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Outside, the tall thief realized the door had been locked against him.

"Bart, come here! Break this door down for me!"

The thief with the cudgel ran forward, brandishing his weapon. In a frenzy, he smashed it violently against the window. The pane shattered, sharp shards of glass spraying into the interior of the coach.

A mud-stained arm reached through the broken frame, thick fingers fumbling blindly inside. Helena saw his hand reaching for the bolt. She searched through her purse, fingers grazing the box that held the pocket watch George had given to Oliver. She breathed heavily, steeling herself as she pulled it out and then slammed it into the back of the thief's hand.

"Argh! You poxy strumpet!"

The thief drew his hand immediately, blood dripping from the cut. The box clattered to the floor. Helena retreated to the corner, bracing herself against the highwaymen's inevitable intrusion.

"Help!" Helena screamed at the top of her lungs. "Help! Highwaymen on the road! Help!"

Jarvis lay on the floor, blood pooling around his mouth and his left arm twisted weirdly. There was no help in sight. Bart wrapped his wounded hand with a piece of cloth, and together with the other two thieves, they threw their weight against the carriage.

The coach groaned, swaying sickeningly. They pushed harder, sending Helena rolling hard into the armrest, her shoulder absorbing the impact. Soon enough, the coach tipped, crashing into the ground. The horses squealed and scrambled to their feet, half-trapped by the tilted shafts of the carriage.

The tall thief walked toward the carriage, the dust settling. He picked up the cudgel and smashed it against the door. The wood caved it, splinters flying around in the carriage. With a kick, the door finally gave way.

The tall thief stood proud, his filthy face contorted into a triumphant sneer as he reached his arms into the carriage.

George, I wish I could have made you see. Oliver, I am sorry.

"Drive faster, blast you! Put the lash to them, Miller!" George shouted as the carriage lurched violently over the rutted mud. He did not care if the horses were blown or if the carriage burst an axle; all he wanted was to get back home and right the wrong that his farewell letter would have wrought.

What a fool I have been. How could I have left her alone with my burdens, believing my absence was a kindness?

The sun had risen before they reached the manor. As the carriage halted before the gate, George kicked the door open, running into the estate the moment the gate opened an inch. He sprinted up the steps and pushed into the entrance hall.

"Helena!" George shouted, his powerful voice reverberating off the towering marble pillars and reaching up into the high ornate ceiling.

Several housemaids froze in terror, their dusters dropping from paralyzed fingers, while a young footman nearly dropped a silver tray of lit tapers.

George turned sharply down the east wing corridor, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he reached the nursery. He called out, stepping into the room, eyes searching every corner. "Helena?"

The nursemaid tending to Oliver looked up, startled, at his hasty entry. In her arms, Oliver waved the silver rattle Helena had purchased in London. The baby seemed fretful, his blue eyes searching the doorway, and at that moment George knew.

His wife was gone. Where in God's name could she have bolted in such haste?

Turning, George sprinted back down the corridor, footsteps echoing through the quiet halls. He strode into the drawing room, throwing back the double doors until they rattled in their frames. Helena's embroidery frame sat beside her favorite velvet chaise, the thread still trailing from an unfinished floral pattern.

"Helena!" he bellowed again, stepping back out into the central corridor, eyes sweeping the dim hallways in desperation. Panic was beginning to claw at his throat, suffocating his breath. "Helena, answer me!"

He reached the foot of the stairs, his hand grasping the balustrade as he prepared to leap up the steps. Before his boot could touch the first riser, Mr. Gibbs walked forward.

"Your Grace," Mr. Gibbs began quietly, bowing his head, though his measured tone did little to calm the tempest raging within his master's chest.

George spun around, his chest heaving violently, his knuckles white where they gripped the mahogany balustrade. "Gibbs! Where is she? Where is Helena? I have searched the nursery and the drawing room, yet I cannot find a trace of her. Tell me where she has gone!"

Mr. Gibbs adjusted his posture, hands clasped behind his back. "Her Grace took the Dover Road."

George froze, blood draining from his face as a chill seized his heart. "Why?" he demanded, his voice a strangled whisper.

"She went in search of you, Your Grace."

George stared at the butler, his mind reeling as the weight of his foolishness crashed into him. He asked, his voice trembling. "Alone?"

""Yes, Your Grace. Jarvis is driving her,"" Mr. Gibbs answered. "Her Grace was quite resolute, despite my strongest protestations. She left three hours past, accompanied only by Jarvis upon the box."