‘Do you know when they died, Williams?’ she murmured, reaching down to stroke Jemima.
‘Aye, it were some time last year, during the worst of it all as I remember… but this seems a morbid matter for a young lady such as yourself.’ He turned and shuffled towards the grouse cages. ‘Wouldn’t you like to see some hatchlings, instead?’
‘Thank you, Williams, I would.’ She smiled faintly, recognising he’d reached the end of his willingness to talk about the Pelhams.
It was half an hour later when Josephine finally left and, not yet ready to return, she took the meadow path alongside the estate border. She’d walked it many times when she was younger, and needed time to think over everything Williams had said.
Even though the General had mentioned that Pellham received news of a family loss in Italy, she hadn’t allowed herself to hope it might be significant. Yet now she was certain Pellham learned of his grandmother’s and sister’s deaths while in Italy. If she was right and he was thrown into a melancholy, he might not have wanted to defend himself in any fight– his own demise might have been exactly what he desired and Huntingly a means to achieve it… But it still didn’t explain why they duelled with such violence in the first place.
Lost to her rambling thoughts and the gentle warble of summer, Josephine found herself taking the forest path north of the estate before sweeping across the top of the local village. It was the type of morning she’d always loved, full of light and hope– a reminder of the gift of her recovery and of her strength too. On another morning, the dappled trees and birdsong might have sent her to some quiet spot to try and capture the mood and colours, yet today she was too distracted.
She knew Huntingly had a past, but had been willing to trust Thomas’s judgement until his reaction in the orangery. Now she wasn’t sure of anything. That he was capable of violent emotion she was certain, but murder was an entirely different question. He might have pursued Pellham to France and Italy, but to believe he’d killed his friend in cold blood?
‘Whoareyou?’ she whispered as she emerged from the forest trail, and onto a hillside on the outskirts of the village. She paused to catch her breath, and while doing so noticed a small local graveyard, sleeping peacefully in the morning sun. It was halfway down the hill and surrounded by a moss-covered stone wall to keep grazing livestock out. Instinctively, Josephine made her way down through the soft grass towards it. She let herself in through a wrought-iron gate, and within moments she’d located the Pellham family graves, marked with small, neat headstones:
Albert Pellham 1773–1815
Martha Pellham 1755–1825
Eliza Pellham 1803–1825
There was no mention of Eliza’s mother, and all of the graves appeared to be well tended. Josephine stared down at the neat plots, each bearing a small fresh posy of buttercups, and felt a brief chill whisper through her. Pellham was dead, yet someone still cared enough to place fresh flowers on his family graves. Frowning, she glanced towards the village, wondering if it was too early to make enquiries– which was when she saw a silhouette just beyond the graveyard gate. She drew a sharp breath, unsure if it was real or a trick of the light, before he stepped forward, looking as though he were the one who’d spied a ghost.
‘Miss Fairfax?’ Lord Huntingly called as Josephine willed her limbs to move.
She swallowed, the drama of their meeting in a graveyard not entirely lost on her, despite everything. She turned to leave as he closed the distance between them, trying to fathom any good excuse why she might be in the village graveyard at such an hour.
‘Miss Fairfax?’ he repeated, walking towards her. ‘Please don’t go on my account! What are you doing here? I thought you’d gone to London.’
She stared as he drew to a halt before her, the early sun bathing his face in a soft, translucent light that made his eyes look autumn green. And for a moment he stared back, not in the same, intimidating way he had in the orangery, but wistfully– as though he wished to say something else entirely.
‘I came out for a walk,’ she replied, picking her words with care, ‘and found myself here. I thought I might know some of the families as I spent a few years at Ebcott.’
Lord Huntingly glanced down at the nearby graves, his jaw tensing as he did so. ‘And do you…? Know them, I mean?’
There was a pause as Josephine realised he was testing her, wondering if she knew of Pellham and his family.
‘You know nothing of what you speak—’ his accusation echoed through her thoughts‘—but I would rather know your poor opinion now than on our wedding day.’
She took a breath. ‘No, I don’t believe so… I was admiring the flowers. These posies look quite fresh…’
She watched as he glanced again at the Pellham graves, looking for any sign of recognition, but his face was carefully schooled.
‘Perhaps I did fail in the eyes of the polite world, but at least I did not pursue a gentleman to Italy and slay him in broad daylight!’She swallowed.
‘The village is a close-knit one,’ he murmured. ‘They take care of their own– much like any family.’
Joephine thought of the way she’d taken matters into her own hands when she’d heard Thomas’s betrothal plan for Matilda.
‘Do you consider yourself part of the village family, sir?’ she asked steadily. ‘Were you… visiting to pay respects today?’
There was a poignant silence, when the only sound was the bleat of a young lamb some distance away.
‘Yes, I knew some of those resting here,’ he replied, his eyes shuttering. ‘Some had care of me as a child.’
‘I’m sorry to hear of your losses, sir, and I’m sure the villagers welcome your visits.’ She did not mean to sound inquisitive but was aware she might not have another opportunity.
He stared, his eyes reflecting the meadow around them for just a moment before the sun slipped behind a cloud. ‘When I was younger, I would visit the village regularly to see old staff and acquaintances,’ he replied curtly. ‘Less so now.’
