She frowned at him.
“We will go to Taunton and see this thing through,” he said. “Are you ready to leave?”
She continued to frown at him. The truth, or what must clearly be the truth, had not yet dawned on her. And perhaps it was as well. Perhaps it was not, after all, the truth. He would say nothing of his suspicions to her.
“Yes,” she said.
Fifteen minutes later they were on their way.
“This makes no sense,” she said. “Taunton is not even on the direct route to Wroxford.”
She reached out her hand for his without even realizing what she was doing, he guessed. He took it in his and rested it on his thigh.
“Relax and enjoy the journey,” he said. “We will ask questions when we get to the end of it.”
“We will not get home today,” she said. “Your journey will be delayed for another day.”
“Yes,” he said. And he raised her hand to his lips before returning it to his thigh. He looked into her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’m not.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth.
“What shall we talk about today?” he said. “School? Tell me about yours. It was not a happy experience, was it?”
“Oh, in some ways,” she said. “I learned to love books while I was there and to love music even more than I had before. I learned to live with my imagination. It can add a wonderful dimension to life.”
“Yes,” he said. “It can make a dreary life seem bright, can’t it?”
They smiled at each other before she talked on.
TAUNTON WAS A VERYsmall village. There was nothing there beyond the church and a few houses, one shop, and a small tavern. His grace had pointed out a decent posting inn on one main road a few miles back. They would stay the night there, he had said.
But Fleur did not take a great deal of notice. They were close, and she was leaning forward in her seat. Her heart was thumping.
And this time there was no missing it. It was there and new and large and proclaimed its legend for all to see: John Hobson, Beloved son of John and Martha Hobson, 1791–1822. RIP.
God. Oh, God. Fleur stood beside it, turned to stone herself. She had killed him. He had been thirty-one years old. He had been someone’s beloved son. Martha Hobson had borne him. John Hobson had watched the son named after him grow up.They both must have felt pride when he became valet to Lord Brocklehurst of Heron House. They would have boasted of him to their friends. And now he was dead and cold beneath the ground.
She had killed him.
“Oh, God,” she said, and she went down on one knee beside the grave and touched the cold headstone.
“Fleur.” There was a light hand on her shoulder. “I am going to the vicarage for a moment. I will be back.”
But she did not hear him. Hobson was lying in the ground beneath her, that large and powerful and handsome man. He was dead. She had killed him.
She did not know how long she knelt there. Finally two strong hands took her by the arms and helped her to her feet.
“I’ll take you back to that inn,” he said. “You can rest there.”
They were inside the carriage again, without her having any memory of having walked there.
“I didn’t know it would be like this,” she said. “At first I did not think a great deal about him. I was too concerned about myself. I did not even have many nightmares. And then I thought that perhaps he had deserved what happened, though I was sorry. And in the last week I have known that I must come here, must see his last resting place. But I did not know it would be like this.” Her hands were over her face.
“You will be able to lie down and rest soon,” he said. His arms were about her. One hand had loosened the strings of her bonnet and tossed it aside. He had her head cradled on his shoulder, his fingers smoothing through her hair. He was murmuring to her.
