“I don’t want your tea or your fire!” Mrs. Davidson said, but she pushed past him into the dark drawing room anyway. Gunderson followed behind her with a candle, asking her to wait in the doorway so that he might light the room.
Mathew remained in the entryway, forcing his fists to relax at his sides and taking a deep breath. He had so many questions about this odd situation, and only one woman who could provide him any answers. After calming himself sufficiently, he entered the room. Mrs. Davidson was looking out the window, her back toward him.
“Why do you think Bianca would be on my property?” he asked from the doorway.
Mrs. Davidson turned from the window, and he saw the concern on her face. It was short-lived, however, as her eyes narrowed and her accusing expression fell back into place. “She wanted to talk to you, to explain herself and all that nonsense.” She waved her hand in frustration.
Mathew’s heart soared momentarily. “Just as I requested that I might speak with her in my note this morning.” A note Mrs. Davidson had not responded to.
“It is ridiculous.” Mrs. Davidson turned back to the window and peered into the night. “The game you two have been playing is at an end. She told me everything.”
Mathew raised his eyebrows and felt the back of his neck turn cold. “Everything?”
She turned to look at him again. “Yes, everything. I know your intention was not honorable and that you were simply helping her throw off Lord Strapshire. I hope you are very pleased with yourself.”
She’d said nothing about the Incident, so perhaps she didn’t know everything. Thank goodness. “If Strapshire is finally put off, then I am pleased,” he said with conviction. “Bianca did not want his attention, and I am glad she does not have to withstand it any longer.”
“Insufferable child,” Mrs. Davidson muttered.
“She is not an insufferable child,” Mathew defended. “She is a capable and intelligent woman who wanted to make her own choice. There is nothing insufferable about that.”
Mrs. Davidson huffed. “And then you made a spectacle of her, treated her like one of your light skirts and—”
“One of my light skirts!” Mathew countered, feeling heat replace the cold along his neck. “I will not stand in my own house and be insulted by such accusations. I kissed your daughter because I love her and, though foolhardy, I do not regret the action.”
There was silence as Mrs. Davidson’s eyes went wide. The footman who had lit the fire scurried away, surely intent on telling the rest of the staff about Mathew’s declaration.
Mrs. Davidson was still staring at him. “You love her?”
“Yes,” he said, swallowing his insecurity at having made such an unexpected pronouncement, though he meant it. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again under the heavy stare of Mrs. Davidson.
“She said you would not have her, that it was all a game.”
“It was a game,” he said. “To start, but I have found her to be the most engaging woman I have ever met and, should I have had the opportunity, I would have professed such a thing to her without hesitation. It is my sincere hope that—”
A peal of thunder shook the house, and they both fell silent as the severity of the storm broke through their arguments.
When Mrs. Davidson spoke again, she did not try to hide her concern. “Are you certain she is not here, Mr. Hensley? You are not hiding her?”
“I am not hiding her.” He joined Mrs. Davidson at the window, which was sheeted with rain and radiating cold. “But if she is not at home, and she is not here . . .”
He turned to meet Mrs. Davidson’s eyes, which reflected the same fear he felt. “How long has she been gone?”
“A servant thought she heard a door close almost an hour ago. We searched everywhere before I came here.”
Mathew felt his eyes widen in alarm. “She’s been out in this weather for an hour?”
Mrs. Davidson nodded as a sheen of tears entered her eyes. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.
Mathew held her eyes a moment before taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. She was formidable, yes, and controlling, conniving, and perhaps even harsh, but she was still a mother, and her daughter was out there somewhere in the woods between her house and Mathew’s.
“We’ll find her.” He released her hand and strode toward the door. “Gunderson, have my horse saddled and every available footman given a mount.” He turned to Mrs. Davidson. “Drive into the village and rouse the constable for a search party. There’s no need to tell them you came here first and give rise to any further gossip.”
She nodded quickly and moved toward the door just as a footman entered with a tea tray. Mathew gave the man an apologetic smile before exiting the room a step ahead of Mrs. Davidson. Gunderson was already barking orders by the time Mathew began up the stairs, taking two at a time.
“Mr. Hensley.”
Mathew turned back to look at Mrs. Davidson standing at the door.
“Thank you,” she said, though he sensed it was difficult for her to say the words.
“We’ll find her,” he said in response. “We will.”
TWELVE
Bianca tripped again, but this time she fell all the way to her knees, which sunk into the mud. She slipped as she tried to right herself and wiped a muddy hand across her face in an attempt to clear the rain from her eyes. When she was standing again, she turned in a slow circle. She had started on one of the footpaths that bisected the woods between her home and Mathew’s, expecting it would be a shorter route to the road she could follow the rest of the way, but she had lost all sense of direction when the storm burst open. She had been trying to find her way back to something familiar, but no longer knew where she was.
She had abandoned the first path for another one, only to feel sure it turned her the wrong direction. There were trees all around her, but nothing that bespoke of a house nearby, or shelter. Her hands and feet were numb with cold, and it was likely only her continued movement and abject determination that kept the rest of her warm enough to continue.
Bianca moved toward the thinnest portion of the tree line, certain she would encounter the road if she walked far enough, but her steps were getting heavier now that the dirt had turned to mud and the rain had turned to a torrent.
The boots she had pinched from the kitchen—set near the fire to dry—were too big and now filled with mud and water. She didn’t dare discard them for fear of cutting up her feet on the treacherous ground, but they made every step difficult. How was it that things could turn so badly so fast? In her eagerness to best her mother as quickly as possible, she had underestimated the risks and now found herself in peril.
“I am the stupidest woman ever born,” she said to no one, then wrapped her arms more tightly around herself and slogged forward toward the thinning trees. Please let there be a road just beyond this place, she said in her mind. Please help me find my way home so that I might lick my wounds and pretend this never happened.
If she were very lucky, she could sneak into the house just as easily as she’d snuck out, and hide all evidence of her attempt.
Thunder seemed to crack the very sky, and a moment later, lightning lit up the copse of trees around her just enough for something to catch her eye with a hint of familiarity. She looked to the left, wiping the rain from her face again, and saw the posts of a fence, long since abandoned. They were not easy to see, set against the trees around them, but served as markers nonetheless.
She knew where she was! Somehow she had walked beyond the Hensley estate and found herself near Tampton’s Road. What’s more, she knew there was shelter in the woods beyond those posts. She was two steps toward the knot of trees before she remembered why she knew of that shelter in those woods, and why she had never returned.
The Incident.
She had avoided this entire section of country since that horrible day. Perhaps in daylight and good weather she could find her way home easily enough, but
such a thing was impossible in her current circumstance. A gust of wind slammed against her back, nearly toppling her and reminding her that she needed to get out of this raging storm. She could not allow embarrassing memories to keep her from the only shelter she knew to be nearby. She needed to find that woodshed!
She made her way to one of the old fence posts and braced her back against it while she wiped at her face again, her fingers getting tangled in the bedraggled strands of wet hair determined to stick to her skin. She took a breath, oriented herself to where she thought the shed should be—to the left—and took a step in that direction.
Something pulled at her boot, and she screamed, her frantic mind thinking she was under attack, only to realize that the mud at the base of the post had risen up over the top of the boot. She kept her foot inside the boot as she tried to pull free, but the mud might as well have been solid stone. She reached down and took hold of the boot with both hands, but she lost her balance when she pulled and fell backward into the mud, making a squishing kind of thwack on impact. She screamed again—this time in shock and frustration—but the sound was swallowed up in the storm that only seemed to intensify in response.
“This is madness!” she screamed into the sky, then tried not to cry as she wrestled herself to her feet. The mud that held the boot now held the hem of her dressing gown—already heavy with rain—just as tightly. She pulled the fabric from the mire only to realize it now weighed at least thirty pounds. And she’d lost the boot entirely.
It is only a short way to the shed, she told herself. She made the decision to leave all of her encumbrances behind. It was not as though her nightdress was not already soaked or her dressing gown offered her any protection. All that work redoing the hem for this! It hadn’t even been raining when she left, only windy with a touch of chill she thought would be short-lived.
Bianca had expected it to take half an hour to reach Mathew’s house and another quarter of an hour to bear her soul. Then he would surely ride her home on the back of his horse where she would slip inside feeling victorious at having bested her mother.
So much for romantic fantasy.
She undid the sash and let the sodden dressing gown fall to the ground, then she pulled her other foot free from the remaining waterlogged boot and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She ran through the trees, watching the ground in hopes of avoiding the worst of the roots and rocks and holes.
She didn’t see the tree root and threw her arms forward to catch her fall. Sharp pain shot through her shoulder, and she found herself face-first in the mud. She lifted her head and spat out mud and grass. She rose to her knees, then to her feet, and ran once more, holding her shoulder with her other hand and hoping she had not done any permanent damage.
Another crack of thunder. Another flash of lightning. Tree limbs whipped in the wind.
She saw the old woodshed. Heaven be praised!
The door had rotted from the hinges long ago, and the interior gaped like a large black maw, but she did not care. No menace lurking inside could match this tempest.
She gasped with relief when she was finally under cover, the worst of the wind slamming against the solid back wall of the shelter. She took a step further inside and rolled her shoulder. It smarted, but moved freely enough.
Now that she’d stopped running, the shivering began, and she wondered if she were being overly optimistic in her assurance that it was not cold enough for her to freeze to death. She forced herself to breathe deep and even so her mind might settle enough for her to make a plan of some kind. Surely she was not completely out of options.
On the day she’d found Mathew here all those years ago, he’d been out of options except for her. But that had been the middle of the afternoon, not at night during a tempest. No one would come to her rescue, and if they did, her humiliation could not be hidden as Mathew’s had been.
Another crack of thunder sounded, and the accompanying lightning revealed the interior of the shed. It was empty, save for some old firewood on one side and years’ worth of autumn leaves blown inside that had moldered into a kind of carpet, still mostly dry. She wanted to curl up in a corner as far from the rain as possible, but she feared what creatures might be lurking there. Instead she sat in the middle of the floor, pulled her arms inside her nightdress—careful of her injured shoulder—and pressed her forehead to her knees, which were pulled to her chest.
Should the storm let up soon, she could go back home and sneak inside. She would not be able to hide the state of her nightdress or explain her missing dressing gown without the help of the servants, but perhaps she could claim she’d simply run to the barn for some privacy and been caught unawares. Could she make the journey home without boots? Would her sense of direction be improved once the worst of the storm passed? If she went east far enough she would find Cutting Hill Road, which wrapped around the southern end of the village and would bring her to Nottingham Road, which she could take to the back of her family’s property.
And what if the storm didn’t let up? What if, come morning, she was still in this shed when her mother realized she was gone? Bianca groaned at the imagined scenario. Mama would know Bianca had set out for Mathew’s house—it had been Mama’s idea for heaven’s sake! She would go looking for her, and when she did not find Bianca there, she would have no choice but to gather the men of the village to search for her.
Everyone would know what she’d done, and a new scandal so quick on the heels of Mathew’s kiss would leave her all but ruined. Mama would never forgive her, Mathew would withdraw any warm feelings he had for her—assuming he had them at all—and she may very well never leave her house again just to avoid the whispered stares.
“She was such a nice girl when she was young,” people would say. And they would be right.
Oh, what have I done?
Bianca began rocking back and forth, unsure whether to focus on the numbness creeping into her legs or her fears of what tomorrow would bring. How had things become so horribly complicated? Mama’s words flitted back to her: “You cannot make all things right.” Indeed she could not.
Minutes passed and Bianca was still rocking, mired in regrets, when she heard something that was not wind or rain or thunder. She froze a moment, then lifted her head slowly and strained to hear the sound again, assuming she had heard anything at all.
“—onkah!”
Onkah? Be-onkah! Someone was there; someone was looking for her.
“I’m here!” she yelled, through it sounded like a paltry bit of noise amid the storm. “I’m here!”
She sprang to her feet and was in the process of trying to push her arms back through the sleeves of her soiled and torn nightdress when thunder sounded, making her jump. A moment later, lightning lit up a figure standing in the doorway of the shed.
She stood stock-still, the wet gown hanging askew upon her shoulders as fear gripped her heart. What if this were not a rescuer?
“Bianca?”
Her eyes went wide, and her mouth fell open in recognition.
“Well, well, well,” Lord Strapshire said slowly, taking a step toward her.
She stumbled backward until she fell against the back of the shed. Lord Strapshire was close enough that she could see his face. He was not smiling.
THIRTEEN
“Strapshire!” Mathew yelled into the wind, keeping his chin down just enough that the worst of the rain stayed out of his face. He scanned the area, but Strapshire was nowhere to be seen. “Where has that buffoon gone?” Mathew turned his horse around and was heading back toward the road when he thought he heard something off to his left.
Mathew proceeded slowly so he wouldn’t miss the sound again. He’d seen Strapshire disappear into these woods a moment ago. That they were near Tampton’s Road—the scene of the Incident—was not lost to him, but he did not dwell on it either.
The search party had met not quite an hour ago in the center of the village before dividing into two groups of ten men each. They we
re just dispersing when a voice called after them. Mathew had turned to see Strapshire hurrying forward on his horse; his pure while stallion was not made for weather like this.
“I shall find her!” Strapshire had proclaimed, then spotted Mathew and hurried to reach his side—friends, now, apparently. “Where do we start?”
Mathew was tempted to beg off being partnered with Strapshire, but then thought better of it. He wanted to keep an eye on this man. What was he doing here anyway? Hadn’t Mrs. Davidson said he’d finally lost interest?
They’d been searching for nearly half an hour when Strapshire, after inspecting an old fence post at the edge of a copse of trees west of Tampton’s Road, spurred his mount to meet Mathew’s. “I think we should turn back,” he said. “The storm is getting worse.”
Mathew didn’t think it was worse than it had been when they started and shook his head. “Go back if you want. I’m continuing.”
“Suit yourself,” Strapshire said before kicking his mount forward. “I’ve already searched these woods—nothing here.” He waved toward the trees Mathew had avoided and headed toward the road.
Mathew turned back to his search area, but when he looked over his shoulder a moment later Strapshire was gone. But he should have still been on the main road that would take him back to the village.
Mathew went to where he had last seen the baron, searched a small perimeter, and then moved away. He did not have time to waste looking for that idiot. Bianca could be half frozen by now. He turned from the copse of trees when a bolt of lightning lit up the fence post where Strapshire had been right before he’d said he was leaving.
Mathew saw something amid that flash of light. When he reached the post, he dismounted and bent down to take hold of the small spot of pink cloth he’d seen. Upon attempting to remove the item, however, he realized it was a much bigger article than he’d expected. Perhaps large enough to be a woman’s dressing gown, though it was nearly unrecognizable with mud.
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