She looked up at him. “I want to live in peace at my cottage,” she told him. “I want to be alone. But perhaps one day I will tell youmystory. Perhaps I will tell you everything that led up to my coming here. But not yet.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment of her words.
“It is time for you to go home, Samantha,” he said. “The major will see you safely there.”
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. It has been a pleasant evening.”
“It has, indeed.”
He shook Ben by the hand, kissed Samantha’s cheek, and was again the smiling, genial host.
21
They traveled back to the cottage in silence. And when the carriage stopped and the coachman opened the door and set down the steps before withdrawing, neither of them spoke for a while. He took her gloved hand in his.
“Samantha,” he said at last, “would you like me to stay for a few more days? Until you have had time to digest what you have heard and made some decision?”
Ah, she was so tempted to say yes. To cling to him. To use him as an emotional prop. And to postpone the inevitable goodbye just a little longer.
“No,” she said. “I need to be alone for a while. Everything I have known about my life has been turned upside down. I need to do some thinking.”
Alone. She was going to be alone. Without him. Forever.
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.
“Shall we say goodbye now?” he asked her. “Or shall I call here before I leave in the morning?”
She almost panicked then. She almost threw herself against him. She almost begged him not to go, never to go.
And yet she had spoken truth. She needed to be alone.
Would she be able to deal with goodbye better in the morning? No, she decided. There was never a good time for goodbye. And it would be unfair to him. He would want to be on his way.
“Now,” she said. And she turned on her seat and took both his hands in hers and raised them to her cheeks. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. “I do thank you, Ben, for all you have done for me. And I thank you for the past week. It has been a great pleasure. Has it not?” She turned her face up to his and tried to smile.
“It has,” he agreed. “Samantha—”
“If your travels ever bring you back to Wales,” she said hastily, “perhaps…No, that would not be a good idea, would it? I will remember with pleasure. I hope you will too.”
“I will,” he said, and he leaned toward her and set his lips to hers in a long, lingering kiss while they clung to each other’s hands.
“Goodbye, Samantha,” he said. “I will wait here until you are safely indoors with a lamp lit.”
He rapped on the front panel and the coachman appeared in the doorway to hand her down.
“Goodbye.” She drew her hands from his. “Goodbye, Ben.”
And then she was stepping down and dashing up the garden path and fumbling with the key in the lock and almost being bowled over by an exuberant Tramp. She lit a lamp in the sitting room with a trembling hand and darted to the window, desperate for one last sight of him. But the carriage door had been closed, and the coachman was up on the box, and the carriage was moving away. She could not see through the darkness into the interior.
“Oh, Tramp.” She collapsed onto the nearest chair, set her arms about him, and wept against his neck. Tramp whined and tried to lick her face.
Ben was down early to breakfast the following morning. Everything was packed, and he was eager to be on his way as soon as possible. He did not care what direction he took, though he had told his coachman last night that they would return the way they had come. All he really wanted was to put as much distance between him and Fisherman’s Bridge as he possibly could.
He was down early, but someone was earlier. Mr. Bevan rose from his place at a table by the window when Ben appeared, an open watchcase in his hand.
“Is this the time,” he asked, “that the idle rich normally break their fast?”
It was shortly after seven o’clock.
