by Daria Vernon
“Does the country around us not look familiar?” he asked.
“It’s familiar enough.” Her voice dropped to a more somber tone. “How did you find out where Greenthorne was?”
Dread tugged at Rhys’ throat. “I overheard people speaking of it when I was in town. News of your disappearance had spread. You must be very well-missed.” She didn’t respond.
A small flock of birds near the roadside scattered as they rode past. Rhys watched them launch themselves, chaotic, into the sky before falling into harmonious order and disappearing.
“Greenthorne,” she said, finally, as though to no one in particular.
“What’s it like there, Beth?”
“The lane will be marked with a sign, and oaks will shade the way. You’ll know it by the wide gravel yard in front. The home faces north and the carriage house is right across.” Her voice was marked by a certain wistfulness that wrung his heart.
“I’m sure I’ll find it just fine.” She was quiet again. He couldn’t bear another hour of quiet. “What’s it like there for you? What do you love most about it?”
“The stables.”
“Really? The stables?”
Her laugh puffed out weakly. “You wouldn’t be so surprised if you saw them. It’s where my horse, Cutter, is kept.”
“And is there a pond?”
“There is.” She didn’t turn to show her face to him, but there was smiling in her words.
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s overrun with antagonistic geese. Approaching it safely calls for a measure of stealth. Should you be so unfortunate as to meet them, you have to open your arms up wide and make strange noises to prove your superiority.”
He laughed. “Sounds adventurous.”
“It felt that way when I was young, but now that I’m bigger than them, it feels more like a nuisance.”
“Is there no adventure for you when you’re home?”
Her back fell against him as she sighed deeply.
“It was easier to find trouble when I was younger.” She patted his thigh and left her hand there. “Now trouble must find me.”
Her offhand affection threw him off guard. Never had it occurred to him that she might have gained more from all of this than just a strange bedfellow. There was tenderness when she spoke of trouble—had she gained something of herself? Wouldn’t anyone, who had fought their way through such a thing?
No. Only her.
She squeezed his thigh.
Something was different. Some difficult tangle had come undone in the bond between them. The weavers of fate had reworked the thread they shared into a taut, direct strand—one that could be plucked to render some exquisite note belonging solely to them. He could feel half of that note starting to ring out inside himself, unfamiliar and frightening. The vibrations sent a sickness through him at the thought of their parting.
He squeezed her close, inadvertently pushing a weak cough from her. She wasn’t well. His own shirt clung to him with sweat from where her fiery body lay against him. He reached for the water bladder that dangled from his saddle and passed it to her.
“Here, you should drink more.”
She took it and drank deeply.
He brushed his lips against her tropical neck. The bow of her necklace’s ribbon caressed his chin.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For the kiss?”
“For the necklace. For returning it.”
“A man shouldn’t be thanked for returning something he’d taken wrongly. What does it depict?”
“My Aunt’s home. As much a home to me as Greenthorne. I was traveling from there when you—when we met.”
“If it’s been painted with any accuracy, then it must be a very beautiful place.”
“My aunt painted it herself actually. And very well.” Beth toyed with the pendant. “She did many things, and she taught me all of it. Painting, riding . . . poetry. That little notebook I had—it—it had some of my—”
Rhys’ hand tightened on the rein as Beth haltingly closed in on the topic he most wished to avoid.
“Some of the poems I wrote in my last days with Aunt Dahlia and—”
“I don’t have it, Beth. It was lost and I’m so very sorry for it.”
Beth nodded against his shoulder and fell quiet. Not just quiet, but still.
Rhys returned to lamenting the silence—bitter that it should sail in on the tide of one of his many mistakes.
The sun rose high and the shadows of the clouds slid over the moorlands while Beth drifted off. Rhys pulled his hat low as a farmer passed.
He was looking ahead on the road when Beth’s slackened body abruptly jerked in his arms, the way a child might lurch from a nightmare. She twisted, as best she could, to see him.
“You can’t leave me without a proper goodbye.” Her dark irises quivered with intensity as she clutched at his lapel. He hadn’t seen her eyes like that since she’d threatened to throw herself down into the gully. He stopped their horse.
“Beth, what do you mean?” His gentle tone was helpless to soothe her.
“We’re getting close, and I can barely stay upright. I need you to promise me that you’ll wake me to say goodbye. We have to say goodbye. Promise me!”
“Beth,” he said, putting a gloved hand to her cheek. Her eyes widened with heartbreak, making clear that his apologetic inflection had been understood.
“I don’t care if you think it’s right or helpful. I want you to do it. I want you to—because of the forest and our folly—the maenad told me—said that she would keep it secret . . .” Beth’s head lolled and Rhys’ hand was there to catch it. The nape of her neck sent heat right through the leather of his glove. His Beth, ever cold and shivering was now burning up.
“Just promise me—promise—” The power of her voice kept waxing and waning. “Because we were—we are . . .”
He leaned over to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. He stroked her back slowly, firmly, until her frenzied gasping settled. When he pulled away, her eyes still swam with pain.
She moved her lips again. Promise me.
“I promise,” he said. “We’ll have our goodbye.”
The words freed her limbs from their rigidity. She nodded. He would swear he saw a clarity of mind reenter her expression, but she fell against him, exhausted.
They rode on.
Rhys wanted to hear more about her geese and her home. He wanted to know what her father was like and if she had other family. He wanted the two of them to think hard and remember her poems together, but of course he hadn’t even let her know he’d read them.
As they neared Bartswell, she didn’t wake once. He tried to rouse her to take some water but she wouldn’t fully come back to him. Shaking her elicited naught but groans, each more pathetic and mousy than the last. Helplessness bore down on him, making his neckcloth tight and unbearable. He’d seen sailors this sick before. Most now rested below the water.
It no longer mattered who they passed or shocked. He had to get her home. He urged the horse to run as often as the beast could manage, and even that brutal gait could not stir her now.
The horse was spent a demi-hour before they arrived. The slowness of the final mile was akin to torture as Rhys watched Beth fall away from the world before his eyes.
And some of the last words they might ever exchange were about his having lost her dear book. He searched his mind for her lovely words. Something about the bravery of flowers . . .
The courage of a flower
When a storm beats down . . .
When beaten, No. Pummeled—
Fuck.
He looked down at Beth. A rosy blush bridged over her fine nose, stark against her pallor. He’d never thought of flowers as bold, but perhaps they might be. Perhaps showing their brilliant
colors and standing up to hard weather was more than most could do. Even when a petal could be torn off by one malicious pinch, that was no fault of the flower.
Selfishly, he prayed for one last smile to part on. One more pat on his leg as she joked. One word—anything.
And then there it was. The happy sign, pointing the way to Greenthorne. Taking her away from him forever.
There was the lane of oaks, as promised.
Riding up the row seemed a curious combination of a march to the gallows and a walk down a cathedral’s nave. The dappled sun passed through the branches overhead, painting them in a cheerful light, which their situation did not deserve.
The lane opened into the vast gravel yard, as promised. The stone carriage house to the right. The residence to the left. It was two stories. Stone masonry. Not even twice as large as his folly. He scoffed at himself—at the visions of splendor that had once poisoned him into thinking to rob her. This was it. Her Greenthorne. Its only real value was that it was hers.
There was a sudden paralysis at the thought of riding forward.
He looked down at Beth where she breathed peacefully against his chest. Cradling her against him, he pushed the sweat-slicked hair from her face. Her eyelashes fluttered against his palm, and he hoped he might be looked at by those deep, dark pools one last time.
Disappointment instead.
He bent his head over her.
“Beth,” he whispered. “We have to say our goodbyes, remember?”
He squeezed her shoulder. Making it end would be his responsibility alone, and he didn’t know how to do it. Their final moments would be left like blank pages at the end of a book.
He kissed her cheek and straightened in his seat. The ghostly hands of doubt that held him back released him to ride onward.
Rhys didn’t have to reach the door before he heard shouts muffled behind an upstairs window.
“Oh it’s her! It’s her! Bless the Lord, it’s her!”
The commotion compounded rapidly, and soon the door burst open so forcefully that the woman who flung it open near tumbled. She screamed over her shoulder, “Mr. Clarke!”
Rhys hoped he was ready for this.
The aproned woman straightened and covered her mouth in astonishment before bursting into tears. A few other household servants congregated hesitantly by the door. Rhys shifted in the seat as they all studied him. He didn’t know what to say to urge them forward.
A tall old gentleman pushed his way out past the servants. The tails of his banyan flew out behind him as he strode quickly, but unevenly, to the horse. He looked not to Rhys at all but collapsed against Beth’s knee where she sat, and wept into her leg.
Rhys stayed perfectly still, allowing the reunion to unfold without his disruption. At last the man lifted his head, seemingly grabbed by a thorn of panic.
“Does she—is she breathing?” He looked into Rhys’ eyes for answers, horrified.
“Yes, but she’s been in and out of consciousness. She needs to be abed immediately.” Rhys called over the man’s shoulder to where the servants had piled up by the door. “Help me get her down.” Attendants rushed to his side, eager to be of use.
There was no time yet for explanations, and Mr. Clarke did not yet seek any. The old man’s eyes were fretfully affixed to his daughter.
Rhys helped to pass her down from the saddle. He held her neck steady as a footman and a boy from the carriage house guided her down. His thumb brushed against her damp neck one last time and then she was taken from him. He had no excuse, no reason to ever be near to her again.
Even in the commotion, she didn’t stir.
Rhys slid off the horse and watched remotely as the whole pack of people carried her carefully to the door. The sight arrested him—she was very loved.
It’s done. Leave it.
He was about to step back into his stirrup when Mr. Clarke turned and hurried back to him. The man took Rhys’ hand in both of his.
“Thank you, oh thank you. Did you see our bid for help in the journal in Hull? Please come in. How can I repay you?”
He returned Mr. Clarke’s warmth by grasping his arm. The old man’s nervous tremors threatened to shake him to the ground. Rhys took the man by the elbow to support him as they walked to the door.
Beth’s father put a hand over his heart while he collected himself. “I’m Mr. Clarke.”
Rhys swallowed hard. “Osbourne Booker. And there’s nothing required. I am glad to see your daughter safe.”
“Are you a thief-taker, Mr. Booker? A constable? Or just a kind citizen?”
“None. I happened, thankfully, upon her by pure serendipity.” Then a strange thought came into Rhys’ mind as if whispered by a spirit. “But I was on my way to London to take a position at the Home Office.”
Rhys stopped at the house’s threshold. If he crossed it, he’d have to answer a great many more questions. How long before an answer came out wrong?
“Please. Forget about me and go be with your daughter. She’s been through a great deal.”
Mr. Clarke looked over his shoulder at the frantic servants who ran up and down the stairs behind him. Then he looked back to Rhys. The anxiety rending the man between two places seemed great, and Rhys wanted nothing more than to relieve him of the burden.
“Only tell me first, what happened to her?”
Rhys inhaled sharply in discomfort. It was difficult to look into the earnest concern of Mr. Clarke’s eyes and tell untruths.
“To my understanding, a traveling companion betrayed her. Had aims to elope.”
Mr. Clarke’s eyes widened, only briefly, before his lips drew flat and he nodded.
Rhys looked down, calculating how much to omit to make the rest as truthful as possible.
“She escaped from a horrible captivity, and I found her, and helped her here. But please, Mr. Clarke. She hasn’t been very well since then.”
The man’s wrinkled face twisted up in anguish—the upstairs room still clearly calling to him.
“Have you ridden far? We can offer refreshments, at least.”
“I only wish that I could see Miss Clarke restored to health.” Rhys tipped his head. “Go to her.”
Rhys extracted himself from Mr. Clarke’s kind grip and retreated toward his horse, whose reins were held dutifully by a stablehand.
Rhys placed a hand on the saddle and paused. Beth’s warmth still radiated from the front of the seat. “Actually . . .”
Mr. Clarke eagerly turned at his word.
“There is one thing I’d like to do.”
“Yes?” The man’s voice was all hope.
“Let me ride for a doctor.”
Mr. Clarke’s bleak eyes alit at the suggestion. “Oh yes, please. There’s a man, Wrifflewall, down the lane away from Bartswell. I will send a man out with further directions immediately.”
Rhys nodded. “Thank you. Go.”
The man disappeared.
Rhys swung himself into the saddle and looked up. The room at the upstairs corner now glowed even brighter with a fire. Shadows crossed back and forth, but the activity was less frantic now.
She would be well cared for. She would lead a happy life.
Goodbye, Beth.
What a grace it was to have an errand. To somehow serve her still.
Rhys rode like the devil, cutting across the countryside to find the physician’s home a few miles off. It was a way to keep the pain at his back for just a moment longer. He couldn’t bear to anticipate the feelings that might overtake him once his usefulness ran out. Couldn’t imagine what he’d do after sending the doctor off. Who he’d be. This was his final tie to her, and it would shortly be severed.
His memories twisted around her without control or direction. Her laughter with a flask of gin at her lips. Her hand on his thigh. His hand on hers . . .
What if he’d gotten her with child? What if he’d secured for her a new era of ruin? What if she didn’t survive? Rhys shook his head violently but couldn’t keep the terrible thoughts from sticking to him like nettles.
As he rode across the fields, the icy wind cut his face like glass.
It made it hard to tell—was it sweat or something else that streaked back from his eyes?
Chapter 14
Beth leaned against Rhys and patted his leg. They burst out of the forest, galloping together into a beautiful lea. It rained steadily from a cloudless sky. Nothing made a sound. Not the rain, nor the hooves of their steed tearing across the heather. She turned to look up at him—at his stubble-framed lips parting around the gleaming crescent of his smile. Laughter and joy pulled blissfully at her eyes. Still no sound. She reached out as if she could somehow find his laughter suspended in the air. He leaned down, and his smiling lips moved with words that never reached her . . .
Beth inhaled and caught something familiar in the scent—rose water? She slid her legs back and forth between the soft, crisp surfaces, swimming in them. Was she swimming? No. There was no water. There was fire though. She could hear the little snaps of it. She smelled pine. No. There was no pine. None. Her body jerked. Her eyes popped open. Her heart raced.
She was ready to fight. To fight people. To fight wolves.
But she was only in her room.
In Greenthorne.
Alone.
With that snapping fire.
“Papa?” Her voice hardly croaked the word out.
She squinted at the wintery sunlight that slanted between her curtains. Her shift clung to her unpleasantly. Something began to grip her from within. Something she couldn’t quite reach yet through the fog.
Something—
Rhys.
Her body surged from the bed, and she remained upright even as her knees buckled. She tore open the curtains. There was no sign of him down in the yard.
She staggered from the room, barefooted.
Somewhere in a distant part of the house, she heard Mrs. Brimble’s voice. “Mr. Clarke, I think—come quick.”
