No screeches of outrage or delight. No giggling or shouting. The girls had gone somewhere, perhaps to explore the beach, as they were fond of doing. She had warned them not to go anywhere without her. Keddlescombe was a tiny village populated with good people, but it only took one moment with one despicable man for a young girl’s future to be shattered. A man like Felix Foote.
The thought quickened her pace. By the time she reached the hilltop orchard, the tension riding the muscles along her spine had gripped her stomach and flushed into the surface of her skin. Why could everyone not simply do as she instructed? If they had, the stranger would still be at her cottage, and the girls would be safely ensconced at the abbey, and she would not feel this crawling urgency to shake them all until they understood the precariousness of—
“Miss Battersby! Er—we did not expect to see you … that is, we were thinking … it is such a lovely day, is it not?”
Sarah blinked as Caroline Thurgood, the oldest of her students and the one in charge when Sarah was not present at the school, emerged from behind one of the thicker apple trees, her apron hem lifted to hold what looked to be a dozen or so of the rosy-flushed fruits. The girl was sixteen, dark-haired, and passably pretty with a fair complexion and thick-lashed blue eyes. Like nearly all the girls at St. Catherine’s Academy, she was the daughter of wealthy, ambitious parents who sought to purchase the one thing they lacked: a title. In a few months, Caroline would return to London, where she would be offered on the marriage mart to a certain breed of gentleman—those with pockets to let, but a bloodline to compensate. It was Sarah’s task to teach them the skills required to be first debutantes, then wives. But, above all, she must to deliver them back to their parents in perfect health and virtue, which was impossible to ensure if she could not control them.
Quickly examining the grove where chatter and laughter had turned to guilt-stricken stares upon her arrival, she counted nine of the twelve girls, all similarly attired in aprons currently used as cloth baskets. “Where are the others?” she snapped. “Miss Pritchard and Miss Parnham and Miss Colton. Did you leave them alone at the school?”
Caroline swallowed visibly, her cheeks reddening to match her apples. “No, Miss Battersby. A few of the village lads were playing cricket on the green, and I thought there would be no harm—”
“Miss Thurgood,” Sarah bit out. “It is my job to determine what is potentially harmful and what is not. That is why I set out rules. Your job is to follow those rules and to ensure the others do likewise in my absence. I thought you were capable of bearing such responsibility. It appears I was mistaken.”
Moving away from the ladder where she had been plucking apples, the crimson-haired Lydia came forward to defend her best friend. “Caro only wanted us to enjoy the light for an hour or two, Miss Battersby.” Lydia glanced at Caroline before turning back to Sarah with her chin a fraction of an inch higher. “It has been nothing but rain for a week. And these apples are going to waste. And Mary Elizabeth is better on the pitch than any boy—”
“Indeed,” Caroline nodded eagerly, her voice breathless. “She is a true all-rounder; even the boys say so.”
“And Susannah wished only to watch the match whilst Penelope purchases a bit of butter and cream for Mrs. Blake, for we have run out. And—”
Sarah’s patience with the chattering girl expired abruptly. “Miss Cresswell!”
The girl’s red eyebrows rose nearly an inch, her eyes rounding. “Yes?”
“That is quite enough.”
She bit her lower lip and nodded, clutching her apples close.
“Miss Thurgood, take the girls and return to the school. I shall continue into the village and retrieve the others.”
Caroline swallowed and curtsied awkwardly, dislodging one of the fruits from her makeshift apron basket. It plopped onto the grassy ground and rolled to a stop at the toe of Sarah’s boot. Wide eyes met Sarah’s.
“Take your apples with you.”
Nine girls rushed into obedience. If only they had been so compliant to begin with, Sarah thought, careful to maintain her stern countenance. As she watched them haul their fruited loads back toward the vicarage, she slowly stooped to retrieve the escaped apple. A helpless smile tugging at her lips, she shook her head, tucked it into the pocket of her unfashionable, striped overdress, and resumed her brisk walk to the village.
Keddlescombe was nothing like London. Fewer than twenty buildings crowded together along the floor of the valley. Most of the structures were white with thick thatched roofs, and they surrounded a modest square with a tidy, open field of grass at the center. This time of year, farmers and merchants converged on the square daily to offer the bounty of the harvest. But if one wished, the entire village could be traversed on foot in five minutes. That did not include the time required to respond to all the greetings and polite demands for conversation, of course. She reckoned it at a full thirty minutes for either her or her mother. The village might be small—around sixty residents at last count—but everyone knew everything about everyone. And what they did not know, they speculated upon.
This was Sarah’s first foray into the square since her impulsive, public declaration to Mr. Foote. She took a deep breath, keeping her pace deliberately steady, her gaze determinedly forward. If she appeared ashamed, then they would pity her. So, she must not allow the enormity of her lie to intrude upon her thoughts.
First, she must retrieve her students, then locate the injured man before he did something to further hurt himself … or her.
“Sarah! Good day to ye,” called Ann Porter from the east side of the green, where she watched the impromptu cricket match.
Sarah approached her oldest friend. “Ann.” Pressing Ann’s outstretched hand, she smiled and nodded toward the children. “Who is winning?”
“Who d’ye suppose? Miss Colton there is a right terror as a bowler and even stronger at the bat. ’Tis a wonder the lads allow her to play.”
Glancing sideways at Ann’s freckled countenance and wistful expression, Sarah observed quietly, “You could join them, you know.”
Ann chuckled. “Bertie’d like that, would ’ee not? His intended wife playing a boy’s game instead of returnin’ to tend the crops.”
“Everyone deserves a respite now and then.”
Ann grew quiet then slid an arm around Sarah’s waist. “Everyone except you?”
Stiffening, Sarah kept her eyes fixed on the game. Mary Elizabeth had just scored again, causing four boys on the opposing team to drop their faces into their palms.
“You ’pear half dead, Sarah.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “Not this again.”
Ann’s arm squeezed tighter. “Yes. Until you confess oi’m right. In three months, this is our longest conversation. Ye’re always workin’, and obviously get no more’n a few winks at night. Continue as you are, and ye’re like to take up residence in the grave before—”
“My students rely upon me, as does my mother. I should let everything come apart because I am tired?” She laughed dryly. “How far your opinion of me has fallen.”
With one last pat on Sarah’s waist, Ann pulled away. “Mr. Foote was askin’ after you this morning. He expressed … concern.”
Acid filled Sarah’s stomach, rising into her throat. “Mr. Foote has long been overly familiar for the tenuous nature of our acquaintance.”
“Mmm. Per’aps this mysterious gent—of which you have told me nothin’—will persuade Mr. Foote of ’is folly. When were you plannin’ to share the glad tidings with yer dearest friend? Oi ask merely out of curiosity, mind.”
The heat in her cheeks caused Sarah’s feet to shift in discomfort. “I … I intended to tell you … that is, I would have done so.”
“Had it been true.”
Denial lodged in Sarah’s throat, but she could not bring herself to lie. Not to Ann.
“Oh, stop frettin’. Oi’ve been keepin’ yer secrets since you found me muddyin’ me gown behind the church, Sarah. Oi see little reason to change course now.”
“You were four.”
Ann smiled. “And you were horrified. The vicar’s girl, whose gowns were ever lovely and spotless.”
Sarah glanced down at her hem, worn and frayed and discolored with the dirt she could never entirely wash away. “That was a long time ago.” A shriek from the green was a welcome distraction. Mary Elizabeth’s team had scored again. “I should gather up my stray lambs and take them home. Those boys have been crushed soundly enough for one day.”
Ann snorted.
Sarah cast her a sideways glance. “First, though, I must tend to some … tasks here in the village. You will watch them for me? I shan’t be long.”
Her friend’s eyebrows arched, her freckles gleaming in the fading sunlight. “Certainly.”
Sarah paused as she brushed past her friend. Over her shoulder, she said quietly, “Thank you, Ann.”
Ann gave her the crooked smile she remembered from their youth. “Certainly.”
Relieved that she could resume the mission for which she had left the cottage in the first place, Sarah hurried along Limekiln Lane, glancing side to side down each narrow cross street. Admittedly, there were only four. Keddlescombe was a tiny village. A cursory search of the main streets between shops and houses at the center took minutes.
As she headed back toward the green, she turned east and spotted the cheerful green door of the bakery. Perhaps Mrs. Jones had heard something. Her ear for gossip was well known.
The bell chimed as Sarah entered and smiled at the large, frost-haired woman entering the small room from the bakehouse, her arms piled with loaves. “Mrs. Jones. A rather substantial order you have there. I expect I shall soon see you in Mr. Canfield’s shop, admiring his new glazed crockery.”
The woman chuckled, her voice like coarse pebbles. “Nothin’ so fortunate as that. This ’ere’s for the Reverend Dunhill’s Sunday picnic. Christian duty is more costly for some, I gather.” She dropped the loaves on the wooden counter and began wrapping them in brown paper. “Still,” she continued thoughtfully, “that cranky old butcher must contribute a pig for the occasion, so I suppose me lot’s better than some.”
“Picnic?” Sarah blinked.
“Aye. In the churchyard. Entire congregation is invited. Mr. Dunhill announced it at the end of his sermon, Sunday last. Missed that, did you? Not surprisin’. Never seen a man talk so much and say so little. Full of blather, that one. Unlike your dear Papa. Lord, I do miss those days.”
Sarah smiled noncommittally. The young curate was brimming with ambition and fervor, but his oratory skills sorely needed refinement. “Mrs. Jones, I was wondering if you had heard any news of a visitor to Keddlescombe.”
“Visitor?” Her thick hands deftly knotted a piece of twine, set the wrapped bread neatly in the growing stack, then grasped a bare loaf and continued wrapping without breaking eye contact with Sarah. “What manner of visitor?” Sharp brown eyes topped by prematurely white brows sparked with curiosity. “Don’t see many of those ’round here.”
Sarah felt her shoulders slump as she sighed. “So, you haven’t heard anything?”
“Never said that.”
Sarah tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “What do you know?”
The woman snorted. “Would take decades to chronicle, dearie. If ’tis recent arrivals you wish to learn about, I only can repeat what Mr. Canfield’s wife reported, and you know how she favors exaggeration.”
Sarah waited impatiently while Mrs. Jones tied off the next package and disappeared through the door to the bakehouse, returning moments later with another armful of bread.
“Now then, where was I? Oh, yes. Mrs. Canfield. She said a man came into the shop earlier today and tried to sell ’is boots. Fine ones they were, too. Hessians, made in London. Rather odd, she said, as ’ee had no others to wear.”
Her breath caught as her heart kicked her breastbone. “When was this?”
“No more’n a quarter-hour, I’d say.”
Sarah turned and flung open the green door, throwing a “Thank you, Mrs. Jones!” over her shoulder. Two doors away, Mr. Canfield’s shop—filled with a mishmash of items from fabric to fishing nets to Mrs. Canfield’s dreadful feathered hats—was thankfully still open. Upon entering, her eyes landed on the handsome boots prominently featured in the front window. Clearly, the stranger had been here, and had already departed, for the portly proprietor was the only other soul present.
“Miss Battersby!” The expression of shock on the man’s round face would be comical if she did not understand the reason for it—she had avoided his shop for months. Why court temptation, after all, when fabric for new gowns or fine leather gloves or even the lovely beeswax candles near the counter were beyond her reach?
“Good day to you, Mr. Canfield,” she said with a calm she did not feel. “I understand there was a gentleman here earlier who sold you his boots.”
The shopkeeper’s pleasant smile turned puzzled. “Yes. How—how did you hear—?”
“Can you tell me where he went?”
“Well, I …” Mr. Canfield rested a hand on his round belly and scratched his head with the other. “As to that, I cannot be certain. ’Ee asked for directions to Mr. Hubbard’s farm, but ’ee was lookin’ rather peaked. Poor man appears to have suffered great misfortune and was not in the best of health. When ’ee learned the farm was several miles’ walk, ’ee seemed a mite discouraged.”
Sarah’s jaw tightened on a sigh. “He did not tell you anything more, perhaps how his plans have changed?”
Mr. Canfield shook his head and shrugged. “Traded ’is boots for another pair, plus a bit of coin, and then left. Do you know ’im, Miss Battersby?”
In answer, she only smiled tightly. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Canfield.”
“Surely. Ye’ve always been the dearest girl. We’ve been hopin’ you would come visit the shop every week, as you did before. Our five boys are dear to us, but we were never blessed with a daughter of our own. Mrs. Canfield so enjoys your comp’ny.”
Sarah glanced down at her hem, feeling the weight of something cold settle into her chest. Something like guilt. “My apologies, Mr. Canfield. I fear my work at St. Catherine’s Academy has occupied much of my time of late. I shall try to visit more often. Perhaps I will bring some of the older girls with me.”
The man’s beaming smile was her reward for the concession. “Mrs. Canfield will be most pleased.”
With a nod and a farewell, Sarah exited the shop and glanced down the length of Limekiln Lane, first one direction, then the other. When she saw a crowd of boys along with her three girls and Ann Porter huddled around something near the green, she squinted and started for the square.
As she approached, she heard one of the boys exclaim, “’Ee walked straight into the path of the ball! ’Tweren’t my doin’.”
“Robbie,” Ann replied, “No one is accusin’ you of hitting him on purpose.”
A masculine groan was followed by Penelope and Mary Elizabeth’s simultaneous gasps and Susannah’s cry of “He is awake!”
The words spurred her feet to a full run. In seconds, she was shoving aside Mr. Canfield’s youngest and Mr. Hubbard’s grandson. And there, sitting up on the grass with the assistance of Ann’s hand beneath his arm, was the man she had been seeking. The man who wanted so badly to leave that he had sold his boots for a bit of coin.
He was pale, panting weakly. Sarah knelt beside him, running a hand over his muscled shoulder. “What happened?” she demanded.
“Robbie hit him with the cricket ball,” said Susannah.
“Told you ’tweren’t me fault! And ’is face were like that before—”
“Quiet, both of you,” Sarah commanded. She glanced up at Ann. “Where did it strike him?”
“’Ee was crossin’ this side of the green when Robbie made a bruisin’ shot. Would’a been a sixer if the ball hadn’t struck the man’s head—”
A masculine throat cleared, and the man in question squinted at Sarah, his blue eyes flaring with a trace of temper. “My facility for language remains intact, Miss Battersby. I can answer for myself.” He waved a lean, elegant hand toward his face. “The swelling makes it dashed difficult to see anything not directly in front of me.”
“This the gentleman you were askin’ about, Miss Battersby?” The voice of Mr. Canfield brought Sarah’s head up, along with her sense of alarm. The shopkeeper stood at the edge of a growing crowd, which now included Mrs. Jones and four other proprietors.
Blast. This time of day, they were all closing up their shops and heading home. They must have noticed the commotion and come to investigate.
“I—yes, he is.”
“Then you must be acquainted,” Mrs. Jones interjected. “’Ee seems to know your name, at least.”
Her mind scrambled for a response, something that would make sense but would not force her to lie. Were they acquainted? Yes, she supposed they were. She nodded in answer to Mrs. Jones.
But the baker was far from satisfied. “How do you know one another, then?” she demanded, folding her thick arms across her chest and turning a steely gaze toward the stranger. “Never seen you before. Where do you hail from?”
“Aye,” added Mr. Canfield, a gleam of suspicion entering his eye. “Sellin’ your boots. Seems a mite peculiar.”
The stranger closed one eye and lifted one blond brow. “That is not what you said when you paid me half what they were worth.”
“Now, listen ’ere, young man,” Mr. Canfield protested. “Our Miss Battersby’s a good girl. We’ll not abide her associatin’ with scurvy knaves.”
“Indeed,” came a loathsome voice from mere feet behind her, causing lead to fill her legs and close off her air. When had Felix Foote arrived? The snake hovered incessantly whenever she entered the village, as though he watched for her, ready to slither to her side at a moment’s notice. “I believe we would all like to know who solicits such concern from our dear Miss Battersby.”
She wanted to vomit every time he said such things, laying claim to her like a mare he’d won at auction. Well, she did not intend to be granted as property to the highest bidder. She would do whatever she must to thwart him. Whatever it took.
Rising slowly to her feet, she kept her hand on the man’s shoulder and her back to Mr. Foote. She did not look directly at Mr. Canfield or Mrs. Jones or Mary Elizabeth or Susannah or Penelope. She especially did not wish to meet the stranger’s blue, blue eyes. Instead, she caught Ann’s warm gaze. It was the only tether available to steady herself before she strode off the precipice.
“We are acquainted, yes,” she confirmed.
“Oi knew it!” Mr. Canfield cried as though he had discovered a new continent.
Still, Sarah’s eyes did not leave those of her dearest friend. Ann’s perplexed expression was subtle to others, but Sarah saw her confusion clearly. “In fact, we are more than mere acquaintances. I have been caring for him in my home.”
Gasps from several villagers sounded in her ears. They should reserve their outrage, she thought. They will need it for what is to come.
“Your charity is admirable.” Mr. Foote’s tone was far from admiring. “However, it is also reckless when it causes you to bring strange men into your home.”
“He is not a stranger,” Sarah said, feeling the air at the edge of the cliff beneath her feet. One more step, and she would be flying. Would he catch her? Despite the time they had spent together, she did not know him well enough to say for certain. She did not even know his name.
“Sarah,” Ann whispered, her eyes wide and alarmed and glued to Sarah’s own.
Swallowing, Sarah took that final, dangerous step and left the earth for the vagaries of the fall. “We are more than acquaintances,” she said. “We are betrothed.”
Amid the gasps and cries of “Oh!” and “Oh, my!” and “Oh, my God!” from the crowd of villagers, Sarah watched Ann’s eyes first flare with shock, then dart past her shoulder, then dawn with realization, and finally, soften and darken with sympathy.
“Preposterous,” Mr. Foote growled. “You are lying.”
Sarah did not answer. She was flailing for solid ground. It was a lie. A very, very big one. Falsehoods on this scale were foreign to her. She had no experience as a scoundrel, no instruction in deception.
Fortunately, Ann Porter was a friend whose loyalty remained steadfast, even amidst Sarah’s leap into moral failure. “No,” her dearest, oldest friend said. “She speaks true. They are to be married.”
A strong hand came up to grip her wrist tightly where it rested on his shoulder. “What do you think you are doing?” the stranger hissed, his words clipped but quiet, overshadowed by the murmurs of those around them.
“What I must,” she answered just as quietly before placing her free hand over his hard grip. Then, with a deep breath, she deliberately plunged deeper into the abyss, far away from the cliff’s edge. Too far to turn back. “With my father’s health so precarious, we have been reluctant to share our happy news,” she announced to the crowd. “Celebrating seemed … unseemly. But now, there is little reason to keep our secret.”
Finally, she dropped her gaze to meet his. Fire so hot it burned blue shone there, a warning as blatant as if he had bellowed it. Still, she did not dare retreat. Not with Felix Foote hovering, a snake coiled to strike at the first sign of weakness.
She patted the fingers currently attempting to strangle her wrist. “This man is my intended husband. And I am his intended wife. Now, if you will excuse us, I must take my beloved home, for he has had a most trying day.”
*~*~*