When Phoebe arrived at the Ames’s cottage, she raised her gloved hand to knock on the weather-beaten wooden door. But the clip-clopping of a rider made her still her hand. She turned. A female rider, atop a dark bay gelding, stopped in front of the cottage to the left of the Ames’s. The woman was garbed in a black mourning bonnet covering half of her face, and a black coat, which billowed as she dismounted.
The woman’s profile was statuesque, her ash blonde hair in a thick knot half hidden beneath the bonnet. She must have sensed someone studying her for she turned and looked right at Phoebe, and somehow the truth hit Phoebe head on. The arresting woman with the striking patrician features staring back at her was Sylvia’s mother. She was just as stunning as herdaughter, despite being older. How was Phoebe to measure up against such a martyred beauty as Sylvia?
Phoebe cleared the tightness in her throat, turned from the Ames’s door and walked over to the woman who was intermittently eying her curiously while tethering her own mount to a towering old oak tree.
“Mistress Willoughby?” Phoebe asked, nearing the woman.
“Yes?”
“I am?—”
“You’re Slade’s wife?” Mistress Willoughby interrupted her, her voice clear, crisp, and cultured.
Phoebe nodded. How had the other woman guessed who she was?
Perhaps interpreting her questioning look, Mistress Willoughby answered. “You are as my neighbor Master Ames described. He mentioned he’d taken Slade and his wife to Beinn na Faoghla.”
Up close Phoebe noticed the fine lines on Mistress Willoughby’s soft features and the gray hairs at her temples, however none of these things detracted from the woman’s elegant beauty. She had the most piercing brown eyes Phoebe had ever seen.
Remembering Sylvia, Phoebe drew closer to Mistress Willoughby. “Please know you have my deepest sympathies for the loss of your daughter. Losing her still haunts Slade. He must have loved her a great deal.”
Perhaps he still does.
The other woman’s eyes turned empty as her gaze shifted away from Phoebe, but not before Phoebe took note of her trembling chin.
When her gaze landed on Phoebe’s again, her features had evened out. “A woman in your position must have a certainstrength of character to say those words to me. Thank you. Why don’t you come inside for tea?”
Phoebe wanted to, but she didn’t think she had the strength of character Mistress Willoughby seemed to think she had. “Nothing would please me more, but I am on an errand for Margaret Edwards. Perhaps another time?”
Disappointment and perhaps something like a sliver of relief etched its way into the woman’s features. “Of course.” She paused then continued. “Slade and Sylvia were in love. My Sylvia was an innocent but ardent girl. I raised her as a good Christian. But she took things to heart too keenly, she loved too deeply and agonized too much over everything. She worried about their future, my future, and her cruel and absentee father.”
“Her absentee father …?” Phoebe started to say.
“My Sylvia was the illegitimate daughter of General Bolingbroke.”
Shock momentarily froze Phoebe’s entire frame; she opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.
Mistress Willoughby continued. “I met the general when I work for the Sutherlands, years ago. He was rather forceful in his attentions towards me. He made promises of marriage, which I was too inexperienced to see were all empty.”
“Does Slade know?” Phoebe asked, finally finding her voice even amidst the lightheadedness and discomfort churning in her belly.
“Of course he does. I’ve tried to assuage Slade’s guilt over Sylvia’s death. Guilt I myself put into his head because of my grief. But I know Sylvia wouldn’t blame him, and neither should I. She would be happy he has a wife that loves him. Please, make him understand.”
“I shall try,” Phoebe said.
She felt only half present as she said her goodbyes to Mistress Willoughby.
CHAPTER 67
CAMBERLEY MANOR, SUTTON COLDFIELD, ENGLAND
Mid-morning, eleven days after leaving Phoebe, Slade was shown to General Bolingbroke’s study. From the reconnaissance reports he’d received from Harbert and Company,this was the time for Bolingbroke’s morning ride. But it would end soon, and Bolingbroke would return. He had to move quickly. With excited gratitude, Ludlow, the footman, recounted the other servants’ tales of how Slade had administered aid to him when he’d been shot and unconscious almost five months ago.
“They said you were a bona fide war hero, colonel. And that you and the healer saved my life. I am forever in your debt, sir.”
Slade had been on a mission of revenge five months ago, using Peter’s expertly crafted muskets to ingratiate himself to Bolingbroke. Plotting Bolingbroke’s downfall in revenge for the part he’d played in Sylvia’s death had been the only thing that mattered. And no one except Phoebe could have made him deviate from his plan. He’d had nothing to lose then. Now, five months later, he had a beautiful wife and a grand future with her to look forward to, and things were changing for the better with his father and brother. He had so much to lose now if this didn’t go well.
Ludlow was only too happy to show Slade into the general’s study to await the general’s return.
