“But sir,” she interrupted, then halted when they heard footsteps from the stairs behind the door. A burst of panic shot through her veins, and she stepped aside, reestablishing that empty, hateful distance between them.
The door squeaked open, and a short housemaid nearly tripped over her own feet in surprise. Her eyes wide, she dropped a curtsy and murmured an apology before hastening down the hall.
Susanna couldn’t bear this anymore, this overpowering shame. Before the maid was out of earshot, she forced out in a loud, indifferent tone, “Thank you Mr. Sedley. It was so kind of you to allow me the time. I’ll await your word before I…” She stumbled on the last words, not believing them herself. There was no way his family would permit it, thathe’dpermit it. “Before I return.”
“Yes,” he muttered, then cleared his throat, picking up on the act. “Yes, of course. Travel well, Miss Abbotts.” He plastered on a hollow, polite grin.
It cut her. That, above all else, did her in. She felt the pain deep in her core, as though she’d lost her entire life in one horrifying evening, with only the most counterfeit of his smiles as consolation. She nodded, then made her escape, up the stairs, far from Ajax Sedley. Away from his warmth and wit. Away from his strong shoulders, from his enigmatic blue eyes.
No matter where she went in life, her path always ended up back where it started—alone. And now, once again, here she was.
In her room she packed her bag, a frequent activity for her as of late. She climbed into the cold, narrow bed and, for the second time that day, allowed herself to cry.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The picturesque countryside—swaths ofyellowing green outlined by stone fences and wooden stiles, interspersed with ancient oaks and towering beeches shedding their foliage—was nearly her only companion for the entire journey. But that suited her well enough. She’d spent the first hour in Mr. Rickard’s company gripped by an overwhelming anxiety, her mind whirling as she wondered just what he thought of her, as well as what he knew.
Blessedly, though, Mr. Rickard had barely glanced at her, offering only gruff niceties and the occasional muttered command to the lurcher lying at his feet. Earlier that morning, he’d introduced the cheerful beast as Burt, with the strong implication that the dog would be joining them without negotiation. Susanna didn’t mind, as she’d always had a softness for animals. In fact, as part of her usual daydream, she’d always looked forward to having the companionship of a cat one day nearly as much as she had the actual occupancy of a small coastal cottage. With a lump in her throat, she tried not to dwell on things that would not be. Not anymore. She’d placed herfuture at stake in a dangerous game, and it seemed she’d been called with her hand found wanting.
The empty gray sky slowly gave way to the stone buildings of Deverill Green as their train neared the station.
Mr. Rickard cleared his throat from the opposite bench. Susanna looked at him, noting the change in his eyes. They no longer appeared hard and flinty, but gentle and kind.
“If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll gladly escort you the rest of the way.”
“No, thank you,” Susanna said with a meek smile. “You’ve been extremely kind as it is; I won’t intrude upon that kindness any further.”
He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “You’d be doing me a kindness, sparing me a dressing-down from Mrs. Rickard.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks warmed. “I hadn’t considered. In that case, please—”
“No,” he cut her off, “I understand. Some things we have to do ourselves.”
She watched him, her cheeks burning now, wondering if he referred to something beyond the three-mile trek to the parsonage.
“I beg your pardon?” Her voice barely sounded her own. It took a considerable effort, speaking this frankly. Rather than being awed at this newly wrought steel in her spine, she only found herself affirming her prior inclinations; shrinking was easier in the moment, even if it extracted a terrible toll over time.
“I don’t know what awaits you. But you’ll manage it. If you can manage all of,” he squinted with a slight grimace, “them, back there…” He made a vague gesture in the direction they’d come from. “Then you’ll manage.”
She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t expected such words from him, if she had even expected any at all. But when he saidthem, a tiny spark of hope, buried somewhere deep inside her, flickered back to life. If Mr. Rickard would deign to offer her comfort, then perhaps the rest of the family hadn’t marked her as some conniving Delilah.
The train lurched as it slowed, and the platform came into view, thinly populated with people either waiting for loved ones to arrive or waiting to board and be on their way. None of them would be waiting for her. She was on her own. She stood, heart pounding, and tightened her grip on her carpet bag. Perhaps there was reason to think that all might be well in the end.
Mr. Rickard nodded at her. Susanna returned the gesture, and realized that for once she did not care if it was correct or appropriate. She was still wondering at that as she made her way down the corridor and stepped out the doors onto the platform.
Deverill Green. She had returned. When she had first struck out on her own, she’d hoped she would never come back. But Ajax hadn’t asked her to stay, and so here she was. Straightening her back, she made her way through the station and out onto the street. She hadn’t gone but two blocks when the sky opened up, and the rain came down in such large, punishing drops that one might think it was hail, were the muddy torrents in the streets not there to indicate otherwise. Susanna sought refuge up against a shop window, only half-sheltered by the narrow eaves, and dug a worn umbrella out from her bag.
Before she could open it, her eyes caught at the window display, and her hands stilled as the rain continued pouring down upon her.
The shop was a bookseller, with the newest titles propped up on a low table by the window, enticing passersby with their crisp pages and tight leather bindings. But it wasn’t the novels she stared at. Rather, it was the periodicals and papers, clipped up on a string directly at eye level. And at the very end of the row,The Monthly Revel. Its cover displayed a detailed inkdrawing, illustrating the most popular installment contained within the issue. But the words at the bottom were what caught her attention:Bathsheba Toombs shares the title of her next scintillating tale.
Susanna’s heartbeat took off in an instant, heat spreading through her at the memory of that night. The night she’d gone to him, and he’d shown her an intimacy she’d never before conceived of. When he’d told her of his writing, hesitantly at first but then shyly eager, unable to hide his want of her opinion, her regard. She didn’t know how long she stood there staring at the thing, but it was long enough for her bonnet to be soaked through. An overpowering urge to go inside and purchase the edition came over her, but she restrained herself. She dared not spare one penny, not if she truly would be dismissed for taking her employer as a lover.
Her vision blurred. She raised a hand to her eye, wiping away what she told herself was only rain. After standing exposed to the elements for several more seconds, she finally shook off the thought and opened her umbrella, for all the good it would do her now.
The rain came down in sheets as she walked through the streets of her youth with an odd feeling of apartness. In truth, it hadn’t been that long since she’d been home; the Pritchards had always encouraged her to take holidays, kindly employers that they were. She knew every street, every alley, every shop sign. And yet she didn’t. Or, perhaps more correctly, they didn’t know her. Not anymore. This was a Susanna Abbotts who was more than just the parson’s reticent younger daughter. She’d tutored two girls to their majority, and done a fine job at that. She’d stumbled into working for the aristocracy, attending fine dinners and parties in London, and instructed the daughter of one of the oldest names in the nobility. She’d kissed an earl, miserable wretch though he was.
And she’d taken a lover. One whom she’d nearly confessed her heart to, and was now paying the price for. No, Deverill Green may be the same, but Susanna Abbotts was different. Right now she was soaking wet, and possibly heartbroken, but perhaps that was just another feather in her cap.
