“I’m running again, aren’t I? Still running fromhim.”Hebe slapped a palm to the squab. “And I no longer wish to run, Aunt, for my heart is wrenching in two. I see Ernest before me, hear him whisper in my ear, feel him on my skin. And this crown of flowers – it’s his vow of fidelity, devotion and true love, isn’t it? How foolish I am not to see how I truly feel.” She swallowed as though an apple was stuck in her throat. “But how do I know my love will be enough? My heart must be so ragged and bruised.”
Beatrice sighed. “Oh, Hebe, the heart is capable of great things. It can bear hurt and anguish, wounds and loss, and yet it still wishes to love with everything it has, whether your mind wants it or not. Indeed, the mind has no idea about love, if you ask me. It thinks too much whilst the heart listens and obeys a deeper understanding. Lord Ernest loves you as you are. Bruises and all.”
“Yet… He let me leave. In fact…he ordered me to go.”
She buttoned her lips for that one until her niece’s eyes widened.
Blinked.
“No,” Hebe breathed. “That’s not right. Ernest set me free, didn’t he? To decide my heart without entrapment or pressure. Because he loves me. And I cannot deny that my heart is bleeding worse than ever it has done, for…I love a man full of compassion, tenderness and laughter, and…I am leaving him.” She gasped. “Stop the carriage!”
Smiling to herself, Beatrice rapped on the ceiling, and the coach slowed – not that it could go much slower – and the trapdoor opened to the driver’s beady eye.
“Back to the castle, Watkins.”
“Afraid it’s single track here, Mrs Cassell. We’ll have to carry on for the main thoroughfare to turn a carriage and four.”
Bugger.
Beatrice tapped her lip in thought.
But her niece began wrenching off shoes and shoving them aside, stockings sliding and garter ribbons flapping before bare toes landed on the polished boards. “No matter, Aunt.” She laced fingers through her hair and pins shot out like medieval pikes. “Ernest said I’d know what to do and he was right. I am going to run. But no longer in fear. I’m going to run barefoot upon the grass and nettles. I’m going to let my heart be open to love and all its perils and I’mnevergoing to leave Ernest again.” And she plonked the crown lopsidedly upon her head.
Lawks.
Then Beatrice was engulfed in a hug of cotton and hair, but she returned it with such fervour.
“Good luck, Hebe dear.”
A palm touched her cheek. “Thank you, Aunt. For everything. I love you.” And with that, she flung open the door and scampered out, blue skirts flying.
With a satisfied smile, Beatrice pulled the door to. “Turn when you can, Watkins.” She sat back in the squabs. “And now, Mr Grampy Tom, it’s your turn.”
“WHAT TIME BE IT?”
Ernest frowned and scuffed his booted heel on the courtyard cobbles. “No more than a trice after you last asked.”
“Bah,” muttered Grampy Tom on the bench beside him.
Ernest folded his arms.What if once in London, Hebe was swayed by the gossip of his former life?What if she decided she couldn’t love?He unfolded them.What if–
“And what time was tha?”
“Gone a quarter past the hour.”
“And be it a half past now?”
“Er, I expect so.” Ernest dutifully stood, ambled to the double doors and peered to the sundial upon the castle wall. “Near as damn it, yes.”
“Hmm.” The old stable master puffed his pipe and then pointed it at him. “Why don’t thine lordship visit the high meadow. There be mallow and cranesbill to soothe thine troubled thoughts.”
With a shrug, Ernest paced. “Too tired. I’ll go this afternoon.”
Grampy Tom breathed deep and held a finger in the air, eyed Scape the goat as he bleated, and then perused the sparrow filching straw from the cobbles.
“Be raining by then.”
Ernest stared to the azure sky. Not a wisp of cloud to mar it.
