He eased Miss Haverfield away from him. He squeezed past her from the stall and never so much as turned when she called his name again. “Goodnight, Miss Haverfield,” was all he said.
By morning, he knew, she’d be gone. He’d just severed any chances he might have had with the woman he’d spent his whole life longing for.
What was wrong with him? In the name of heaven, what was he doing?
She knew.
Eliza leaned against the bedchamber window as morning’s soft light penetrated the dewy panes. Below, two gray pigeons met on the mossy flint wall behind the house. They fluttered their wings, seemed to sing something to one another, then flew away together in unison.
If only she were a bird. If only she could fly away. If only she didn’t know and couldn’t remember and the nightmare had never tightened its focus.
But it had. Mr. Northwood had been there. The watch fob by her mother’s body was no coincidence…it was evidence.
Evidence Felton had never been able to believe.
And she hadn’t the courage to tell.
Behind her, someone tapped lightly on the door. It creaked open, and Dodie rushed in. “Oh, Miss Gillingham. I come to ’elp you with your stays and dress and hair and all, but you be already dressed.”
Eliza touched the loose tresses on her shoulder. Mrs. Eustace—indeed, Miss Haverfield too—would have twisted them all away and filled her head with pins.
She didn’t want pins today. Or bonnets with purple flowers. Not when her head already hammered, and the only thing she wanted to do was rush out to that mossy wall, sit with the birds, and feel the wind play with her hair.
Dodie went to the washstand and inspected the pitcher and bowl. “I’ll be gettin’ you fresh water, Miss Gillingham. Anything you be needin’ you just ask Dodie. That be what I told Miss Haverfield too. I said to her, I said, ‘Miss Haverfield, if ever you need water, I be fetchin’ it. If ever you need more coverlets, I be fetchin’ it. If ever you need tea or crumpets or lavender shortbread, I be fetchin’ it right for you.’ And she says to me—”
Another tap on the half-open door.
Eliza glanced up. Her heart jumped to her throat at the sight of Felton.
He leaned in the doorway, hair damp and clean across his forehead, eyes soft as they beheld her. He interrupted a second string of Dodie’s ramblings. “Walk with me to breakfast, Miss Gillingham.”
She wanted to tell him she couldn’t, that she was not hungry and wished only to remain in her chamber.
But she had no power over his commands, so she met him in the hall and placed her hand around the arm he lifted. They walked in silence. He smelled of soap and freshness, the scent invigorating and pleasant like the early morning breeze back in the forest.
If she closed her eyes, mayhap she could imagine she was there. That Captain was alive. That the stream was just ahead, with its babbling noises and cool touch and—
“Should I pretend to not have noticed?” he asked.
“Noticed?”
“The thing you did not wish me to see yesterday. You know.” He glanced at her, a grin overwhelming his face, and tapped his nose.
Understanding dawned. She looked away lest he study the swelling more closely. “Is it so very bad?”
“Not bad enough you should have refused to see me.”
“I—”
“After all, I dare to say you have seen me withmyinjured face. I did not hide from you, now did I?”
“No. I suppose you did not.”
“Besides.” The white-painted stairs creaked as they started down them. “You are more lovely with your swollen nose than most are without one.”
The words struck her. Like the kiss, only different—and all over again, she could not speak. Lovely? Felton Northwood found her lovely?
He was being kind, of course. He only wished to assuage her fears and make her smile. More of his tender pity.
