And in an unexplained way, it had soothed her. The soft, deep cadence of his voice. The passion in the things he said. The veracity, the fervency, in the way he looked at the world from his carriage seat—as if he possessed the desire and power to change what existed before him.
Perhaps he believed he did.
Perhaps she had believed him too.
Drawing back from the window, she shivered. She had been wrong to cast her sentiments on such a man. She had sensed something different in him, something real and intimate—but the truth was he was just like everyone else.
He had done the one thing she feared.
Abandoned her.
With a lump in her throat, she returned to bed and burrowed herself beneath the coverlet. Sleep still evaded, and when the first streaks of morning weakened the darkness, Georgina dressed without her maid and slipped downstairs. The need to talk to someone, to speak out loud what thrummed in her chest, drove her into the morning chill.
The walk from her town house to St. Bartholomew’s Church was a short one, and she followed the narrow flagway until she reached a black, unlocked gate.
She pushed it open, the whine loud in the sleepy stillness, and entered the tiny graveyard. Why did she always come here?
’Twas not as if kneeling at the tombstone would bring him back.
No more than visiting the library.
Icy grass crunched beneath her feet as she walked the maze of foggy tomb chests and lichen-covered crosses.
Surprise stirred when she reached Papa’s grave. A flower?
She lifted the dried yellow rose, some of the petals crumbling. Who would have left such a thing?
Perhaps the clergyman. Maybe even the old sexton who worked the grounds.
Whoever it had been, gratefulness filled her as she returned the rose and knelt before the grave. “The snow did not last long, Papa.” She spoke in a whisper. “I know you did not care for it at all. While Mamma always enjoyed skating the ponds and river, you and I were much more content by the hearth.”
A noise interrupted her.
She glanced about the graveyard, searched the fog, but the only thing in sight was a fluttering black bird at the top of a bare hawthorn tree.
“Simon Fancourt is back, Papa.” Her pressure lessened at the words. “I know you must be surprised. I was surprised too. The truth is I rather imagined him dead or so far away he could never return—”
For the second time, a sound turned her head.
Something moved, a shadow in the fog, then a face peered around the hawthorn.
Heart tripping, she scrambled to her feet with an intake of breath. How long had a man been there? Why had she not seen him before?
Likely, he was just another worker here to assist the sexton.
Yes, that was it of course.
But he did not step out from behind the tree trunk. He did not bow and apologize for startling her, or smile away her discomfort, or ask if she needed assistance finding a grave.
He just watched her, hair long and black and blowing across his indistinct face.
Clutching her dress, Georgina hurried back for the gate and exhaled a breath when she clanged it shut behind her. She did not know who that man was.
But she was certain she did not wish to ever see him again.
The sturdy oak door, the ornate knob, all glistened in light from the hall window.
For the second time, Simon lifted his hand to knock. This time he did not withdraw in cowardice. The rap of his knuckles echoed, disturbing the late morning quietness, as a churning sensation worked his stomach.
