Heart pounding in his chest, he begun a sharp jog, descending the hill. As he grew closer, he noticed for the first time that there was a carriage loitering in front of the house. He did not recognize the crest. As he approached, he saw that there were a few cases lashed to the top of the carriage.
That coach belongs to the Worths,he thought with a jolt.Ursula’s aunt and uncle.
And then Ursula came sailing out of the house, head held high, and a cloak billowing around her. Ruthie followed, dressed for going out, andshekept her gaze fixed to the ground.
Something like fear shot through Graham’s chest, and he began to run faster.
“Ursula!” he shouted. “What are you doing?”
Upon hearing his words, she faltered in her steps. She slowed but did not stop, reaching the carriage and climbing inside it. Ruthie climbed in after her.
Then Georgiana Worth appeared at the door, turning to talk earnestly and quietly to somebody standing inside the threshold. Glancing across the courtyard, she saw Graham approaching and quickened her pace. She hurried to the carriage and climbed in herself, and the coachman closed the door after her.
Graham realised, with dull surprise that he was not going to reach the carriage before it drove away. He broke into a sprint, but it was too late. The carriage wheeled around, the coachman snapped the reins, and the horses broke into a brisk trot. They shot past Graham, spraying gravel against his shins.
With a shout, Graham attempted to run after the carriage, calling for Ursula to stop and justlisten.
He had no idea whether she heard him or not, but the carriage did not stop. It did not even slow down. About halfwaydown the driveway, it left him decidedly behind, and Graham finally skidded to a halt, gasping for breath. The carriage reached the wrought-iron gates, disappearing onto the road beyond.
She’s gone,he realised dully.She packed her things and left. I don’t understand.
Turning to stare back up at the house, he saw that his mother was standing on the top of the stone steps, staring down at him.
It was her that Miss Worth was speaking to,he thought in a rush.
“Oh, Mother,” he murmured aloud. “What have you done?”
Chapter Twenty-One
“I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger.
'No, and if he were I would burn my library.”– Much Ado about Nothing,William Shakespeare.
“The morning post, your lordship,” Richards said. By the apologetic, miserable tone in his voice, Graham knew exactly what he would find.
Sure enough, there were several of his own letters lying on the silver platter proffered to him, all directed to Ursula.
None of them had been opened.
“Thank you, Richards,” Graham murmured. The butler shot him a quick, sympathetic look, and retreated from the breakfast room.
At first, Graham had been sure that Ursula would return. After watching the Worths’ carriage roll away, he’d returned to the house to wait. His mother had vanished, probably having wisely retired to her rooms.
The afternoon had ticked on, and there was no sign of Ursula. Graham sent the first letter to her then, a brief note requesting to know what the matter was and whether she intended to come home that night. The letter had been returned promptly, unopened.
Shocked, he had sent another, then another, then another. All were returned one by one.
I don’t understand,he’d thought, over and over again.What did I do wrong? What mistake have I made?
He wracked his brains but could think of nothing. That worried him more than anything. If he knew what he had done, he could tackle the problem, but not to know…
Oh, heavens. What a mess this all is.
The evening had slipped away with no sign of Ursula. Graham had fallen asleep on the chair in his study, in front of the fire, and was woken sometime around one o’ clock by Morrison, who cajoled him upstairs and into bed. It hardly mattered, because Graham rose at the crack of dawn the following morning and descended to pace his study and write more letters.
The very same letters which had just been returned without being read. Idly, Graham snapped the seal on one and unfolded it, reading briefly through what he had written.
My dear Ursula,
