With a last glance at the church, bedecked with greenery for the Christmas celebrations, Anna turned and made her way out onto the street. As she passed through the lychgate, she vowed never to look back. There must be a way that she could turn her life around. There had to be someone or somewhere that she could go where she would not only be welcomed, but she would be useful and could make enough money to support herself. But it would not be here, not in this miserable little village where the chain that bound her had finally been buried.
Feeling more than a little trepidatious, Anna turned left out of the gate, putting Sparsholt behind her, and began to walk along the rutted road that would lead her first to Winchester and then onwards towards Farnham and Guildford. She prayed that there would be some work for her in one of these places, but if there were not, then she would continue onwards towards London. It was the wrong time of year to be searching for work; employers were often too caught up with arranging their Christmas celebrations for family and friends to be doing much business, but she had no choice.
A glimmer of blue began to appear between the clouds in the sky above as she walked briskly along the road to Winchester. Anna couldn’t help but feel optimistic as the day progressed and the sun finally appeared, bathing her face in its light and gentle winter warmth. The death of her father would have made her sad, had he been the kind of father one actually mourned. With him gone, Anna now had the opportunity to create her own life in the way she wished. It would be hard work, and she knew that she would need a lot of luck, too—yet she knew, deep within, that life would get better for her.
As the miles passed, and the sun disappeared behind ominous gray clouds once more, Anna’s pace slowed, and her optimism faded. Her feet were riddled with blisters, her shoulders and arms ached from carrying her bag—even though she had shifted it from one hand to the other every half a mile or so—and she was bone-tired. She couldn’t see so much as a shack anywhere along the road, and it was nearing nightfall. Anna began to fear that she might not find a safe place to stay for the night, so she tried unsuccessfully to pick up her pace once more. The pain in her sore feet was excruciating. “Ow,” she moaned aloud. “What possessed me to think this was ever a good idea?”
Turning to look behind her, hopeful that she might see a carriage, or even a cart heading her way, Anna sighed heavily. There had been no passing traffic on the road all day, in either direction, and she could see no movement on the horizon now. She trudged on as the light grew dimmer, her pride and will sapped from the long day’s walk and the prospect of a night alone by the roadside with nothing to keep her warm or fill her belly. She stopped by the side of the road and perched on a milestone that told her she only had another three miles until she reached Winchester. She could be there in two hours, maybe even less than that if she could forget how much her feet hurt and walk faster. It would be after dark, but at least she would be surrounded by houses and inns. Someone would surely be kind enough to take her in if she offered her services, cooking and cleaning, in return for a bed?
Wearily, she stood up, stretched, fidgeted her feet a little in her boots, grimacing at the discomfort, and then set off once more. Her progress was slow, and she winced with every step, but she kept pushing on. “I’ll be there in no time,” she repeated to herself over and over again—wishing with her every breath that it were true. She couldn’t have traveled more than another half a mile when there was, finally, the sound of hooves and wheels coming along the road behind her.
Anna stopped and turned around. A large black shape was hurtling along the road, rocking and swaying as it fairly flew over the potholes and ruts in the road. The driver on the box was clad all in black, and he was whipping up his team of two with loud cries and rapid cracks of his whip. He didn’t look to have seen her, so Anna stepped into the road a little and waved her hands wildly, praying he would stop and take her into Winchester. But as the carriage approached, Anna could see that he had no intention of stopping. The driver did not quit urging his horses onwards, and the phaeton approached her at a reckless speed.
Anna tried to step back out of the way, but her left heel caught in her skirts. Normally, she would have been more than capable of coping with such a mishap, but she was so weary that her balance seemed to have deserted her and she fell, tumbling into a ditch by the side of the road. She fell heavily onto the knee of the leg that was caught up in her skirt, and she heard a sickening crack as her body finally came to rest. She clutched at her leg and moaned. The pain was excruciating, and she tried to get up. She sobbed, though no tears fell onto her cheeks. It was as if her body was too tired even to do that.
Nobody would ever find her here; she hadn’t seen the ditch from the road herself, so she couldn’t expect anyone else passing to see it—to see her. If she could at least get back onto the road, somebody might pass by. All she had left was hope, and there was precious little of that available to her—but she must do all she could to at least try to be seen, to be rescued. She pushed herself up on her weary arms and tried to grab hold of some of the wet grass on the bank to pull herself to her feet, but before she’d even tried to put weight on her bad leg, she collapsed back to the ground with a piercing scream.
“How am I ever to get out of here?” she moaned as she cradled her leg once again, and the tears finally began to fall. “I could die here. I must not be so weak. If I have to drag myself out of this dratted ditch, then that is what I must do.” Taking a deep breath, she began to claw her way up the bank. The aches in her arms, her shoulders, and her back had been bothering her all day, but they had been nothing to the ferocious burning in her muscles now. Anna gritted her teeth, growling and screaming as she needed to, in order to get herself back onto the road. She was breathless and spent when she finally made it. Her head dropped to the floor, her chest heaving with the exertion, her body paralyzed by the pain that seemed to have taken over every part of her. She had done what she could. It would be up to God and the Fates to decide if it were enough.
Chapter Two
“She threw a glass of wine in my face and told me, quite rightly, that she never wished to see me again,” Edward, Lord Westerham said with a grin, leaning back against the plushly upholstered seats in his godmother’s luxurious landau as they made their way to Winchester for Sunday Mass. His audience reacted as they so often did when he recanted the tales of his misdeeds. His father, opposite, smirked with suppressed amusement; his mother, sat beside her husband, gave him a look of exasperation; and his godmother, sat beside him, gave a resoundingly contagious belly laugh. He laughed with her as she patted his hand fondly. She always loved his stories of his exploits in London.
“Dear Edward, I sometimes wonder if we shall ever see you happily wed,” Lady Frances, Countess Tremaine said, tucking an arm through his and winking at him. He knew she did not mind if he ever settled down, as long as he was happy.
Lady Tremaine was what most people would call a character, Edward supposed. Eccentric, clever as anyone he’d ever met, and always quick to think and act, she did not care much for convention and certainly didn’t seem to mind that he showed little evidence of settling down—unlike his mother, Lady Frances’ oldest and dearest friend.
The two women had grown up together and had been firm friends for as long as they could remember. They had learned to ride together, to embroider and all of the other ladylike arts—though to hear them tell it, Mama had often undertaken such tasks for Lady Tremaine so that she might bury her head in the books from her father’s library. Edward had never met two people so very different, from their habits and interests to their physical appearance. It often made him wonder how their friendship had lasted so long.
Mama was tall and thin with a very patrician manner. Societal mores were important to her, and Edward doubted if she had ever set a foot out of line in her forty-nine years. She was a perfect lady, from her elegant posture to her dainty manners. She drew and painted beautiful watercolors, played the pianoforte with adequate skill
and feeling, and sang like a lark. She never argued with Edward’s father, or anyone else for that matter. She was docile and did as she was expected, was the perfect hostess, and was never late to anything.
In stark contrast, Lady Frances was short and plump. She lived life on her terms. She drank port and smoked cigars—often refusing to leave the dinner table after supper in order to remain with the men and discuss politics and economics rather than retire to the drawing-room along with the other women. She talked knowledgeably about running her estates, the country’s affairs, and could drink as heartily as any man. She was argumentative and stubborn—usually because she was so often right. She eschewed the ladylike arts, preferring to focus on what was going on in the world around her. She ran her home the way she pleased, and heaven help any man who tried to tell her otherwise. And, to her mind, punctuality was something that only ever applied to other people. Edward adored her.
Mama pursed her lips. “I do wish you would learn to be a little more circumspect, Edward,” she said. “You are getting quite the reputation for being a flirt.”
“Oh, Mama, do speak plainly,” Edward said with a grin, knowing that she would never say what she truly thought of his behavior. “I am rapidly heading towards being known as a bounder and a cad.”
“I did not say that, Edward,” Mama said with a frown. “Nor would I ever say such a thing. I hope that no child of mine would ever be even considered to be such a thing. Why can you not see that people even implying them is most detrimental to your good character?”
“Simply because it is not true,” Edward assured her. “I cannot be responsible for the ways other people might think of me, nor do I wish to be, Mama. I may possibly have let Lady Allingham think I cared more for her than I did, but I did not entirely deserve to have wine thrown in my face. I was a gentleman at all times. I cannot be held responsible for that silly ninny’s thinking I was about to propose marriage simply because I was kind enough to dance with her once and take her to supper at Almack’s.”
“He’s quite right, Harriet,” Papa said, looking up briefly from his newspaper. “The boy cannot be expected to know the intentions of every filly that he dances with, nor should he try. Young girls these days, they all seem to think that every man must be after them just because they have a pretty face and a dowry. In my day, well, things were different.”
“Of course they were, Harold,” Lady Tremaine said, rolling her eyes. “Matches were made by our parents, as they should be. And nobody ever married for love, or attraction, or tried to wheedle their way out of a match made for them by their father. We accepted our fate and married whether we liked the person or not—and we made the very best of it we could.” Her words were dripping with sarcasm. Edward had to try very hard to maintain a straight face. Papa hated to be wrong and hated it even more when it was Lady Tremaine making him feel small, though he often gave her such easy opportunities to do so.
“Now you are just being argumentative, Frances,” Papa said. “You know full well what I meant. Decisions just weren’t made on such silly nonsense as how a girl felt when she danced with a chap.”
“And it led to so many happy marriages,” Lady Tremaine said with a dramatic swoon and a heavy sigh. She giggled, unable to maintain her composure. “Too many women, like myself, Harold, ended up wed to idiots because of the old ways. I’m not saying that things have improved any—but I do think that getting to know the man you are to wed and being sure you like him first isn’t such a silly idea as you think.”
“But things haven’t really changed,” Edward said thoughtfully. “Even though it appears that there is a choice, there really isn’t for many young people today. They are pushed towards matches with people that are deemed suitable. They must have a title and wealth. They must dance well and look pretty. One’s parents still have to approve a match or both men and women face being disinherited. It may appear that there is more choice, but I don’t think there is.”
Papa nodded his agreement. “And that is why every young girl is simply falling at Edward’s feet, because he is Lord Westerham, will one day become Earl of Winterton. He has a fine estate, will inherit an even better one, and has good standing in Society. He dresses well and is handsome—and has a fortune many would be envious of. He will inherit my seat in Parliament and is friends with Prinny. Any young woman in Society is going to be pushed—by her mother and father, no less—to ensnare him.”
“I don’t disagree,” Mama said, now frowning at them all. “But I do think that because of that, Edward needs to be more circumspect in the manner in which he behaves. It does our family name no good to have him labeled as some bounder.”
“Mama, I truly do not think that I will be,” Edward assured her, reaching across the carriage to take her hand. “I am respectful, and I am polite. I flirt a little, but no more than any man should. I do not ever promise a girl anything I cannot or will not deliver. I cannot be held responsible for the silliness that they attach to those things in the privacy of their bedchambers. I can assure you that I have no intention of bringing the family name into disrepute.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her hand tenderly.
She sighed and reached out with her free hand to caress his cheek. “I do wish, sometimes, that you weren’t so handsome or charming. It will be your undoing, my darling boy.”
“I shall do my best to be sure it will not,” Edward said solemnly, then leaned back in his seat once more.
Edward glanced out of the carriage as the conversation lulled. The carriage wasn’t going very fast, as the driver was having to be extremely careful where he let the horses go. The weather in recent days had been wet and miserable. The roads were rutted, and the ditches and some of the fields on either side of the road were filled with water from the heavy rainfall overnight. It always surprised him to see what had once been green and verdant become a lake so swiftly. The flooding made the land exceptionally fertile, but it made choosing the right crops for such land more challenging for the men who made their living from it.
They passed a couple of men trudging by the side of the road, pickaxes and shovels in hand. They were clearly trying to unblock the channels that allowed the water to drain from the road into the ditches and then onwards into the streams and rivers. Their faces were streaked with mud, their clothes sodden. Edward couldn’t help feeling grateful that he was warm and dry inside the coach rather than out there in the inclement weather having to work so hard.
As they neared Winchester, there were more people on the roads, some clad in their Sunday best, others dressed for work as if it were any other day. All of them seemed to be ignoring what seemed to be a large pile of old clothes that had been left by the wayside. Edward stared at them wondering why anyone would have done such a thing. Something twitched, making the bundle move ever so slightly. Edward blinked and rubbed at his eyes, sure he must have been imagining it. The rain was coming down quite heavily again, the sound of the raindrops a cascade on the roof of the coach. The view through the carriage window was a little blurred. But when he looked back, Edward was certain that the bundle had moved again.
Perhaps it was just a rat, or something of that ilk, rummaging around to see if there was anything it might eat or that it might make use of for its nest, but Edward wasn’t so sure. He banged his silver-topped cane on the roof of the carriage to tell the driver to stop. “Edward?” his mother asked, clearly surprised that he should do such a thing when they hadn’t yet reached the church.
“I think there might be someone out there, by the side of the road,” Edward said as the carriage came to a halt and he jumped out of the door.
He hurried to where the bundle lay. As he drew closer, it was quite clear that it was a person, though their leg was poking out at a most peculiar angle. He wondered why nobody else had seemed even to see it. Those on foot were just walking by, shielding their faces from the rain. He supposed they were only in a hurry to get out of the cold and wet weather, so had little time to look around t
hem, but it seemed strange to him that they could walk by someone in need.
Kneeling beside the body, the mud soaked through Edward’s breeches. It was cold as ice and chilled him to the bone. Edward shuddered. To have met your end in such a way, in the mud, alone, was simply horrific to his mind. Edward rolled the body over and gasped.
The face that looked up at him was that of a young woman, her hair and clothes utterly caked in mud. Her skin, between the brown streaks, was as pale as milk. She was cold as ice, and her body was stiff and unyielding, as though she were dead, but Edward could see a tiny rise and fall in her chest. “It’s a young woman. She’s badly hurt—but she’s alive,” he cried out as his father clambered out of the carriage and made his way towards him.
Yes, it is Anna! What will happen to her? Check out the rest of the story in the Kindle Store! A Family for Christmas
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A Lord Undone: The Spinsters Guild (Book 5) Page 17
