They spoke, though he knew little—only that there had been talk of a dinner and that the operation should be happening soon.
“I hate waiting here like some helpless maiden in a tower,” she said at last.
Nelly looked at her. “What do you propose, miss?”
Francesca considered. Then, quietly, she said, “Perhaps we should hide—and see what he does.”
“Where? It is not a large place.”
“There is a loft above the stable. I found it when I arrived and left my horse there,” the Sergeant said.
“I suppose that would give us a little time to observe.”
It was still some time before anything happened. The quiet soon proved itself another form of trial. Francesca could not sit long without rising, nor stand long without returning again to the settle, as though no position of her body might satisfy the restlessness of her mind. At length, in an effort at usefulness if not calm, she assisted Nelly in preparing a light meal from the provisions Kendall had left, though she scarcely tasted what she ate. The act itself—the cutting of bread, the arranging of plates, the pouring of tea—afforded her hands some occupation, yet did nothing to restrain the forceful march of her thoughts.
When they had finished, Nelly and Sergeant Webb set about restoring the small kitchen to order, while Francesca withdrew once more into herself, pacing slowly from hearth to window and back again. Every possible outcome presented itself to her imagination with an unwelcome clarity, and in none of them did she find relief. In one, Arch was wounded or worse, struck down in the execution of his duty; in another, Kendall was taken, exposed, and condemned, his fervour extinguished beneath the weight of the law; and in all of them she found herself entangled, whether by association or by knowledge, in consequences she could neither predict nor escape.
There seemed to be no arrangement of events in which both men emerged unscathed, nor any in which she herself remained entirely untouched.
The fire burned lower and the hour advanced. Sergeant Webb began preparing to take up his watch outside. The handsof the small clock upon the mantel approached eight, and Francesca turned from the window with sudden decision.
“If he returns, I would see him before he sees us.”
Nelly nodded at once, as though she had been waiting for the suggestion.
“The loft, miss?”
“Yes.”
Sergeant Webb hesitated, glancing towards the door, then back at them. “It is cold, miss. Do you think you are at risk if you stay inside? I was under the impression I was more to watch what Kendall did.”
“I do not know him as I thought I did, and I prefer to have the advantage,” Francesca replied, with more firmness than she felt. “Come.”
They moved quickly, extinguishing the lamp and leaving the cottage in shadow before slipping out into the chill of the night. The air had grown damp since sunset, the cold settling into the ground and rising again in a faint, biting mist. Their breath clouded before them as they crossed to the stable, the dark bulk of it looming against the pale sky.
The ladder to the loft creaked softly under their weight, though both of them climbed with as much care as possible. Above, the hay lay dry and loosely piled, its scent filling the confined space with a rustic heaviness that might have been comforting under other circumstances. Now it only served to remind Francesca of how far removed she was from everything familiar.
The Sergeant stayed below after moving his horse behind the cottage where it would not be detected.
Francesca and Nelly settled themselves as best they could. The hay shrunk beneath her, offering neither proper support nor warmth, and the cold seeped through her cloak despite her efforts to draw it close. Time, which had already seemedslow within the cottage, became almost unbearable in that suspended, watchful state. Every distant sound—a rustle of wind through the trees, the faint creak of wood, the distant call of some unseen animal—set her nerves on edge, only to resolve itself into nothing.
Time felt suspended as they waited. Francesca began to question the wisdom of her choices, then reminded herself that some poor souls lived in worse conditions. She could bear a few hours.
The sound of hoof beats came at last, faintly at first and then unmistakably.
Francesca’s breath caught. The beats drew nearer, rapid and uneven as though the rider urged the horse beyond ordinary restraint. The rhythm spoke not of calm travel, but of haste—of urgency that admitted no delay. The horse came to a halt before the cottage.
For a few moments, there was silence. Then they heard a door burst open.
Kendall entered the cottage with such force that even from the loft they heard the impact, followed immediately by the sound of hurried movement within—doors opening and furniture being struck aside, his voice calling her name frantically that bordered on panic.
“Francesca!”
She did not move. Her heart pounded so fiercely in her chest that she thought it must be audible in the next shire.
He moved quickly through the cottage. They could hear as he searched each room in turn, his control obviously already fraying. There was none of the measured composure he had shown earlier, none of the confident assurance with which he had spoken of the future he intended to claim. Whatever had transpired in London had altered him profoundly.
A moment later, the stable door flew open.
