“I wish to know why she was killed.”
Isabella shook her head. Hot tears came again. She could not think of that night.
“If you could but enlighten me … if you could but tell me anything she said … if she regretted …” The man’s deep voice shuddered and he leaned over the bed, hands clasped. “Tell me now. I must know.”
“Lord Livingstone, my daughter is distraught—”
“And my daughter is dead.” Lord Livingstone’s mouth twitched as he forced himself to take a step away from the bed.
Pity wrung through Isabella’s body as she drew the bed linens closer to her neck. “She … was kind to me.” Her courage tried to fail, but she spoke the words anyway, turning her face into the pillow. “She died trying to help me escape.”
Silence swept through the room for several seconds, then Lord Livingstone departed the chamber.
Father slipped to Isabella’s side. He rubbed her face, smoothed back her hair, kissed her forehead in ways that would have solaced her before.
Now his presence did nothing more than add to her pain.
“We shall not speak of it again, my dear.”
You forced William away.
“Tomorrow we shall journey home. You shall feel better then.”
I shall never feel better.
Yet again he pressed a kiss on her brow. “I love you, my dear. All shall be well. I promise.”
He was wrong in every sense. He did not love her. He could not love her. Had he ever loved anyone in his life? Did a man who could feel nothing for his own wife even understand the word?
She did not know. She only knew Father’s promise was in vain.
Nothing would ever be well again.
“A mite better you look.” In the glow of a single tallow candle, a soft smile crinkled Mr. Abram’s eyes. He handed over a gruel of oatmeal boiled in brine. “Here. You best be fillin’ your belly with another bowl.”
William chuckled as he accepted the steaming earthenware. “If I stay here a day longer, I shall begin to look like one of those paunchy dandies who are always stealing hearts in the London season.”
“As I be always tellin’ ol’ Sunshine, a hearty appetite makes for a merry soul.”
Merry? William spooned the warm gruel into his mouth, but it had difficulty sliding down his throat. When was the last time he had been merry? The seashore with Isabella? Or had he only been pretending—because he knew it would soon be ending?
He leaned back against the wall of the cottage, eating his supper and half listening to more of the old man’s stories.
Gratitude overwhelmed William, but also remorse. He had not meant to stay so long. Indeed, tonight made five days since he had arrived—and delayed the man’s journey.
But Mr. Abram only shrugged, said he had plenty of time to get to Ogden Wells, and insisted he’d rather have a few more days with his wife’s grave, anyway.
The time had given William back his strength. He was clean again, his wounds were soothed with herbs and bandages, and his stomach no longer suffered from hunger gnaws. Besides that, Mr. Abram had given him an old shirt, coat, and trousers.
William was a new man.
At least, he wanted to be. He wanted to forget everything, every place he’d ever been, everybody he’d ever loved, and start anew.
“Did you hear me, Mr. Kensley?”
William snapped up his head. “Forgive me. My mind was elsewhere.” He lowered his spoon back into the bowl. “And you must no longer call me Mr. Kensley. William shall do well.”
“Then Nash you shall be callin’ me, Mr.—” Nash grinned with pink cheeks. “I mean, William.”
