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One Week Later
Blythe was going to start climbing the walls if things did not change, and fast. Every day at Marrowly Grange was the same. She rose in the morning, she ate, she was allowed to go riding if she had a groom with her, and she could walk as far as she wanted because the moors stretched out in every direction. There was nowhere she could walk to, no end to the purplish gray winter sky above her.
I hate this place. If I never see it again, it would be too soon.
The first day, she had tried to walk toward Westbury, the small town the map said was the closest to Marrowly Grange. She walked and walked and walked until her feet were blistered and the sun was beginning to reach down to the horizon. Just when she was wondering if she would have to spend the night on the moors, Tristan had appeared, his face impassive. He was riding his dapple-gray gelding and leading a saddled mare for her. She glared him.
Tristan only nodded toward the mare. “Get on. I'll lead us back. I asked Cook to have some hot food waiting for you.”
Blythe supposed it was a kind of mercy that he said no more than that. Every now and then, she turned around and remembered all over again that they were going to be married. A surge of disgust and fury always followed the realization. He was right, there was no legal bar to it, but they had grown up as siblings. Tristan didn't look upon her as a lover any more than she could see him as such. The fact that he was willing to pursue this insane cause made her wonder what madness was simmering beneath his cool surface, what he refused to let her see.
God, being married to him would be so cold. I would never feel warm again.
She pushed the thought away viciously whenever it occurred. Admitting that there was a future where she was married to Tristan, where she would have to survive being his wife from day to day, was a kind of defeat.
Instead, Blythe allowed herself to think of Thomas. She had done all she could to keep her thoughts from him but that proved impossible. Somewhere on the ride to Marrowly Grange, the Carrow family's most remote estate, she'd simply loosened her grip on the gate that kept her thoughts of Thomas out. She could so easily imagine his smile, his touch, the way he felt when he wrapped his arms around her. Sometimes, she concentrated on her memories of him so powerfully that it was as if she could conjure him from the thin cold air.
This is what widows do, she thought disconsolately. They weave memories of the one they loved, and they tell themselves it is nearly as good as when they were still here to touch.
Blythe thought wryly that her imagination was growing morbid, but that was hard to avoid in the bleak moors. Marrowly Grange had once been a beautiful house. She could see the remnants of it here and there, in the gaily-painted trim that still peeked beyond the edges of the plain whitewash, in the exuberant carvings that adorned the newel posts and the cornices. At some point in the Carrow family's past, someone had gone through great lengths to erase the joy of the place, however, and it settled in her soul a kind of bone-chilling malaise.
Blythe knew that Tristan was waiting for the special permission from the Crown to come. Once he had it, they could be married almost immediately. There would be no need to read the bans, to have a proper wedding. Blythe thought at first that it was because he thought her a fallen woman and undeserving of such niceties, but he'd been shocked when she'd brought it up the second night.
“Of course not. I am simply coming to know you, cousin. If I give you an opportunity to leave, you will. And this time, I might not get you back.”
Blythe glared at him. “And what's going to stop me from leaving once we're married?”
“The fact that you will have responsibilities as the wife of the Duke of Parrington. There is a great deal of good you can do with the power of that title and the Carrow wealth. I do not think your good deeds were a sham. You genuinely wanted to do good in the world, and I am betting on the fact that after you get over your childish pique that you remember that. You have an opportunity to do some good, and it is one that will sit unused if you do not use it. I am banking on the fact that you will not turn your back on that.”
“You have a great deal of faith in me.”
“I do.”
The worst part was that Tristan had the right of it. If she became the wife of the Duke of Parrington, Tristan would not be able to marry again while she lived, not unless he sought a divorce, and she knew he would not do that. It was the most insidious of traps because it would not even be a bad life. It might be a strained one, with her and Tristan at odds on a regular basis, but it would be one where she could do some good.
The only way to prevent it, then, was to avoid marrying him in the first place, but her cousin had taken pains to make sure that was well-nigh impossible. The horses were kept under strict watch, and wherever Blythe went in the house, she could feel the eyes of the servants. She needed to leave, but they didn't know her here. They had no reason to help her, none at all, and she could feel the world closing in on her. Every day that passed made it more and more likely that Tristan would receive the special license soon, and then her fate would be sealed. He could simply summon the vicar from Westbury, and then it would be done.
She was returning home from a walk in late afternoon, her brain feeling like porridge and still no solution to her problem. The winter was finally beginning to break, and there was a breath of warmth in the air, which made her feel at least a little better. She started to the front door, but then she stopped stock still, staring at the coach in the drive. It wasn't Tristan's coach, nor was it any vehicle that was kept on the Grange. Instead, it could only belong to a stranger, and in that, Blythe felt a wild hope.
I don't need to get far. I only need make it to Westbury, or perhaps to Collinsville, which is farther from London but at least away from here.
Her mind filled with the 101 things that were needed to travel, let alone to travel alone as a lady, but she knew in an instant she could not gain them. That would mean returning to the house and risking discovery. No, she had to leave, and she had to leave now.
She made her way to the coach, circling the matched team of bays and discovering the coachman wasn't in attendance. He had probably sneaked off to the kitchen to beg a bite to eat, and his negligence was certainly going to work in her favor. It was the work of a moment to unbolt the coach's door, and opening it as little as she could, she slid inside. It was like all the other coaches she had ever been in; there was a hollow space underneath the padded bench. The space was usually used for extra baggage, but it was empty today. Closing the door behind her, Blythe sat on the floor of the coach and wiggled her way underneath the bench and behind the flat slats that supported it. The curved sides of the coach itself left her precious room to maneuver. If she were a bigger woman, she would not have been able to manage it at all. Instead, with just a bit of wiggling and one slightly torn hem, she was able to tuck herself under the bench seat, curling up so that every part of her was confined.
From where Blythe now sat, she could not see above the opposite seat, and with the evening gloom coming on, she ought to be at least marginally shielded by the deep shadows.
Whenever the coach stops for the night, I can sneak out. I have a little money on me, perhaps we'll stop at a Royal mail coach station and someone will extend me some credit on my vast fortune.
She knew very well how she looked. Even if her clothes were of a fine quality, ladies of quality, and especially heiresses as she was meant to be, did not travel alone.
Well, I have certainly taken bigger risks. I just need to get back to London. Thomas and Georgiana will hide me. Perhaps I can hire a lawyer who can sever Tristan's guardianship over me. Surely, there must be a way to do that?
Blythe knew better than to count her chickens before they were hatched, but she couldn't help thinking of Thomas and how soon she might be back in his arms. Then she heard the coachman call to his horses, tending their tack harness in preparation of their departure. There was a murmur of male voices, and then the door of the coach opened. In the dimness of the coach, she saw a pair of shining black boots and fashionably cut buckskin breeches, and the presumed owner of the coach settled into the seat across from her.
Blythe held her breath, willing the man to fall asleep or to stare out the window, anything but notice the young woman who hidden under the opposite bench. The coach started to bump its way down the road, and Blythe's eyes widened. Was it possible that this was going to work?
She felt as if with every bump in the road, every surreptitious breath she took, she was going to give herself away. Then half an hour became one hour, and one hour became two, and slowly, Blythe began to believe she might get away with it. The owner of the coach stirred from time to time, but it seemed as if he was largely dozing or simply resting.
Just stay like that for the rest of the ride. I'll sneak out at the first stop, and no one will be any the wiser.
If it had worked like that, she might have been back in London in a single day, but close to full dark, the man suddenly yawned mightily, stretching out his legs as far as they would go. That meant extending them into the compartment underneath the opposite bench, precisely where Blythe was hiding, and he ended up giving Blythe a sharp kick to the shin. She bit down hard on the cry, but it did not escape the man that he had managed to kick something where properly there should only have been space.
“What the devil—?”
Blythe yelped as she was unceremoniously dragged out from under the bench seat, and then she found to her shock that she was looking into the face of Gerald Forth, Lord Cottering. The last time she had seen him had been at the Portings' ball, and she had certainly not expected to see him again.
“Why, Miss Dennings!”
She blinked at his tone of complete happiness. “Lord Cottering. I am sorry to say I find myself in need of a rescue.”
He nodded. “Well, perhaps despite us getting off to a rocky start, you will let me be your rescuer. Where to, Madame?”
She smiled with relief. “London. I assume you were going there anyway. What were you doing at Marrowly Grange?”
To her surprise, Lord Cottering looked down ruefully. “I'm afraid I acted a little rashly. A friend of a friend told me you and the Duke of Parrington were keeping house in Westbury, and I thought I would come to press my case to gain your hand in marriage.”
“My lord, I am very sorry, but I do not make any promises. I will not marry anyone, and—”
To her surprise, he held up his hand, nodding in understanding. “I will not deny you this. Love does not insist upon its own way. Perhaps if I do you a good turn, you will look upon me kindly in the future.”
“Of course.” Despite how comforting those words were meant to be, Blythe wondered at the rill of discomfort that ran up her spine. There was something about Lord Cottering's willing response that sat oddly with her, but she dismissed it. If he would only get her to London, she would think well of him indeed.
“Thank you very much for your aid, Lord Cottering.”
“Please, call me Gerald, and I shall call you Blythe.”
“Of course,” she said again, and she took the seat opposite him. She could do this until they got to London. It would be fine. Lord Cottering smiled at her, and tentatively, she smiled back.