“Novels!” His sense of relief escaped in the form of a laugh.She’s got fiction in mind, but stories are purposely sensationalized, and quite different from real life. There is no reason to think that Miss Leonard isn’t somewhere safe, living happily with the love of her life.He swallowed the discomfort rising in his throat, unable to suppress the knowledge that this scenario was more fanciful than the notion that a young female runaway lay dead and discarded.
“Do you dislike novels, Mr. Hudsyn?”
“I have no objection to them.”
“Perhaps you object to women reading novels because they encourage morbid thoughts?” She eyed him, and Henry knew she was testing him.
He laughed. “I’d be in serious trouble with the women in my life if I disapproved of their reading.”
“The women in your life?”
“By that, I mean my cousin. She’s the only woman…” He found himself fixated on the freckles that sprinkled her pert nose and left his sentence dangling mid-air. “What I mean to say is that she’s very independent, and I respect her for that.”
“That’s rather enlightened of you. Most men—I mean—somemen think women incapable of controlling their emotions and making decisions for themselves.”
“I’m not one of those men.” Henry smiled. “My cousin has proven herself far more capable and resilient than me.” He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. He’d let his mask slip and revealed a sliver of the shame that lived permanently inside him. He laughed with a forced attempt to regain the safety of his mask. “I hope you intend to apologize,” he teased. “We still have a good way to go, and I’ve got a mind to keep this umbrella all to myself.”
The corners of her lips curved into a smile. “You have my sincerest apolo—oh, look, I do believe the rain is stopping.” She stepped out from under the umbrella. “It appears Zeus doesn’t think you warrant an apology.”
Henry tilted his umbrella back and peeked at the sky. The rain had indeed stopped, and the sun began to emerge from behind clouds.
“That’s English weather for you.” He turned his umbrella upside down and shook the wet drops from its silk exterior.
They neared Westgate, and the road previously devoid of people suddenly turned busy. Men and women came bustling out of the shops and buildings that lined the street, rushing to make up for the precious minutes the downpour had stolen from them.
“I should hurry back. Mrs. Taylor, my landlady, is a seamstress, and she has a small shop. I help her, so she’ll be waiting for me.”
“Allow me to escort you.” He didn’t want to let go of her—not yet.
“That’s not necessary but thank you. It isn’t far, and the station is just behind you. Don’t you need to catch the train home?”
Henry didn’t want to go home. He wanted to keep talking to Mrs. Crawford, and he was about to say that he desired to explore Canterbury farther before catching the train when an open wagon rolled to a stop beside them.
“Mrs. Crawford,” the driver, a broad-shouldered, man who looked to be about thirty, called out to her.
“Mr. Trawler,” she said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“I’m on my way to the market.” He eyed Henry. “May I save you the trouble of walking?”
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation, and Henry felt an absurd stab of jealousy. Moments ago, she’d refused his offer to walk her home, yet she eagerly accepted this man’s offer to escort her.
Mr. Trawler hopped down to help Mrs. Crawford ascend. He was a tall man with the rugged look of one who worked outdoors. Brown curls, lightened by the sun, peeked out from under his head cap, and his muscular build indicated that he spent much of his time doing manual labor. His wagon smelled strongly of fish, so Henry fathomed that the man was a fishmonger.
“This gentleman is Mr. Henry Hudsyn,” Mrs. Crawford said as Mr. Trawler approached. “I was out for a walk, and he kindly offered me shelter under his umbrella.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Trawler.” Henry doffed his top hat in greeting.
Mr. Trawler reciprocated by doffing his tweed cap while eyeing Henry with the suspicion of a jealous lover, and Henry wondered how the man fit into Mrs. Crawford’s life. Mr. Trawler turned to help Mrs. Crawford before climbing in and settling beside her. She waved as the cart horse pulled them away. A strange hollowness settled in Henry’s stomach as he watched the wagon trundle through Westgate’s stone archway.
I’m not ready to go back to Greyson Manor.Henry’s fingers closed around one of the buttons on his waistcoat and twisted hard. The button popped off into his hand, and Henry smiled.
I’m in dire need of a seamstress.He tossed the button up in the air and caught it again.I wonder if someone in the village can direct me to the home of Mrs. Taylor.
*
“Who is thatman?” Nate asked as soon as they passed through Westgate.
“What do you mean? Annabel said with a laugh. “I just introduced you to him. His name is Mr. Hudsyn, and he sheltered me under his umbrella.”
