The Chase

by Sara Portman

  Chapter Eleven

  Juliana remained quiet as Mr. Rosevear and Mr. Finn went about the business of obtaining the sole available horse. The elderly man in possession of the animal began with a greedy gleam in his eye and seemed to anticipate a lengthy negotiation, but Mr. Rosevear simply agreed to the first exorbitant price. Mr. Finn was saddled and on his way to London in almost no time at all.

  Mr. Rosevear and Juliana returned to the public house to learn they had been too quick about their business and the promised cottage was not yet prepared.

  “Could we not go there now and you can send the girl around when she’s available?” Michael asked. He held a hand toward Juliana. “As you can see, we’ve had a bit of an ordeal and I think my wife would like to sit and rest a while.”

  At Michael’s invitation to do so, the proprietor looked Juliana up and down, taking in all aspects of her disheveled appearance. She lifted her hands to gather her loose hair and twist it over her shoulder.

  “I suppose.” The man clucked his tongue and wiped his hands on his apron. “Follow me.” He led them out the back door and along a pebbled path to a smaller structure of the same stone as the main building. It had a thatched roof and a small door that required Mr. Rosevear to duck particularly low in order to enter. Inside was a simple square room with a dusty wooden floor. A large stone hearth dominated the space—so much so that Juliana guessed the building’s original use was as a detached kitchen. Now the space looked mostly neglected, though there were two mismatched chairs facing the fire, a trestle table against the wall with a single bench on one side, and a small bed against the wall opposite the table. The room was dusty and dark, but Juliana examined the corners checking for signs of mice or rats. She didn’t see evidence of unwanted residents. When she’d slept on the floor the previous night, their room had not been on the ground floor and was thankfully clean. She hoped for the same here, even if she had to clean it herself.

  The introduction to their accommodation did not take long as there was not much to see. “Mary will be around as soon as she can,” their host said, his wide smile only half-full with teeth. His enthusiasm had Juliana wondering just how much Mr. Rosevear had paid for their night’s lodging.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Rosevear said. “And can you point me in the direction of where we might fetch bathing water?”

  “There’s a pail in the corner and a stream not too far behind the cottage. Mary’ll fetch it for you if you’d like.” Having delegated all of the work to Mary, their host left, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “Well.” Mr. Rosevear spun around. “I suppose we will survive. I can’t say as though I’m looking forward to a frigid stream water bath.”

  Juliana spotted the promised metal pail in the corner and went to retrieve it. “There is a hook above the fire,” she said, pointing out the charred metal hook extending from one side of the stone hearth. It was nearly identical to the one she used regularly back at home to heat water, soup, or nearly anything else in a pot. “Should I collect some water and heat it for you?”

  Mr. Rosevear shook his head. “I will collect the water. Is there only one pail?”

  It was her turn to spin, surveying the room. “Only the one, it seems.”

  “All right, then. One pail of water shall have to suffice.” He extended his arm for the pail and she held it out to him, draping the handle over his open palm. “I shall return,” he said, then glanced toward the chairs. “I suggest you brush those off before you sit.”

  Juliana looked down at her dirty and torn dress. She didn’t imagine a little dust could make it much worse, but she smiled anyway and said, “Thank you. I’ll be careful to do so.”

  When Mr. Rosevear was gone to find the stream, Juliana looked around again. There was a small pile of dust-covered firewood at the side of the hearth and flint and steel on the mantle, so she went about setting a fire by which to heat the water. The task was accomplished quickly, so she looked around to see what else could be done while she waited. She walked to a small, square window on the wall opposite the door and unlatched the shutters, letting in what light could shine through the narrow opening in the thick stone.

  The evidence of dust and neglect in the cottage were only more evident with the better light. She spied a broom leaning in one corner, so she set her small bag on the trestle table and rolled up her sleeves. With no Mary in sight, there was no reason not to set the place to rights as best she could. The floor was filthy, but the chore helped her to recover her equilibrium. Focusing on something small and practical was easier than further contemplation of all that had transpired.

  “You are not housekeeper here.”

  The words startled her from her task and she looked up. She had not heard Mr. Rosevear return, but he was back, standing just inside the doorway, filling the small place with his substantial presence. She wondered how long he had watched her sweep.

  “I have offered good coin for the girl from the house to come set the place in order,” he said, walking toward the fire. She envied his strength as he easily lifted the full pail of water to hang it on the hook.

  He turned and she lowered her eyes, not wanting to be caught watching him. “It must be done,” she said, returning to her broom.

  He went to her and placed a staying hand on her arm. “You are robbing the poor maid of her wages and me the satisfaction of my chivalry.”

  She looked down at where his hand touched her bare arm where her sleeve was torn away. The contact was gentle, but in that moment, it was as though she could be aware of no other place on her body. She had such familiar contact with so few people, and mostly then as a child. He had touched her before though. He had held her when she was frightened.

  He removed his hand from her arm and she wanted to object, to tell him that she wasn’t upset by it, but she couldn’t ask him to touch her again. What sort of request would that be? He would take it as either ridiculously odd or an indecent invitation.

  He gently took the broom from her hand, swept the accumulated pile of debris out the door of the cottage, and replaced the broom in the corner.

  “I don’t mind finishing the task,” she said. “I can’t be certain we shall see the promised Mary.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said, “but we shall wait a little while and see.” He looked at the pail hanging over the fire. “It will take some time for that water to heat,” he said, “and just as long again if we want to warm another pail. The stream is relatively private and not as cold as I expected. I will bathe there and you may have the pail of warm water.”

  “I don’t…that is…” She considered offering the opposite, that she bathe in the stream and he use the warm water, but she couldn’t suggest that she bathe outdoors. She had never done that before in her life and didn’t think she was bold enough to do so now.

  He smiled, sensing her quandary. “It is decided.” He gathered a few of the things that he had carried from the damaged coach and walked toward the door of the cabin. “I will be curious to see if you have met this Mary by the time I return.”

  She returned his smile, feeling more warmed by it than she should.

  Once he was gone again, she walked to the hearth and tested the temperature of the water. It was a very full pail and not even beginning to warm, but she could not risk waiting for the luxury of hot water, when he might return before she was finished. She removed her torn, dirty dress and took the pail from its hook, not even needing to protect her hand in doing so. She removed the chemise she’d been wearing and, because she had nothing else to use, applied it as a washing cloth. She took her only other chemise—that Mr. Rosevear had called a rag—out of her satchel and put it on, despite being still damp from her washing. She then set the bucket up on the trestle table and leaned over it to wash her hair the best she could. The cold water on her scalp was more chilling than it had been elsewhere on her body and she hurried through the task
.

  Once she was finished, she wrung the excess water from her hair over the pail, and donned her other dress. With her fingers, she did the best she could to shake out her wet tangle of hair. She considered taking the brush to it, but brushing her hair was usually a time-consuming task. Since Mr. Rosevear was not yet back and there was still no sign of the elusive Mary, she went to the bed instead. She lifted the blanket to find there were linens on the bed and no visible stains or holes. She took the blanket outside to shake it out and realized quickly it would have been a better task for before she had bathed herself.

  “Miss Crawley,” came the reprimand as she shook the blanket. “You had explicit instructions.” He emerged from the path and strode toward her. The stern expression on his face was belied by softness in his eyes. “No Mary, I assume?”

  She shook her head. His complexion was brightened by the cool dip in the stream and his hair was damp. His white lawn shirt clung in the places where it, too, was damp.

  He sighed. “All right. Give it here.” He took the blanket from her and she stepped back. He shook it hard three times, sending a cloud of dust into the air that even he had to step back from. He grimaced. He shook the blanket again. With each successive shake he sent less dust into the air, so he shook it until it seemed he could free nothing more from it. They went inside together.

  He brushed off the chairs by the fire and motioned for her to sit. She did and Gelert took a spot at her feet. She reached down and touched his fur. She looked up to find Mr. Rosevear watching her. He leaned forward, looking steadily at her until she blushed and looked away.

  “Now that I have seen the sort of men who are coming after you, I must insist you tell me more,” he said. “Why won’t you tell me exactly what sort of danger you are in? It’s undeniable that you are, in fact, in danger.”

  How could she object? Surely he had earned the right to explanations. “I told you the truth when I said it was my father who sent the men. He doesn’t want me to reach London on my own because he doesn’t want me to claim my birthday present.”

  “Your birthday present?”

  Her lips curved into a sad smile. “It’s not really a present. It’s an inheritance—from my mother’s family. It’s not much, not to a marquess anyway, but it’s mine upon my twenty-fifth birthday. My father didn’t know I knew of it, but he has obviously not missed the coincidence of my leaving so near the day.”

  He leaned forward. “He doesn’t want you to claim it?”

  “Not on my own. I believe he intended to claim it on my behalf.”

  He scoffed at this. “He wants to control your inheritance?”

  She nodded. “It’s not a large sum, but I don’t think that is what’s important. He is greedy enough to want it for himself, regardless of the amount. I imagine he also wouldn’t want to grant me any measure of independence.”

  “There is a growing part of me that wishes your father had been man enough to come for you himself and that he had met Gelert in the woods instead of that filthy criminal he sent in his place.” He said it with such ferocity that she believed it, and it warmed her better than the fire could have done.

  “Thank you,” she said, staring into the flames. “I do not want to think what would have happened if you had not come after me.”

  “Any man with a conscience would have done the same.”

  She didn’t think so. Maybe in her imaginings people were regularly heroic—she had once convinced herself that her mother had left her behind to become a spy for the crown, after all—but maturity had cleared away her illusions. “I think people like the idea of being heroic,” she said, “but rarely have the opportunity, and even more rarely take it when it comes.” She turned away from the fire and looked up at where he stood instead. “Look at me,” she continued. “I am not particularly courageous. I snuck away, relied upon a stranger to protect me, and will hide from my father the rest of my life.”

  “Given what I am able to understand of your father, I would say you have been very courageous. Many women would simply have accepted their fate.”

  “As would I, but for the letter.”

  “The letter?”

  “When I was younger, just a few years after my mother left, on one occasion when my father sent me into his study to clean, I found a letter. There was a paper on his desk with my name on it and I read it. It was a letter from Mr. Peale of Hammersley, Brint and Peale, informing my father of the settlement from my mother’s family that was to be mine on my twenty-fifth birthday.”

  He took the other seat near the fire and leaned forward, resting elbows on knees as he considered her revelation. “But I thought your mother left when you were very young? How old were you when you found the letter?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not certain. Twelve, perhaps thirteen.”

  “You were a very clever child if you read the letter and understood the terms of the arrangement.”

  “I did not understand it. Not then. I knew somehow it was important, but I didn’t understand until much later.”

  “You saved it.”

  “I never saw it again.”

  “Then how did you…” Understanding dawned in his dark eyes and he peered at her. “Your memory. Do I understand that you have left your father’s house for London to meet a solicitor whose name, direction and purpose you’ve taken from your memory of a letter you saw once as a child, more than a decade ago?”

  She nodded.

  “What if your memory is incorrect?” he asked, though his tone was not unkind. “What if you misunderstood or misremembered the names?”

  She looked down at her hands. “I haven’t misremembered. It is an oddity, I know.”

  “I think it’s brilliant.”

  She looked up.

  He was smiling at her. “Brilliant.”

  The warm feeling suffused her again. She could not account for why his opinion of her was of such significance, but in that moment it seemed the most important thing. She’d been strange her entire life. Her father had told her daily how unnatural she was, but he was not the only one who believed her so. Sheltered though she may have been, she understood the looks she received from people when she ventured from home to attend services on Sunday, or the rare occasion when her father would send her on an errand. They thought she was odd—and different was always frightening to people.

  But Mr. Rosevear thought she was courageous and brilliant. Her eyes traveled over his frame as he sat, hunched forward, strong forearms resting on trouser-clad knees. The strength of his frame lent the posture an expectant air, rather than a relaxed one. She could imagine him leaping to attention at the slightest provocation. His build gave truth to the claim that his leg was not usually so limiting.

  She lifted her eyes to his face and saw that he watched her, watching him, yet still she looked. Even his face was powerful, determined—every expression borne confidently. And this man had declared her brilliant and courageous. Yes, she liked very much that he believed those things. How tempted she was to remain in his company until she, too, believed it.

  If only she could.

  She sighed.

  “How long have you understood your inheritance?” he asked. “How long have you planned to leave?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know if there was a moment in which I suddenly understood. I think it was more gradual than that. I would sit quietly in my room sometimes and wonder what the day might be like. I imagined Mr. Peale as a very magnanimous and exuberant fellow, as thrilled to finally meet me as I him, and ever so helpful.” She gave a wan smile. “I have always had the company of my imagination.”

  He reached a hand up and brushed aside a wisp of hair from her forehead. “I think you are a clever and surprising woman.”

  She only grinned back at him, not wanting to say anything that might disturb how lovely this moment felt.

&
nbsp; He spoke. “I would like to kiss you. I know that is a very unwise course in our present circumstance, but I thought I should caution you that the threat is there.” His lips quirked into a crooked smile at this admission and she found it not at all threatening.

  It felt thrilling. Her gaze fell to his mouth and the suggestion took hold of her imagination so completely she nearly felt the promised touch on her lips.

  She imagined all sorts of reprimands from her father regarding her indecency and inheriting her mother’s wantonness, and she smiled. Yes. She wanted him to kiss her very much. She had no wiles or experience with flirtation. She had no way of communicating indirectly but clearly that his kiss would be welcomed wholeheartedly.

  She had only plain speaking, so she relied upon that. “I would very much like for you to kiss me,” she breathed.

  And he did. Her invitation had barely been delivered when he swept forward, his mouth meeting hers a full moment before his arms pulled her from her chair and into his lap.

  Excitement shot through her and she knew she wanted that as much as the kiss—to be held by him, to feel his body as well as his mouth. She melted into his hold, her fingers spearing through his hair as she clung to him.

  His mouth moved urgently over hers and his hands roved her form and she thought this was the most heavenly thing she’d ever experienced. She sighed and pressed herself further into him, feeling as though she could never press close enough to satisfy the need growing in her. It was so lovely. She could spend hours doing just this. It was everything, yet the longer it lasted, the more she wanted and somehow it became not enough.

  Surely any more would be wrong. Even this was wrong. But it didn’t feel wrong. His hand closed over her breast and she sighed into him. It felt like the best thing she’d ever done. She felt desirable and womanly and excited. She felt as though she was feeding from his confidence and power after all, or rather he was feeding it to her in the sweetest, most primitive way possible.