1
MARCH1820
WORCESTERSHIRE, ENGLAND
Miss Rebecca Lane quaked at the thought of returning to Swanford after more than a year’s absence, even though her heart had never really left.
Inside the jostling post chaise, she prayed,Please don’t let him do anything foolish before I get there.
Lines from their housekeeper’s recent letter echoed through her mind.
Your brother’s behavior has grown more alarming. I fear what he might do.
I could not in good conscience wait any longer to write. I pray I have not waited too long as it is.
Dread filled Rebecca again, as it had when she’d first read the words. Was John threatening to harm himself, or someone else, or what ...?
Rebecca sighed and leaned her throbbing temple against thevehicle’s smooth, cool window. Outside, the rolling countryside lay draped in March mist, its fields dotted with white sheep and new lambs.
Soon the tower of All Saints Church appeared above the treetops, and there, the tall chimney stacks of the Wickworth mansion.
Rebecca gestured out the window toward the village. “There it is. Swanford.”
Beside her, the French maid slept on, but Lady Fitzhoward, their employer, gazed out as directed. “Ah yes.” The older woman looked at her. “Are you glad to be home?”
Rebecca summoned the expected smile and nodded, though it was a weak effort. Inwardly, she thought,Where is home?
With her parents passed on, the vicarage, which was never actually theirs anyway, was occupied by the new vicar and his family. The underkeeper’s lodge where her brother lived belonged to the Wilford family estate. And except for a brief visit the Christmas before last, she had spent the previous two years living out of trunks and bandboxes in one inn or hotel after another as a lady’s companion. Perhaps in time, she could learn to be like Lady Fitzhoward and enjoy endless travel rather than longing for home. But she had not managed it yet.
The chaise turned off the main road and made its way past farmyards, cottages, and the village itself. Beyond it, imposing Swanford Abbey rose from the misty ground like an ancient headstone.
Before the sight of the old abbey-turned-hotel could rouse its customary trepidation, the chaise rumbled under an archway and into the adjacent stable courtyard.
A porter appeared to help them alight. Miss Joly, the lady’s maid, awoke and climbed out first to direct the care of their employer’s belongings. Lady Fitzhoward stepped down afterher, leaning heavily on the porter’s hand until her cane reached the ground.
Following her out, Rebecca asked, “May I leave my trunk with you?”
The maid looked annoyed at the request, but Lady Fitzhoward agreed.
“Yes, of course. Joly shall have it stowed for you.”
An old man in coarse work clothes hobbled into the stable yard, spade in hand. He paused, faded blue eyes fixing on Lady Fitzhoward.
“Purty flower...” he murmured.
The porter shooed him away.
When he’d ambled off, Lady Fitzhoward turned to Rebecca. “If a week with your brother is not sufficient, let me know. If I am not here at the hotel, leave a message at the desk. As I mentioned, I hope to visit friends while I’m in the area.”
Rebecca nodded. “I shall, thank you. And thank you again for changing your plans to accompany me.”
Seeing her preparing to depart, the porter offered to summon a fly to take Rebecca the rest of the way.
She politely declined. The distance across the village and through the wood to the lodge was more than a mile. But the day was fine and her purse light, so she decided to go on foot.
She retrieved her valise and bandbox from among the pile of baggage, bid the two women farewell, and turned to go. After a few steps, her valise felt heavy, but it was nothing to the guilt she carried.
Rebecca walked up Abbey Lane, past the busy High Street, and along the village green framed by thatched cottages on two sides. Reaching All Saints Street, she turned right and walked by half-timbered houses hugging the cobbled street, and the Swan & Goose, the tang of sour ale emanating from the public house.
