He swept his hand towards the festivities, trying to muster some gratitude that after his words with Parker, the whole charade should be at an end.
So why the niggling feeling in his gut that it was not?
Chapter 11
Contrary to last evening’s chill, a breath of summer revisited Bedford the next day as Juliet left Sunday service. And what a service it was. Reverend St. John’s message had been more an accusation than a sermon. No doubt she’d be hearing his voice in her sleep tonight.
“The fatal wound of bitterness is borne by the one who allows it to fester in his bosom, not by the one who caused the initial injury.”
She loosened the fichu at her neck, perspiration dampening her palms beneath her gloves. Naturally she knew forgiveness was good and bitterness bad. Didn’t everyone? And yet how did one go about absolving the closest person in her life when he had caused such ruination? Still, at this moment, she really couldn’t complain about her situation. She had plenty of food to eat, as did Aunt Margaret. She lived in a lovely manor home, complete with servants to cater to any need, leastwise for the time being.
And then there was Henry.
Absently, she rubbed her arms where his coat had embraced her last evening and inhaled deeply, remembering his scent of leather-bound books and bay leaves. A fragrance uniquely his. She hadn’t wanted to surrender that coat, but the questions in Clara Whitmore’s eyes were too many to name … not that she had any answers. Henry Russell rattled her composure in the most maddening ways, especially when he’d sat near her at the bonfire, firelight burnishing the gold streaks in his hair. And thatknowing grin of his when he’d caught her studying his profile—oh my. She fanned herself, more uncomfortably hot than ever.
And yet for all his charm, it was what he’d said—almost absently—that had truly stayed with her. That story of a boy who once cried wolf and vowed never to do it again. There was something in that memory, in the burden he still bore, that explained so much about him. His restraint. His protectiveness. His deep-seated need to solve every problem himself. He hadn’t just learned responsibility from that incident. He’d learned to carry it alone.
“Miss Finch? A word, if ye don’t mind.”
She turned at the sound of her name. Pale-faced Mrs. Craft scurried past the milliner’s to catch up to her.
While concerned—for surely something fretted the woman—Juliet smiled. “I don’t mind at all, Mrs. Craft. How are you?”
“Not good. Not a bit.” She stepped close, lowering her voice. “I’m bound up on one end and spewing out t’ other. My cramps ain’t gone like Mr. Scather promised, neither. I’ve got poundin’ in my head and in my heart. Worse, I’m seein’ things ne’er meant for human eyes. Oh, miss, I’m worse off than before, that’s what.”
“I am so sorry to hear that.” Gently, she squeezed Mrs. Craft’s arm. “Laudanum has its place, of course, but not for your condition.”
“I know that now, which is why I must ask for that yarrow ye set aside. Ye still have it, don’t ye?”
“I do—or rather, Aunt Margaret does.” Her fingers curled around the edge of her sleeve as she calculated how long it would take to walk to her aunt’s, return to Mrs. Craft’s here in town, and then make the trek out to Bedford Manor. It had been concession enough that Henry allowed her to attend church on her own. Straying so far without his knowledge or permission would be a strain on his trust. Then again, if he truly believed hehad scared off Mr. Parker last night, he might very well dismiss her altogether upon her return. So, perhaps it would be best to stop at the manor before going to her aunt’s.
She patted the lady’s arm. “How about I bring you some later this afternoon? Will that suit?”
“Aye, miss. God bless ye. And here’s a farthing for yer trouble.” She pressed a coin into Juliet’s palm before waving farewell.
Juliet ran her thumb over the warm metal. Only a few weeks ago, she’d been desperate for money, and now here she was, being handed a coin without even angling for it. She glanced at the sky, a thank-you on her tongue … until she remembered she still wasn’t talking to God.
A strange melancholy draped over her shoulders as she tucked the farthing into her reticule and set off down the street.
Moments later, wheels rumbled against cobblestones, and a fine white carriage with polished brass fittings came into view. Two black horses—manes and tails braided with green ribbons—strutted along, proud as the September sun. An embellishedWgraced the side door, painted with gold leaf, and the emerald curtains were drawn back. Clara Whitmore gave a small wave, then ordered her driver to stop just past where Juliet stood.
“Juliet!” Clara leaned out, her expression bright with genuine surprise. “What a delight to see you. I confess, I half expected you to be at Bedford Manor as I didn’t spot you at church this morning.”
“I do not attend the same church as the Russells.”
“Oh?” Clara’s brows rose in mild surprise, her smile remaining easy. “I assumed you all worshipped together.”
“Henry did ask,” Juliet admitted, “but I prefer the quiet of Harpur. It suits me better.”
“Quite understandable. St. Paul’s is always so dreadfully crowded. I imagine Harpur must be a pleasant change.” Clara waved her fan lazily. “Will you be much longer at the manor? Ionly ask because I’d hoped to invite you for tea and Henry seems to be keeping you on a short lead.”
Good question. And when Henry did finally release her from their bargain, then what? She couldn’t very well go back to poaching on his land. If only there were a legal way to sell her aunt’s medicinals without having to pay for licensure. Mrs. Craft had shown there certainly remained a need for them, as well as for her aunt’s wisdom.
“I’m not entirely sure how long I will be there,” Juliet hedged.
“Well, if you are free tomorrow, you must join me. I’ve a fitting in town for the charity ball, but afterwards, we could sit and chat. I’d love to hear more about your time here.” Clara smiled, warm and open. “Henry’s always so careful with his words, and a woman’s perspective is much more interesting.”
Juliet forced a smile of her own, scrambling for something vague. “Perhaps. If schedules align.”
