He was falling . . . hard and fast.
The signs were all there.
The swoop in his stomach when he saw her. The ping in his chest when she laughed. The incessant ache to hold and listen and simplybewhere she was.
And like the worst of addicts, he found himself returning again and again to her. Desperate for that rush of emotion, for the elation that filled him only when she was near.
Bloody hell.
Falling in love with Lady Charlotte would be the final death knell to his former life, would it not?
He looked back at the muddy road, focusing on his next step. He should have quit Frome Abbey a week ago. Every day that he lingered it became that much harder to leave.
Alex and Lottie rounded a bend, both coming to a stop.
The scene before them was anything but Mr. Warden’s bucolic description of a ‘neat row of houses.’
The cottages were in a sorry state. Several roofs needed re-slating. The exterior lime had crumbled in multiple places and needed to be re-plastered. Mud ran right up to the door of each house. The stench was equally shocking—refuse and animal dung.
“I had no idea the cottages had decayed so,” Lottie murmured. “I remember visiting with Margaret several years ago and all was in a decent state.”
“Something has clearly happened.” Alex shook his head.
They approached the houses and were directed to the one of Mr. Bartlet.
Mrs. Bartlet answered the door, hands twisted in a dirty apron. She bobbed a curtsy and offered profuse apologies for her husband, insisting he was too ill to greet them. The educated diction of her accent indicated that she had, indeed, fallen far in life.
“Please,” Alex said, “we come with word from his cousin, Mr. Argent.”
Mrs. Bartlet darted a look between Alex and Lottie and finally nodded her head.
The interior of the cottage was even worse than its exterior—damp and lit only by the dim flame of a weak fire.
Children’s heads poked out from various nooks around the room. Alex counted seven pairs of eyes looking at him.
So much suffering packed into one wee space.
How many other families were in similarly dire straits? How many cottages had been neglected? How could Mr. Warden or Lord Frank sanction this level of suffering on the estate?
It was unconscionable.
They had a responsibility to their tenants, to ensure certain standards of living were met.
But that had clearly not happened here.
Mrs. Bartlet led them through a doorway to a small bedroom where Mr. Bartlet lay in a disheveled bed. The man struggled to his feet, listing heavily to his left and using the wall for support.
“Have ye hurt your hip?” Alex asked, hobbling forward on his own crutches.
“Aye. I was trampled by a bull last year,” Mr. Bartlett replied, nodding a greeting and wiping at his brow as he pushed himself upright. “The bone didn’t set right.”
The doctor in Alex took over. He had Mr. Bartlett lie back down. A quick examination showed Alex that the damage was significant. The bone and joint had been badly hurt and had healed poorly.
“There wasn’t the money for a doctor, you see,” Mr. Bartlet explained, pulling himself to standing once more.
“We couldn’t even afford a bone setter,” the wife chimed in, hands twisted again in her apron.
Mr. Bartlet managed to limp his way into the main room.
