can bring on the headache. Sometimes, she can barely see, and she has to take to her bed. That, not the guilt you thought you saw, is why she fled. I am sure of it.’ He held his mother’s gaze for a moment before turning away to stare out of the window.
‘Your ladyship!’ The Dowager’s dresser rushed into the room without knocking, followed closely by Hetty. ‘Miss Martin says-!’
The Dowager’s gasp of outrage was drowned by Hetty’s anguished cry. ‘She has gone, my lord! In the dark! She will die out there, my lord!’
Jon spun round. He ignored the tears coursing down the girl’s pale face. ‘How long ago did she leave? Where is she going? Tell me what you know, Hetty. Quickly now.’
The girl seemed bewildered, and Jon’s barked questions were not helping. He would have to coax the information out of her. He forced himself to curb his impatience and ask one careful question at a time. Her mistress, Hetty offered at last, must have fled at some time during the night. She had taken only a small valise. She had left everything else behind-clothes, jewels, money, everything. And a letter.
Jon dismissed the two servants with a stern warning about discretion. Without even a glance at his mother, he turned his back and tore open the letter. It was barely three lines. She was leaving him in order to purge the stain on his honour; she would never return; and Jon should not try to seek her out. That was all. There was not a word about her guilt or innocence.
He crumpled the sheet in his fist and stared out into the darkness. There was no moon, but the sky was clear. It wanted more than an hour till sunrise and, even then, it would still be exceedingly cold. Beth was alone, somewhere, fleeing in order to protect Jon’s honour. She had nothing, and no one, to protect her. She might freeze to death out there, without ever knowing how much Jon loved her.
The realisation shuddered through him. What a fool he was! What an arrogant fool! He had been in love with her almost from the first, but he had convinced himself that she was simply a friend, a restful companion, a willing participant in their mutual passion. Because of Jon’s failings, she might die, out there in the dark. Alone.
He groaned aloud. A red-hot blade was twisting in his gut. He deserved every shred of the pain that knifed through him.
A gentle hand touched his upper arm. ‘Jon? What is it, my dear?’
‘I love her. And I have driven her away.’ The words were torn out of him against his will, as if they had a power all their own. In that moment, staring vacantly into the far distance, Jon understood that he loved Beth more than life itself. If he did not find her, if he did not bring her back, warm and alive, his own life would be worthless.
He glanced down at his mother. He wanted to shake off her restraining hand, to berate her for the mischief she had done. But one look at the pain in her face chased all those angry notions from his mind.
She stroked her fingers gently down his arm and dropped her hand to her side. ‘Will you go after her?’ When he nodded, she said crisply, ‘Let me deal with your guests. And with everything else here. What matters is that you should bring your wife-your Beth-back safely.’ She was trying to smile encouragingly.
Jon’s mind was tumbling, racing, planning for action. ‘Make sure that none of the guests leaves while I am gone, Mama. And no letters, either. There must be no scandal-mongering. As for this wicked accusation against Beth, I will deal with it when we return. In the meantime, let no one know we are gone.’
His mother nodded. ‘If I may be allowed just one word of advice before you go…’
Jon pulled himself up very erect and frowned forbiddingly. He did not want any advice from his mother. Her coldness and hostility had led Beth to believe she was friendless in this house.
His mother’s eyes were glistening. ‘When you find her, tell her that you love her,’ she said hoarsely. ‘It will make you vulnerable, like baring your breast to the sword and saying “Strike here”. But love cannot be demanded, it can only be offered. If you want to win Beth’s love, you will have to risk your own.’
Jon was shocked into immobility. His own mother, the starched-up Dowager Countess of Portbury, believed in love?
She laid her hand on his arm once more. This time, she pushed him towards the door. ‘Please bring her back, Jon.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘When you do, I promise that I will welcome her as the daughter I never had.’
Jon needed no urging. He already knew he had not a second to spare. He must ride out after Beth, the woman he loved. He must bring her home.
It was cold. So very cold.
Beth bent her body into the wind and trudged on. This time, there was no sheeting rain to soak her. This time she was more warmly clad, and better shod. And this time there would be no knight in shining armour to rescue her from the beckoning darkness.
There must be no rescue at all. Jon was noble enough to come after her, but he must not find her. He would expect her to walk the eight miles to Broughton to board the coach for the first stage of her journey. He would assume that she was making for Fratcombe. He would be wrong.
In truth, she had no idea where she should go, except that it must not be Fratcombe. The Aubreys could not be asked to harbour a thief. Besides, they would be bound tell Jon where she was. No, she must go somewhere she was not known. Bristol, perhaps, or even Cornwall.
The wind was whipping at her skirts. Did she dare to follow the second part of her plan? To her left was the long flat road that would bring her, eventually, to Broughton and the coach office. To her right was the two mile path up over the moor. There was light enough now for her to see her way. And no one would think to look for a countess there.
Beth’s little valise had been getting heavier. She transferred it from one hand to the other and began to climb the lonely path. The slope was easy enough, at first, though the air swirling around her seemed to become colder with every step she took. She continued doggedly. She could endure worse than this. Before Fratcombe, her life had been very hard. As Lady Marchmont’s companion, she had been no better than a menial, wearing cast-off shoes and gowns that even Jon’s servants would have rejected. Lady Marchmont was exceedingly rich, but her household lived like paupers while she hoarded her money and her jewels. Especially her jewels. That mistletoe clasp-intricate, heavy gold for the stems and leaves, and berries made of priceless pearls-had been the old witch’s pride and joy. Until the day it vanished.
Lady Marchmont’s maid had claimed to have seen Beth sneaking into the mistress’s bedchamber. On such flimsy evidence from a jealous servant, Beth had been pronounced guilty by Lady Marchmont and all her guests. Including the Berncastles. If Beth had not climbed out of that locked room, she would probably have ended up on the gallows.
The path seemed to stretch for ever, steeper than she recalled. No matter. It was only the first of many challenges she would have to face. At least the wind seemed to have dropped. It was no longer cutting through her cloak and biting at her skin. She tried to smile up at the sky. She would cling on to her innocence, and to her love for Jon. She was doing this for him. She would cherish the memories of their times together, of how he had held her, and kissed her, and loved her. Nothing could deprive her of those.
She plodded on with even greater determination, clutching the memory of him like a talisman. She might find another village that needed a schoolmistress. She would be Mrs Clifford, the poor widow of an army captain tragically killed in the French wars. There were many such. One more would not be noticed.
She was shivering again. It was not the wind this time, but cold, penetrating damp. She glanced up at the sky. Was it starting to rain?
She could not tell. She could not see the sky. Suddenly, there was ghostly grey mist swirling all around her. It had come out of nothing. But it hid everything. She could see barely a yard in front of her feet.
She refused to allow herself to panic. She had no cause. The path over the moors was straight enough. She had only to keep going and she would soon reach Broughton. She must not allow herself to be afraid.
She stretched her free hand out in front of her, just in case there might be some obstacle in the path, and continued to walk into the forbidding grey wall, though she could not prevent her steps from becoming shorter, and rather timid. Surely she had already passed the halfway point? She must reach her goal soon.
The path was becoming much more uneven. She stumbled to a stop and strained to make out the way ahead. Were there loose rocks here to make her lose her footing? She must take care. If she were injured here, no one would find her.
The mist had become so thick now that she could barely see her own feet. She took a few steps more, but stopped. She could see nothing. She was no longer sure she was on the path at all. Perhaps she should sit on the
