‘I’ve ordered tea in your room. I’ll pack our things and we’ll decide what to do,’ Bet said, as if being thrown out onto the streets on Christmas Eve was an everyday occurrence.
As Bet bustled around the bedroom, Hannah sat at the little table, staring at the now-cold tea. An unopened envelope protruded from beneath the tea tray, and she pulled it out, turning it over in her hands.
Her name was written in copper plate on the envelope and when she cracked the seal and pulled out the stiff gilt-edged invitation card, she gasped. It was an invitation to Lady Darlington’s Ball.
She had assumed that as Sophie’s chaperone, her attendance was expected, not invited. Now she read it carefully and in some confusion. It was not a duplicate invitation intended for Sophie. Her own name was inscribed on it. She had been invited in her own right.
Fabien would be there, of that she was certain. Her pulse quickened. One last chance?
She looked up at Bet and handed her the card.
‘Prepared my ball gown, Bet. I am going to a ball tonight.’
A wicked smile caught at Bet’s mouth. ‘The Honourable Sophie won’t like that.’
Hannah’s smile echoed her maid’s.
‘I do not give a fig for what the Honourable Sophie may think,’ she said.
Chapter Eight
DORSET COAST, CHRISTMAS DAY 1807
Despite the distance from the village, the bells of the village church drifted in on a cold, clear morning. The Linton women and their two servants had gone to church and Fabien was alone in the house.
Mrs.Linton had left a pile of neatly folded clothes on a chair but Fabien dressed in his ruined uniform. To be caught out of uniform might lead to allegations of spying, and that meant certain death. Better to be taken as a prisoner of war.
A razor would have been useful, but in this house of women that was too much to expect. He was vain enough to frown at his ruffianly appearance in the speckled mirror, and grimaced. Nothing to be done to remedy his vanity.
The shoes that had been provided by Mrs.Linton were well-kept and well-worn but they were a little large so Hannah had stuffed paper in the toe. Dead man’s shoes, he presumed, but he doubted William Linton would grudge him the use of his footwear.
He thought about the cost of the war and the young man whose death at the hands of his countrymen had turned the lives of these two women upside down.
He was tired of war.
When… if… he returned to France, he would set his sword down and go home to his estate.
Downstairs in the parlour, a clock struck eleven. The sooner he was away, the better it would be for them all. He donned the heavy coat Mrs.Linton had left and stuffed the grey woollen scarf into a pocket before turning to the window to check the weather.
His heart lurched at the sight of a little figure in a dark cloak running up the path, holding on to her bonnet with one hand. Hannah. They had said their goodbyes. Something had to be wrong.
He hurried down the stairs and caught her as she threw open the door. She gripped the sleeves of his great coat.
‘You have to go right now, Fabien.’
He caught her urgency. ‘What has happened?’
‘I overheard Noah telling Sir Simon that you were here. Mercifully, it is Christmas Day, and it will take him a little while to organise his men, but you must hide. You can’t take the lane. They will be coming that way.’
He shook his head. ‘Where will I go?’
‘Go to the cave where I found you. You should be safe enough there until dark and then you can work your way around the beach.’
A cold wave of fear and despair washed over him. ‘I knew I was bringing nothing but danger to you and your mother.’
Tears started in her eyes. ‘Go, Fabien, go now.’
He pulled her towards him, folding her in his arms and kissed her. Kissed her as if he intended to never let her go. She pressed against him, her need as great as his.
