He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. Sarah felt the heat of it spread up her arm.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re going to be all right, Lady Sarah Highgate.”
Sarah returned his gaze and managed a smile. “I’m lucky to have a friend like you.”
***
Fortunately, by the next morning the snow was melting. And while the drifts were still high on the hilltop, Christian said they would get down to town and hire a coach to take them to England. Before they left, Sarah went to the barn to deliver her letter to Mr. Fergus. The old man took it with a questioning look on his face.
“Will you please give this to Mrs. Goatsocks?” Sarah asked. “The next time you go to town, I mean. Please don’t make a special trip.”
Mr. Fergus opened his coat and slid the letter into his pocket. “Aye, milady. I promise.”
“Thank you.” Sarah closed her eyes and expelled a breath. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Fergus. I’m sure I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t taken us in that night.”
“Ye’ve nothing ta thank me for, lass.”
“Of course I do. You could have refused us shelter that first night. You could have tossed us into the snow for wolves to eat.”
“Och, now, I wouldn’t do such a thing ta the wolves. That Mrs. Goatsocks looks none too tasty.”
Sarah had to laugh at that. “I hope she didn’t cause you too much trouble.”
“She’s shrill and a bit mad, I say. But nothing I couldn’t handle. She is certainly loyal ta ye, lass, if ye don’t mind me saying.”
“I know, Mr. Fergus. She is a dear friend.”
“I’ll miss ye around here, lass. And I daresay Fergus will, too.” He stared down at the dog who sat at his feet.
Fergus II, wearing his little red coat, pawed the ground next to Sarah and whined.
“I’m certain you’ll make do without me,” Sarah said to the dog. “You’re properly outfitted now and have your toy.”
“Aye,” Mr. Fergus replied. “Thanks ta ye, I have the bonniest dog in Scotland. All the other dogs are certain ta admire his coats.”
Sarah leaned down and scratched the dog’s chin. “I should hope so.”
“Ye’re off ta Northumbria, eh?” Mr. Fergus asked.
“Yes. That’s where we’re going according to Mr. Forester. I’m not entirely certain why.”
Mr. Fergus turned back to the pile of wood he’d been chopping. “Master Christian’s estate is there. I’ve no doubt that’s where he’s headed,” he said over his shoulder.
Sarah froze. “Estate?”
“Aye, Berkeley Hall.”
“Berkeley Hall?” All she could do was blink.
The old man propped up the next bit of wood to split. “’Tis been in the family for generations. A fine place ’tis, though I’ve only been there once meself.”
A dozen thoughts scattered through Sarah’s brain. She couldn’t focus on one in particular. Finally, she muttered, “Berkeley Hall? As inViscountBerkeley?”
“Aye,” Mr. Fergus said, raising the ax above his head to strike the wood. “Of course. After all, Master Christian is the viscount.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was two days’ journey to Northumbria, and the coach Christian rented for Sarah’s benefit was none too comfortable. He knew she was being bounced about unmercifully inside. Not to mention it smelled a bit of must and of something else Christian didn’t want to examine too closely. But Sarah never complained once.
