“Indeed?” Ralph replied with a raised eyebrow. “Henri's sister… What a coincidence.”
Harriet shrugged, reading over the marriage license once more. It felt like a prison sentence, forming impenetrable iron bars that would forever keep her from Jeremy.
“If it had proved to be true, I would call him out. I would kill him,” Ralph said, coldly.
“It is not,” Harriet affirmed resolutely.
“Good. I looked for him in London, but his people tell me that he left for Penhaligon without warning. He will be there now. Not that such information is in any way useful to you.”
Harriet feigned a yawn. “It is not. Henri de Rouvroy is by far the better man,” she said, feeling disloyal in uttering the words.
Ralph smiled. “He will be dining with us this evening. It is well you took an afternoon nap, it will mean you will be bright-eyed for dinner. Hattie, I cannot tell you how excited I am for this match!”
Harriet looked back at Oaksgrove in the distance. She had crested a hill and stood under the eaves of a copse of birch, shaded from the sun. Had Ralph even noticed she had gone? Had Beecham spotted her walking through the grounds in the direction of Danbury? There had been no discernible pursuit as of yet. But then again, she had not followed a conventional route.
Instead, she had chosen to climb walls and ford streams to head by the most direct route to Danbury and then on to Penhaligon. If Ralph were searching for her at this moment, it would be along the roads, just as Jeremy had once done when Harriet had become lost trying to find her way home from Woodham Walter.
This time, she was much more confident. She wore stout walking shoes and a plain, serviceable dress. A bonnet was tied atop her head with a ribbon under her chin, and she wore a bag on her hip containing an earthenware bottle of apple juice and a few bread rolls. Prepared for a walk of a few hours.
It will be worth it. Ralph assumed I would not leave Oaksgrove or that I could not if I wanted to because it would involve horses from the stables and a carriage or trap. He will never have thought that I would simply begin walking.
She had waited for word from Jeremy for three days. All the while, the date of her wedding to Henri marched closer. All the while, she hoped and prayed to be rescued from it, from Ralph.
But Jeremy had not appeared. Nor had he written. On this day, the day she set out for Penhaligon, she had woken to despair.
I must know. I will not wonder for the rest of my life about what might have been. Whether I was fooled by a seducer or simply used in a business stratagem. I will not, cannot resign myself to marrying Henri until I know Jeremy's mind, and he, mine.
The despair had been shoved aside, and she had begun to make preparations. She turned her back on Oaksgrove and walkedamong the trees. A path appeared, leading away from her at an angle to her intended route. She ignored it, forging her own path through thick undergrowth, but in the direction that she wanted to go. The time for following paths forged by others was gone.
She felt an upwelling of her spirits as she walked. The freedom of travel, unbound by the restrictions imposed by conveyances or the desires of others, was an intoxicating feeling. She breathed deeply and found herself smiling. Uncertainty gnawed at her, but it warred with the feeling of liberation.
I may discover, at the end of this journey, that I am not destined to be with Jeremy after all. And I will return to Oaksgrove and marry Henri de Rouvroy. But I will be a different woman. I will have tasted freedom and will not give it up again.
By the time she came within sight of Penhaligon, she had finished her apple juice and her bread rolls. She felt pleasantly tired, the sense of accomplishment outweighing the fatigue. Her path had brought her to the rear of the estate via its western edge. She hunted for a way onto the estate as she approached, finding a small gate in a mossy stone wall, itself half hidden by woodland.
Once through the gate, she made her way through the trees, glimpsing the house between them. She felt her pulse quicken the closer she got and wished she had kept back some of the apple juice as her mouth became dry.
She found a wide, gravel path and followed it through increasingly formal gardens. Circling a towering yew hedge, she stopped at the sound of voices.
“He has your eyes, Jimmy,” giggled a woman.
Harriet's feet had been crunching on the gravel. Now she froze, one foot lifted. She hardly dared to breathe. The woman sounded so close.
“Do you think so? I cannot see it. But then I have little experience with babies. None in fact,” Jeremy answered back.
“Neither do I. But I see it! I see my Papa in his nose and mouth, and you in his eyes. My family and yours. Do you doubt it?”
Those words stabbed at Harriet. It was a dagger of pure ice going into her heart and twisting viciously. A child with a resemblance to Jeremy and the family of this faceless woman? That could only mean one thing.
Is this the reason I have heard nothing from him for—how long has it been? A week? A week and a half?
She lowered her foot but did not dare take another step in any direction. She put a hand over her mouth as a sob welled up.
“I do not doubt that he is my son, Florence. I would not insult you. I just cannot honestly say that I look at him and seeanything but an infant. Looking as all infants do. I think it takes a mother's eyes to see,” Jeremy remarked.
Florence? Jeremy's former fiancée, the one whom he bought all of those dresses for? She has returned and with a gift for him…
“There is something I know you will see,” Florence replied. “Do you recognize the birthmark?”
