But when the carriage finally rolled through the Hollyvale gates, when they carried her inside, when she was bustled into a guest chamber and overwhelmed with more ministrations, Simon was nowhere.
All through the bandaging, she gritted her teeth in pain and watched the doorway. Any moment he would stride through. He would sit next to her. He would squelch her panic with his confidence, his calmness, his strength.
Not until everyone had left and the room was black and silent did she finally cease watching the doorway.
He was not coming at all.
He did not know what to do, so he borrowed a horse and rode back to Sowerby. The house was still. A few of the windows glowed a soft white in the blackness, the light soothing and comforting, as if all was at peace in the world.
He wanted to bash his fists into something.
Intosomeone.
Lord, what do I do?He entered the house, found Mr. Wilkins in a rickety hall chair outside the children’s servant chamber, and inquired if anything had been amiss.
“All is well and quiet,” assured the butler, stifling a yawn.
Simon yawned too, but he was not tired. Nervous energy ticked through him, rushing the blood to his face, as he left Sowerby as quickly as he had come.
Now what?
He had to do something. Perhaps find the driver, the little weasel of a man, and rip him apart until all the truth came spilling out.
Until Simon knew, once and for all, who had been orchestrating everything.
Riding with the night wind whipping at his face, Simon leaned forward and gained speed. Air roared in his ears. He was entangled too deep. Mother was endangered. His children.
Miss Whitmore.
Ever since he’d fled Hollyvale, he had resisted her. He had fought away the images of her body crumpled in the carriage. The memory of her against him. The words he only now let surface again:“Perhaps you need someone to suffer with you.”
Why that comforted and enraged him, he did not know.
He was afraid.
Perhaps because part of him wanted to need her. Or heaven help him, already did.
Every second in this house fissured her with more apprehension. Nothing appeared amiss. Nothingwasamiss.
For the first two days, she had kept to her chamber and been delivered all her meals on a Hollyvale-crested silver tray. The doctor came both mornings. Mr. Oswald sat with her during the day, denying any interest in shooting and billiards with the other male guests.
Instead, he read aloudPrisoner of Chillon,though more often than not he laid the book down to make charming remarks or deep revelations about her character.
She was too ill at ease to find witty responses to any of them.
She only smiled, without luster, and nodded him back to the poem.
Now, on the afternoon of the third day, she sat in the drawing room in the evening candlelight, the floral smell of beeswax and cherry brandy heavy on the air.
Mr. Oswald and another gentleman played baccarat at a round card table in the corner of the room, while Eleanor Oswald entertained three listening girls and two eager gentlemen with an impressive account of Buenos Aires.
The others occupied chairs and chaise lounges, while a disinterested couple played a melancholy duet on the pianoforte. The tune sucked her in, its pull suffocating. Why was she here?
She should have allowed Simon to take her to the hunting lodge, where at least she would have been comforted by the familiar affections of kind Mrs. Fancourt.
Better yet, she should be home. Did she imagine running from her fears of the stranger would make it go away? How did she ever expect to uncover the truth if she did not face him?
She owed it to Papa to be brave.
