Mabel smiled. “My father is a sailor on one of Lord Cavendish’s ships, my lady. I never dreamed I’d be offered a position in such a grand house amongst such kind people. It’s a great honor. I won’t repeat a word of anything you say to me or in front of me. I promise, I’m very loyal–firstly to you, then to Lord Cavendish.”
Lily believed her—the way she spoke the last was as solemn as a vow.
“Even so,” Abeer said, “we can speak about anything you’d like. Your sisters, perhaps, or your brother’s plans for you ladies?”
Suddenly, talking about her time at Ballam Hall was the last thing Lily wanted to do. How was she to put to words what it had meant to her when she didn’t fully understand it herself? And though she had slept like the dead the night before, there was a residual exhaustion in her bones that had her leaning back against the padded seat in relief.
Truth be told, she’d been tired ever since the first bill collector had pounded on the front door back in London.
“Please tell me news of my sisters. How are they all?”
Abeer grinned and launched into a detailed report that soon had Lily laughing. By the end, she was fully convinced of her seven sisters’ well-being.
“And when are we to leave for Paris?” she asked.
“As soon as we arrive in London,” he said. “Your sisters are eager to see you.”
Lily nodded and looked back out the window. Why, they’d already reached the main crossroads from Bedlington. Last night, she had scrambled out of the farmland and onto the lane somewhere nearby. Lily leaned forward and craned her neck, trying to decipher precisely where it had been.
All at once, she gasped and yanked the curtain across the glass.
Charging up the embankment were four barking dogs, followed closely by a man on a horse. It was Lord Hayes, and his grim eyes were already pointing toward Blyth.
CHAPTER 7- BRADFORD
SIX MONTHS LATER
Bradford stared out the window at the clear light slanting through the trees outside his private study. Only a few intrepid dead leaves still clung to their branches—winter gripped Northumberland in its tight fist. Even the momentary warmth and cheer of Christmas was a fading memory.
In the distance, a groundskeeper slowly pushed a wheelbarrow across the frost-blanched grass. The man was bundled from head to toe in wool—it would have impaired his stride even if he’d had an urgent errand, which he obviously didn’t. Bradford couldn’t help but muse that the pace of the gardeners matched the speed of the sap within the plants themselves.
Winter was a time of slowing for everyone, it seemed. Except for him. He was behind on last year’s final quarter reconciliation. Though he knew his stewards were exceptionally fastidious men, it was Bradford’s own record-keeping that encouraged them to remain so. Besides, there was next year’s plantings and repairs to plan—such things must be considered in the frigid winter if one wanted to start with the spring thaw.
Instead of all the things he knew he should be doing, Bradford braced his arm against the stone mantel and stared into the fire, thinking of Miss Hughes. Though that wasn’t the lady’s real name, it was the only one he had to call her. He gritted his teeth in self-recrimination. He should have forgotten her already. He certainly shouldn’t still be wondering where the lady had gone, what she was doing this very moment. Whether she ever thought of them. Or of him.
It had been months. Months and months, with no answer, with noword. No relief, either, though each day Bradford swore that he’d think no more of her the next.
That first day, he’d gently questioned Rebecca, and she’d promptly told him, “Oh, I know where Miss Hughes has gone.”
Bradford’s heart had leapt, even as his daughter hurried over to her bookcase and pulled a picture book out to show him. He’d taken the offered tome with a crease between his eyebrows.
“She’s gone on a balloon ride with Sir Vernon,” Rebecca said, her brown curls bouncing with a matter-of-fact nod. “She told me so herself.”
Disappointment had rolled like a stone in Bradford’s stomach. It was a children’s story, nothing more.
Now, months later, Rebecca still requested the book be read nearly every night. It was all Bradford could do not to scream. If it weren’t for the sweet, childish hope in his daughter’s eyes, he would have tossed the book into the flames and been done with it long ago.
The lack of a governess was easily solved by the arrival of one Mrs. Holland, a stout woman with grey threaded through the temples of her auburn hair. She came personally recommended from a family Bradford knew, whose daughters had—quite successfully—outgrown need of her services.
Bradford stared into the fire until he noticed the little line of blue at the center of the flame. It was very nearly the color ofMiss Hughes’s eyes. He silently snarled at himself and turned from the fireplace. The young woman was driving him mad, and he didn’t even know her true name.
He had just seated himself behind his desk and resolved not to think of Miss Hughes again when there was a knock at the door. Bradford frowned. “Come in.”
His butler said, “There’s a man here to see you, my lord. A Mr. Thornton.”
Bradford sat up straighter. “Send him in.”
As Bradford waited, he promised himself,This is the last thing I will do to find her.
