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‘Proposal?’ she echoed.
‘Yes. You must have guessed.’
‘Never!’ She was almost shouting and lowered her voice. ‘Never in a thousand years. I cannot think why you ever thought of it.’
He laughed lightly. ‘It came upon me when I met you in London. You attracted me at once. My widowed mother is anxious to see me settled before she departs this life and insists I marry and set up my own establishment. I need a home and a wife and I think I have found both here.’
‘What on earth makes you think I would agree to that?’
‘Sir Edward asked you to hear me out and it is only courteous to do so.’
She did not see why she should be courteous to him, but for her father’s sake she said nothing, allowing him to go on.
‘Your father’s and brother’s debts together amount to nearly nine thousand pounds, considerably more than the value of the estate, so selling it and paying me off would leave him still in debt.’ He paused. ‘Ah, that shocks you, I see. But I am prepared to count only what I paid for the debts, which is naturally a great deal less than their face value, and will allow the lower figure to be set against the value of Greystone Manor. There will, if the agreement is reached quickly, be enough left for your parents to leave here with a little cash in hand and their dignity intact, which is something your father sets great store by. You, of course, will continue to live here as my bride.’
‘No.’
‘No? Did your father not ask you to think about it carefully? Surely you can see the advantages for everyone? I will have a home and a delightful wife, whom I shall treat with courtesy and respect, my mother will be satisfied, your parents will have a little money to live out their lives in modest comfort, your brother can return to the bosom of his family and you, my dear, will be able to continue your work for the orphans. I might even help you with it.’
She did not answer. Everything he said was driving a nail into her heart and almost stopping it. The whole idea was repugnant to her and the worst of it was her father expected her to agree. How could he? How could he ask this of her? Did he think she was so anxious to be married she would accept this...this...? A suitable epithet failed her.
‘I have shocked you into silence,’ he added, ‘but I will give you a week to make up your mind. In that time I hope you will consider carefully the consequences of refusing. Your family will be paupers and I shall still possess the Manor. And just in case you were thinking of moving everyone to Witherington, I could stop that sale, too.’
She rose and ran out of the room, determined he would not see her tears. She paused in the hallway. In any other circumstances she would have sought comfort and solace from her father and mother, but she could not do that; this time they were the source of her distress. There was no one to turn to, not even Mark, who would undoubtedly try to comfort her, but he was betrothed to her sister and she had vowed not to call on him more than she could help for Isabel’s sake.
She ran out of the front door and round the side of the house with no destination in mind. How she ended up in the stables, she did not know, but she found herself sobbing on the neck of Bonny. He was warm and he had never let her down, never made demands on her; his bright eyes seemed to tell her he understood. Still crying, she found harness and saddle and put them on him, even though he was a draught pony and unused to a saddle. She used an old milking stool to mount and galloped out of the yard, ignoring Daniel’s shout.
She did not know where she was going. Did not care. She was not even aware of other vehicles on the road, nor that a carriage had to pull to one side to allow her to pass. She galloped on, past the Fox and Hounds, over the crossroads, ignoring the turning to Witherington and was at the gates of Broadacres and turning up the drive before she suddenly came to her senses. She should not be here! ‘Whoa there,’ she called out and pulled sharply on the reins, bringing Bonny to a skittering stop. He reared at being so ill used and threw her.
At that moment, Mark turned into the drive in his curricle and only by skilful driving managed to stop before running her over. Horses, pony and curricle were in a tangled heap. He extricated himself and ran to her. Jane was unconscious and deathly pale and dressed in an afternoon gown, not a habit. She wore no hat, which might have offered a little protection for her head. Something dreadful must have happened to bring her out like that.
‘Oh, my God!’ He fell to his knees beside her. ‘Jane! Jane, wake up. Wake up, please.’ He resisted the impulse to shake her awake and felt all over her face and head. His hand came away covered in blood. ‘Please God, don’t let her die,’ he prayed aloud. ‘Let her live. I need her...’ She did not stir. Ought he to pick her up and carry her into the house? Or should he leave her lying in the road until a litter could be brought to carry her? He looked about him. There was no one about to send for one. He stood up, stooped to pick her up and walked the rest of the way up the drive to the house.
