A groom stood holding the reins. Another waited to help Lily climb into the gig. They both gave him curious glances. They must know who he was. Word spread fast in a place like this. His skin prickled, but he didn’t recognize either of them. They were both very young. The knots in his stomach eased.
“Pass me the basket, will you, Edward, please?”
He passed her the basket and the cloak and stood fuming quietly while she stowed everything carefully away. “There’s no need for you to come with me after all, Bobby,” she told the youngest groom. “My husband will escort me today.” She smiled tranquilly down at him.
The grooms waited expectantly. The first one offered him the reins. The young one hesitated, then stepped forward as if maybe Ned was too old to climb into a damned gig without assistance.
Swearing silently and savagely Ned climbed into the gig, accepted the reins and drove out of the yard. The itch between his shoulder blades burned like acid.
Chapter Twenty-one
“And in the lowest deep a lower deep still threatening to devour me opens wide.”
—JOHN MILTON
They trotted briskly along, saying nothing. She must know he was furious. Right now, though, he was feeling more sick than furious. It was like going into battle—worse. He knew what he was facing in battle. The knots in his stomach tightened.
They came to a fork in the lane. “Turn left here,” she said.
He ignored her. “The ruins are to the right.”
“Yes, but I need to drop a few things off on the way.” She reached across and pulled on the reins and the horse turned left.
“What the—” He swallowed, forcing himself to calm. “Where are you dropping these things?” He knew, he damned well knew. He knew every house, every cottage on the estate, and he knew exactly where they were going.
He wanted to leap out of the gig and flee into the forest, his sanctuary of old.
But that was haunted too.
“Just Mrs. Prewett, and old Mr. Iles. I promised them both some of our home cheese from the Shields dairy. Old Mr. Iles told me how much he loves cheese with pickled onions. His daughter won’t pickle onions for him, says it’s too much trouble and she doesn’t like the smell.” She gave him a mischievous smile. “See, the pickled onions weren’t for either of us.”
He swallowed. She had no idea what she’d done.
Prewett. Could she have chosen anyone worse? And Iles. His mouth was dry, his throat constricted. The horse trotted inexorably on.
They turned a corner and he let out the breath he’d been holding as the first cottage came into view, stone, slate-roofed, smaller than he remembered. The garden was neat as a pin. Mrs. Prewett always did love her garden.
“Why are we stopping?” Lily asked. “The cottage is over there.”
Fifty yards away and he couldn’t go an inch closer. He hadn’t even realized he’d tightened the reins. His breathing came raggedly, rapid and shallow. “You go. I, I’ll go for a bit of a walk.”
“What is it, Edward? You’ve gone very pale. Are you ill?”
His every instinct screamed at him to run. But it was too late. He could only wait, frozen and hollow, a butterfly staked on a pin, as fate in the shape of Mr. and Mrs. Prewitt opened the cottage gate and with loud cries came running toward him.
Mr. Prewitt reached the gig first. “Master Ned, you’ve come back at last. Welcome home, lad—oh, mustn’t call you that now. Look at how tall and fine you’ve grown.”
Like an automaton, Ned climbed down from the gig and held out a stiff hand. Mr. Prewitt wrung it, saying, “Come inside the house, let me look at you. Such a fine, tall man you’ve become, the image of his grandfather, isn’t he, Martha?” He pressed his lips together. “It’s that good to see you, lad. I never thought—” His voice broke. He pulled out a large handkerchief and blew into it noisily.
Mrs. Prewitt made no attempt to hide her emotions. Her face streaming with tears, she hugged him as if he were still a boy and, accepting no excuses, propelled him into the front parlor, saying, “I didn’t bake my spiced currant biscuits this morning for nothing, my lad—his favorites, they are, Mrs. Galbraith. The minute I heard you were back, I knew you’d come to us.”
She wiped tears away with her apron. “Never a day when he wasn’t in and out of my kitchen, Mrs. Galbraith. Him and our Luke. Like twins, they were, always up to mischief.” She hurried off to the kitchen to make tea.
Ned sat stiffly. He’d hardly ever been in this room. It was for visitors, and he’d never been a visitor in this house. He and Luke . . . it was always the kitchen, and then away to the forest.
“So it’s all London for you now, is it, Ned, lad? Country living lost its appeal?”
“Edward.” Lily nudged him.
He blinked.
“Mr. Prewitt thinks you’re bored with the country now.”
“No.” His voice sounded rusty. He cleared his throat. “It’s just . . . I’ve been . . . busy.” It was the least convincing lie Lily had ever heard.
Mrs. Prewitt entered carrying the tea tray and banished the awkward silence with the pouring of tea and the offering of biscuits. Lily brought out the cheese, and Mrs. Prewitt exclaimed over it with pleasure.
Edward drank his tea and ate a biscuit. Lily and Mrs. Prewitt talked about the ingredients, Mrs. Prewitt assuming Lily would want to bake them for her husband.
He sat there like a stranger, gray-faced and stiff, as if he were the stranger here, not Lily.
The Prewitts related stories of Edward and their boy, Luke, who’d been killed in the war, recalling boyhood adventures, and laughing over the mischief the two boys had gotten up to. “Right terrors, they were,” Mr. Prewitt said proudly.
It was because Edward was here, Lily knew. They’d never mentioned their son before. But it was all for Edward, she saw; their
