A valid question, one not even she was sure how to answer, so she simply shrugged. “I suppose there is truth to what he says. Or maybe I am a morbid soul given to self-flagellation.”
“No. You are no cowering hen. As much as I do not like Mr. St. John’s style, I imagine he tries to impart truth, and I concede that it is sometimes the harsher words of wisdom that keep us grounded, so to speak. The book of Proverbs certainly is blunt.Perhaps, at times, such abrasiveness is what is needed to break down the walls we build around our hearts.”
She shook her head. She’d had enough abrasiveness in the past year to last a lifetime. “Sometimes a barrier serves a noble purpose.”
“And yet if those walls are built too high, light cannot penetrate. Nor can love.”
Pah. Such words were the privilege of a heart exempt from life’s cruelties. She had cut herself off on purpose—to survive. Sheneededto be a fortress against vulnerability. She would never allow herself to be as exposed and helpless as she’d felt when her father’s greed destroyed their family. His weakness had condemned him to suffer a miserable death alone in a gaol cell. That would not be her fate. She would make certain of it.
Yet deep in a dark corner of her soul, Henry’s words struck a chime. One she hadn’t heard in years. The faint echo whispered of a time when she’d held firm to her faith. A time when she’d been innocent enough to trust in someone she’d loved.
She shoved the memory aside, aiming an accusing finger at Henry instead. “You, sir, sound as if you ought to be in a pulpit.”
His teeth flashed white in the scant light remaining before dark. “I think I shall stick to being a hero instead of a preacher. I fear I lack the necessary patience to sway hearts.”
“Oh, I think not. You have clearly swayed Clara Whitmore to your side.”
“Clara and I have known each other since childhood. I am no more than a fixture in her life, like a favourite book on her shelf or a comfortable chair in the sitting room. We are friends, nothing more.”
Relief loosened the tightness in her shoulders. A ridiculous response, of course, but one she could not stop. She peered past him, unwilling to let him see just how much his words affected her. “At any rate, it is no business of mine.”
“Would that it were,” he said under his breath.
At least it sounded like it. She snapped her gaze back to him. “What was that?”
“Hmm? Oh. Nothing.” He swept out his arm. “But we did not come out here to while away the time in conversation, did we?”
She eyed him a moment more before she resumed scouting the trail. He was hiding something. Did he harbour some admiration for her? She blinked to keep from rolling her eyes. What a ludicrous imagining. A wealthy gentleman would not look twice at a woman who’d poached on his land.
They walked in silence, the crush of leaves and occasional creak of branches their only accompaniment—until she let out anoomphas she stumbled over a root. She shot out her hand to grasp a nearby sapling for balance.
“Are you all right?” Henry’s footsteps quickened behind her.
“I am—” The rest of the words lay fallow on her tongue. A small slip of cloth snagged on one of the spindly twigs. She freed the fabric, running her thumb along the length of it. Muslin.Finemuslin. With a lacy hem. The sort only a woman of means would own.
And the only one of such stature residing at Bedford Manor was Charity.
“What have you found?” Henry’s breath warmed the nape of her neck.
She turned, surprised at his nearness, and handed over the fabric.
The moment he lifted it to eye level, his jaw hardened. “This is my sister’s. She trims most of her garments with this custom lace.”
“Then either your sister has been running about in these trees, snagging her gown, or someone has left behind a very bold statement.” Juliet crouched, studying the ground, annoyed with herself for having disturbed the area where she’d tripped, butthen thrilled to see that a snapped stick lay perpendicular to the route they’d taken. She rose with a tip of her head. “The trail leads that way.”
Without waiting for a response, she set off, traveling from mossy depressions imprinted with half-heel marks, to rocks disturbed by the same foot that had passed this way. The prints were large but unevenly depressed. Either the man walked with a limp or he’d been carrying something heavy that offset his balance. Or the fellow’s boots were simply too big. Whatever, it was too hard to tell in the coming dark of night. Yet with each broken stick or swirl of leaves pushed aside, the more her heart raced with the thought of where this might lead.
Or not—for suddenly all the clues ended.
Slowly, she spun in a circle, studying the ground.
“Why are you stopping?” Henry whispered.
Failure tasted sour at the back of her throat. “I lost the trail.”
He glanced around, a slight shake to his head. “Why would it end here? Whoever came this way could not have simply vanished into thin air.”
“True, unless they went airborne.” She glanced up at the maze of black branches.
