by Susan Kaye
Mr. Musgrove was the first to regain his senses and begged them both to take a seat. “You look weary to the bone. Let me call for some supper to be brought.”
“I am sure Miss Anne could do with something, but if you please, sir, I intend to return to Lyme tonight. I will beg some grain and water for the horses and then I shall be off.” Bloody damn coward, be off and leave her to tidy up your mess.
The feed was called for and he bid them goodnight. Relieved to be departing the scene, he went to see to the horses.
They were baited and he again began tugging, shaking, and wrenching the carriage and harness. He worked around a groom removing the feedbags and another lighting the carriage lanterns. As they gathered their materials, one remarked that the Captain was fortunate the promised rain had cleared off. Only wishing to be on his way, he bid them goodnight and made another round of the chaise.
The silence was excruciating. This was the first occasion he could remember being anywhere near Uppercross when all around him was quiet. He would give his soul for some of the customary chaos to drown out his nagging guilt. However, all around him was the cold calm of a clear November night.
Taking a last look at the quiet house, he saw Anne standing in the window. The cosy light of the living room framed her, and he took comfort that she was safely home, warm and out of harm’s way. He wondered how long she had been watching him. It mattered not; he was certain any accord that might have been resurrected between them was now impossible since she was a witness to his undoing of Louisa Musgrove. She was too good a woman to desire a connexion with the man he was proving to be. Her good opinion would never be restored.
He reluctantly looked away as he entered the chaise. As soon as he took his seat, his backside protested another three hours of the hard bench. Just as he was about to head out, a small old woman hailed him.
“Sir!” She waddled along, clutching something to her bosom and carrying a small bag. “The lady said to see you had these before leavin’.” Straining to lift the items to him, she continued: “The blanket’s been warmin’ by the fire. Sit on it now, and when it loses its heat, wrap yorn legs good an’ snug. There’s a jug o’ small beer, an’ a good slab o’ venison, an’ some Cheshire an’ bread in the bag.”
The blanket was the most welcome item. The notion that Mrs. Musgrove would take time from her own sorrows touched him and deepened the already profound guilt. He realised that from this day forward every encounter with the Musgroves would be tainted with self-reproach.
The old woman was on her way back to the house. Wentworth called to her: “Tell Mrs. Musgrove all the provisions are very much appreciated.”
She stopped, turning to him. “Oh, the Missus is as fine a woman as there is, but she’s in no fit state to be callin’ for vittles to be took to travellers. It were Miss Anne saw you was took care of.” With a quick nod towards the house, the woman turned and bustled in earnest toward the door.
Looking where she suggested, he saw Anne still in the window. Of course, Mrs. Musgrove was grieving for her injured daughter and too consumed to see to the comfort of the man responsible. Anne met his gaze full-on, and he knew she studied him as closely as he studied her.
“God, Anne, what have I done to us?” he said aloud. There was nothing to do but return to Lyme. “Walk on,” he urged the horses.
Looking back, he saw that she was gone. No, he would never have her good opinion again, but he would take comfort in the fact that she cared enough to see him warm and fed.
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End of Book 1
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